“The Institute.”
“What? Oh, no, I’m still at UCL.”
I found myself watching my father out of the corner of my eye. His hair seemed a little thinner and the lines on his face deeper since the last time I’d seen him, his posture a little more stooped. Did he look older, or was I just noticing it now? His voice sounded frail, and watching him gave me a strange feeling. For mages, age isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s the opposite—white hair is a sign that they’ve lived long enough to be dangerous. My father didn’t look dangerous. He looked apologetic.
“Teaching?” I said.
“Yes, the usual courses. This is just a part of the spring schedule. Eight lectures.”
“Cool.”
We sat in silence. A few more students walked by.
“So, congratulations on making professor,” I said.
“Thank you. I mean, it’s not confirmed yet, but . . .”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“How are things working out with the shop?” my father asked.
“Oh, fine. Business as usual.” I paused. “I’m taking a few days off because a friend of mine got partially abducted by some people who probably want to hurt or kill her, so we’re trying to track her down before they do.”
My father twisted around to look at me. I looked back.
“Are you . . . Could you say that again?”
“Friend abducted, trying to find her.”
“Isn’t that a job for the police?”
“We’re working with a . . .” I tried to think of how to describe Caldera in nonmagical terms. “With a branch of the police. Not sure how long we’ll have their support, though.”
“How do you mean?”
“They might pull their people off the case.” Of which the odds were two in three and climbing, assuming we were weighing the suspects equally. “If they do we’ll have to finish things on our own.”
My father was silent for a little while. “You’re planning to take matters into your own hands.”
I didn’t answer.
“Will there be trouble?”
“Possibly.” Probably.
“I’d thought . . .” My father paused. “The last time, you said you were trying to put this sort of thing behind you.”
“Yeah, well, it turns out trying to put the past behind you doesn’t work too well when the past doesn’t cooperate.”
“I’m . . . I have to say, I’m not comfortable with you doing this.” My father clasped his hands, elbows resting on knees. “It sounds too close to what you were doing with that man you were involved with, Richard.”
I felt a flare of anger. How do parents always know how to get under your skin? “It’s nothing to do with Richard,” I said levelly. “I’m trying to help someone.”
“You ought to leave it to the authorities.”
“The authorities are overworked, their freedom of action is limited, and they don’t care very much about this person in the first place.”
“I know these situations are frustrating, but breaking the law just makes things worse, even if you are trying to help. These rules are in place for a reason. There’s no guarantee that trying to interfere will make things any better, and even if you do, you’re setting a bad precedent.”
“How can you believe this with what you teach?” I asked. I pointed down through the flagstones, towards the lecture hall. “European history is one very long study in conflict, violence, and rule-breaking.”
“Haven’t we advanced beyond that? There’s no excuse for resolving our disagreements with violence anymore.”
“What exactly do you think the police and military do?”
“Look,” my father said. “We’ve had this discussion before. I’m just worried that you’re working up to something.”
“Mostly just what I told you,” I said. “Well, plus last year a bunch of teenagers tried to assassinate me so I killed them all, but that’s not important right now.”
My father frowned. “You’re not serious.”
I sighed. “I was kidding.” No, I wasn’t.
“I think that joke’s in rather poor taste.”
I looked at my father with a hopeless feeling. What was I doing here? I couldn’t talk to him about my life, what I’d done to survive. Out of morbid curiosity, I looked to see what his reaction would be if I did tell him the truth about last year, and almost immediately wished I hadn’t. Shock, disbelief, horror. It’d leave him devastated.
“Sorry,” I said. Another awkward silence.
“I . . . know things haven’t always been easy for you,” my father said. “I’ve always regretted not being there when you were younger. And I know we’ve had our disagreements. Is there, well . . . anything you’d like to tell me?”
I looked back at him. Anything I’d like to tell you . . . how about that everything you taught me was wrong? Your pacifism didn’t help when I was getting bullied for years on end. Didn’t help when my mother divorced you and got custody. If you hadn’t been so weak, maybe I wouldn’t have jumped at the first offer that let me think I could be strong . . .
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“All right.”
My phone vibrated. Looking into the future in which I checked it, I saw that it was Caldera. News. “I’d better go,” I said, standing.
My father rose with me. “Ah. You know, you’re welcome to visit for dinner sometime.”
A whole evening of this? The thought made me flinch. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Well, good-bye.” My father paused. “Be careful.”
“I will.” At least that was close to true.
My father walked back to the Institute, and I watched him go. To my eyes, he looked thin and frail. As he reached the doors I shook my head and turned away, heading north with long strides, taking out my phone and dialling a number.
Caldera answered on the second ring. “Alex?”
“It’s me.”
“We’ve got an address for one of Sagash’s apprentices.” Caldera’s voice was curt. “Meet there as soon as possible. Be ready for trouble.”
“I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
Caldera hung up and I dropped my phone back into my pocket. I was still pissed off, and I knew why. It had been my father’s implication that I was going back to how I’d been with Richard. It was too close to what Sonder had said, and the unfairness of it made me angry. It was so black-and-white, their world. Either you were a sheep or you were a wolf. You didn’t use violence or you were a thug. Nothing in between.
Well, screw them both. I wasn’t going to be like my father, but I wasn’t going to be like Richard either. I was going to help Anne no matter what they thought.
“Are they going to stand there all day or what?” Variam asked.
We were on a council estate in Tufnell Park. My divination magic had found us an empty flat with a good view, and we were inside the cramped upper bedroom, looking out the window. The interior of the flat was dusty and cold, with old magazines scattered across the floor; whoever lived here hadn’t been home for a long time. Through the window we could see a courtyard of pebble-set concrete, with more flats rising opposite. Caldera and Sonder were on the upper walkway fifty feet across, heads bent over the door of flat number 229. According to Caldera, that flat was the residence of one Darren Smith, Sagash’s apprentice. The sky was overcast and grey, and wind whined past outside.
“Maybe they’re knocking on the door and saying they have a warrant,” I said.
“Then shouldn’t we be over there?”
“Caldera wants us around for backup,” I said. And to keep an eye on us. “Sonder doesn’t want us around at all. I guess this is the compromise.”
Opposite, the door opened and Caldera walked inside. Sonder started to follow, but Caldera made a gesture and Sonder hung back. “Four of us for one Dark apprentice who isn’t even there,” Variam muttered. “This is such a waste of time.” He gave me a look. “Why are you wearing that armour anyway?”
“Not everyone gets to have your fancy elemental shields, you know.” The armour I was wearing was an imbued item Arachne had made for me: a close-woven mesh with reinforcing plates. It’s black and grey and not particularly bulky, but it’s still not the best thing to wear for blending into a crowd, which was why I’d covered it with a greatcoat. I could feel its presence, protective and watchful, but it matched my movements so well that it was easy to forget it was there. “And if there was one thing I learnt last year, it was that it’s a lot better to have armour and not need it than to need it and not have it.”