In which Cedric can't catch a break, and Sofia isn't as easily impressed as her dad.
"Oh, it's no use," Cedric mutters under his breath, for the umpteenth time. "Why am I here, again?"
In the life of every sorcerer there are good magic days, and bad magic days. He has had a lot of bad days. But today, oh, today is a disaster.
"If you could perhaps finish within this lifetime, we would be so very grateful," Baileywick pipes up unhelpfully, from what sounds like a mile below him. Good thing Cedric was never scared of heights. "The Royal Weatherman informed me that we won't be spared these end-of-summer showers for at least another three weeks. If those cracks aren't fixed by tonight, we could be dealing with a much heavier flood―"
"Will you please be quiet, then?" Cedric yells down, already frayed. His head hasn't stopped pounding since he woke up, and his whole body is ajitter, as if hundreds of tremulous wings were trapped under his skin. "I'm already up here doing plumber's work, I don't need the added commentary, thank you."
The Stewart rolls his eyes at him, right there, without even bothering to dissimulate it. "Carpenter's work, technically."
Cedric has never seen him being openly impolite to anyone else but him. Earlier, as he walked him to the storage room, Baileywick had informed him in the most casual tone that all his wands―that he lent to Sofia's sorcery class after they decimated the school's wand supply attempting to learn some tricky spark-conjuring spell―have unfortunately also suffered minor fissures, and have been sent in for repairs; free of charge, many apologies.
Thanks for not bothering to ask me, Cedric had said when he regained the use of his voice, evidently with not enough sarcasm. You are welcome, the Stewart had, indeed, graciously replied. Definitely a bad day for magic.
Jaw clenched, he palms the cracked frame in search of an easier way to repair it. Positioned in a corner of the castle that seems to trap a tenfold the humidity of the rest, the thing is completely busted, the wood dry and brittle on the outside and rotten in the middle. It has let in water from at least five different cracks, and from the look of it, the only way to save it would be a complete do-over. But alas, they want him to fix it, so he has to try. He has already failed a couple of Repair spells, and he can't think of any pure Construction spells off the top of his head... maybe a Paint-over spell, so at least he'll get out of doing this awful job.
The water accumulated from the previous days' rain, even as the servants mop it up by the bucketful, is still ankle-deep. It's the only thing that made the leak noticeable, the water flooding the semi-unused room dripping into another through the ceiling. The hem of Cedric's robe is heavy with the brownish rainwater that washed over everyone's shoes once they cracked open the attic's door. Except Baileywick's, who had rain-boots on. Of course.
The wooden feet of a few old cupboards and tables are already ruined, bent out of shape and swollen with humidity; they creaked and groaned menacingly under Cedric's slight weight, as he piled them and climbed up to reach the incriminated window. It sits, put there in an unknown architectural whim, in a sloping niche near the ceiling, much lower than his height. This way he has to fold up awkwardly and look up to inspect the leaks, stuffed into the window with his backside on the wet windowsill and his knees in his mouth; a homing pigeon in his cubby hole.
Cold, achey, and ready to throw in the towel, Cedric taps his purple wand―that he fortunately refrained from lending―against his knee, and attempts the spell to cover up the cracks. Unexpectedly, the pesky things glow and disappear from the wood, in a crinkle of magic static. He stares at it in amazement.
"It's... it's done," he says, with a bit more surprise than intended.
"Finally," Baileywick sighs, motioning for him to climb down, as though he were a child that took too long to finish playing, so that the servants can clean around and get rid of the ruined furniture. He checks his pocket-watch once again. "Now I can see to the other situation. We sure have got a lot of visitors this year, haven't we?"
"You are welcome, huh," Cedric retorts, stretching a leg out of the niche to step on the table below, the first in the tall pile he has to descend. "If you want a job well do―"
That instant, his wand gives a twitch―like an intense shudder through its body of lacquered wood. The fissures reappear all at once, splintering the wood up to the glass and ferning out in a lightning of cracks. He has only a split second to thrust his other leg out and scramble down on the table, before the window explodes with a punishing slam, and a strong wind blasts inside, raining twigs, leaves and pebbles on everyone below. Cedric holds on to the edge of the table, scampering up on it in fright, and the hasty movement is too much for the blasted legs.
"Oh no―" he whimpers, watching the wet wood bend inwards and throw the whole pile off balance. "Move out of the way―!"
The stone floor rushes up to meet him at alarming speed, as the tower of furniture he built comes crashing down under him. He rides the table like a sled all the way down and he can only brace for impact, landing on his left shoulder in a rain of splinters.
In a blurry haze of pain, he can barely see Baileywick's rain-boots unmoved on the floor, as if he grew roots there. The Stewart, who stepped back with the other servants when the structure started to wobble, doesn't seem to have the guts to move a single step toward his prone form. Is he dead? Violet's always somewhat loud voice asks, in her version of a discreet hush.
Cedric unsticks his face from the floor, and shakes away the water with a resigned huff. As if he could die just from falling! Preposterous. He has never injured himself in a fall in his whole life, no matter how ruinous. Well, maybe that one time―but it's so long ago, it shouldn't count.
"Cedric," Baileywick says, somehow sounding matter-of-fact, astonished, and peeved at the same time, "just, how―what did you do?"
Cedric gasps, accidentally inhaling some of the water and grime, coughing it out to the side.
"Me?! It wasn't my fault!" he splutters, and wants to throttle the whiny note in his own voice. "The legs are all crooked and―you've seen it, it was the wind!"
He is no stranger to things exploding in his face, and has instinctively protected himself with his sleeves from the flying shards. He's always been able to spring up right away, but this time when he goes to put weight on his left arm, a stab of pain shoots from his elbow up though his shoulder. As he props on his other arm and climbs to his feet, the head-rush is so strong he sees black for a few seconds. There's sticky muddy water caking the left side of his fringe―red mud. Oh, wait.
"Oh dear, you are bleeding," Baileywick, helpfully, points out. A hint of impatience laces his tone, along with slight mockery, loud like a scream in Cedric's burning ears. "Violet, please fetch something to bandage―but now, the window... this is even worse, we should have just boarded it up―"
"Yes, like I said hours ago," Cedric exhales, staunching the blood with his wet sleeve. He steps back from the woman approaching with a rag, turning tail to escape. "And leave me alone, I'm fine."
Now they can summon the Royal Glassmaker to do his job and fix the damn thing. Not his problem anymore. Ostentatiously trailing dirt behind him, he limps back to his tower. No one attempts to stop him.
Good. He wishes nothing more than to be alone for a while, free to pretend he's somewhere far away from this moment, already King and untouchable, exempt from any criticism whatsoever. Or at least, he'll have the power to throw in the dungeon anyone who attempts. Oh yes, he thinks with a sneering bitter laugh, still coughing up dirty water, when I'm King, things will be much different around here.
He locks the door behind him, putting his visions of glory and full prisons and his shoulders against it, just for a moment. Now Wormy will fly to him, and make that gentle grok noise he does when he knows something is wrong. He waits, but no flutter of wings comes to comfort him.
"Wormy?" he calls, and his voice seems to echo eerily in the silent tower.
His gaze falls to the empty perch, and their one-sided discussion from earlier comes back to him. Why was Wormwood so angry? Was it the seagull, was it the breakfast, did he also have a headache?
"He probably just went to get himself some food," he considers. Or he's hiding and sulking somewhere. Poor Wormy, he should have brought him a snack from the kitchens, to amend all the yelling they threw at each other, and repay him of the kindness from the previous day. He sighs, "Ah well, there is always tomorrow."
Setting to take care of his bleeding forehead, he limps to his chambers downstairs, rubbing his arm with one hand and his head with the other.
As tired eyes look back at him from the washroom mirror, he shudders a bit at his own appearance. He looks so worn-out all the time lately, paler and scragglier than ever. Sure, all the dirt isn't helping; he washes off, the wound on his head turning out to be just a tiny cut from a splinter, nothing to fuss over. Overall, he's been as lucky as usual.
Still, he thinks watching it paint the water a ferruginous orange, it's the first time in a long while that he's seen his own blood. So long he can't quite think of the last time he did, actually; he must have ended up taking his luck for granted.
Even as a lad, he never had Roland's tendency to scrape knees and break bones every other day. But it was bound to happen, sooner or later, he guesses. He makes an attempt to heal it up with magic, but the spell won't even load. He stares down at his wand, laid in his hand like a dry lifeless stick.
"Not a good day for magic, indeed," he sighs. Is he failing his spells even when no one is watching, now? "Just marvellous."
Still, it's just a scratch, he thinks while finger-combing his fringe in place; he can just hide it. For some unknown paradox, aside from the wound stinging and pulsing, his head doesn't hurt anymore. Maybe he knocked his skull so hard the pain just bled away, like the colour seems to do from his hair.
Merlin, is he ageing fast. It started as two little witch-streaks, after an incident a long, long time ago. My little witchlet, kissed by the sea, Mother cooed. And now, as soon as it starts to dry, he can clearly see there's not a single black hair in his entire fringe anymore.
Will it be his whole head soon, like Father's? He wonders, while absentmindedly holding his robe under running water until all the grime is washed off, and wringing it damp. Will he finally look like a real Royal Sorcerer then, at least?
Thinking of his father brings back the thought of the Family Wand, only ray of comfort in this hopeless day. Even if it took Sofia's help to get his father to entrust the Wand to him, it's still something, isn't it? The last dregs of the warm feeling in his stomach evaporate when he remembers that, for the moment, he can't even use it.
He toes off his dirty shoes and tiptoes in his squishy wet socks to the wardrobe, digging under it with his foot for a spare pair. If only he could dig out some spare luck. One day, I shall put the Family Wand to good use, and they'll see. They'll all see, he tells himself, miserable, dragging himself up the stairs to the workshop. Let me just... hold it for a moment.
Cedric lifts his eyes to the place he left the Wand in the morning, and sees nothing.
He glances guiltily at the portrait, biting down on his bottom lip. Did the Wand fall off his desk? Has his father seen him neglect it from the portrait? He drops to his knees to look for the precious item, searching all over the floor and in every dusty corner of his lair. The place is an even worse mess than last year, it must be under some ink-stained book or barrel or dismantled shelf...
He manages to keep it together until, rolled under the desk, he finds the empty glass case. Shooting upright, he slams his head into the underside of the drawer, and sees stars under his eyelids for a whole excruciating minute―the cut pulsing horribly as if his skull split open like a ripe melon. Great, just great.
"Oh, but where is that Wand," he murmurs, teary voice echoing in the empty tower, shrill with fear.
He might be a grown man now, but his mother will still put him over her knee if he has managed to lose the Family Wand after a day of having it. And Father... Father will look at him, look at him again like he's some kind of earthworm that crawled inside the house. Why, why, why, he chants in his head, drying his eyes on his sleeve and resorting to de-shelve every book on ground level to look behind.
"Wormy, stop sulking and come help me now! This is an emergency!"
In the silent chaos of the tower, his only answer is the echo of his own voice. He pauses to look around, the sheer desperation on his face replaced by a frown for a moment. Now that he notices, actually, he didn't do all this mess himself. There are ripped pillows, scratches on the desk, his beakers and ink bottles are all scattered on the floor... it almost looks like a fight took place in there.
A horrible thoughts freezes him in place, picking his old copy of Transmutation & Transfiguration up from the floor and clutching it open like the only thing keeping him grounded. He vaguely remembers a book falling when he went out, but surely he hasn't caused the rest of the mess by slamming the door.
Was it all already like this, and he just didn't notice, or... has the Wand been stolen, and his raven with it―? Wormwood is protective of the tower, and never had any qualms about attacking intruders... there's still seagull feathers around, for crying out loud. What if―
"But... only a sorcerer would have interest in the Family Wand―" he thinks out loud, trying to contain the panic, talking to the book like it can bring him advice. It fell open on the page Sofia wanted him to look at, that time she got transformed into a cat by accident. Animal to Human Transformation, he reads, just because the line is under his eyes. If Wormwood went and tried to fight a magic user...
Cedric spins around, looking for something just glaringly out of place, something that doesn't belong there, his guts twisting like wrung ropes. What if Wormwood has been transformed? He could be anything, a bug he accidentally squished, a jar of potion ingredients shattered on the floor, one of the books he threw behind his shoulder―and given Cedric manages to find him, would he even be able to transform him back, with his magic behaving like it's doing lately?
"Oh no, what a disaster," he whimpers, the Wand gone from his mind.
There is only one thing that can help him find something lost: heart in his throat, he goes through his desk, his chest of drawers and cabinets, in search of the yellow crystal ball.
When her father the King introduces the tall stranger to them as a visiting sorcerer, the first thing that crosses Sofia's mind is, again?
The man introduces himself as Corax.
She has been living in the castle for almost two years now, and saw a great deal of visitors—expected and unexpected—pass through. In all honesty, she wasn't expecting another visiting sorcerer so soon. Seeing the man's smug smile, she can't help but feel a bit suspicious. Will he dazzle them with illusory gifts like Miss Nettle did? He does kind of remind her of someone, the haughty way he holds his chin up, the regal line of his brow. Is this stranger yet another face of one of their enemies? If he shows any interest in the Amulet, even just a little bit, she'll tell Dad, she decides.
Built like the young men that row for a living the cargo boats, down by the river, Mr. Corax is probably the tallest person she's met, even taller than Dad and all his knights. He's corvine of hair like Snow White, and his skin is darker than Jasmine's. He's clad in a simple black cloak that covers him down to his feet, the jagged hems dragging behind his long steps.
The sorcerer opens his arms, announcing in a deep, melodious drawl that he will be performing tricks for the Royal Family, if they please to watch. Pulled out his sleeve like she's seen most sorcerers do, and held in his large, elegant hands with fingers that taper into arched claws, Mr. Corax carries a black wand in the shape of a crooked branch. With his arms extended, she notices the lower hem of his robe isn't jagged, but split in the shape of large fringes, like hanging feathers.
"Do you come bearing gifts that will disappear when our hospitality ends?" Amber asks, a bit too directly than what the rules of diplomacy would ask of her.
"Now, Amber, not all visiting sorcerers can be ill-intentioned," Dad intervenes. He glances over at the man. "I hope?"
"Hmm, unless they come to court dressed in twigs and a ratty sheet," Amber mutters behind her fan, making James and Sofia giggle.
"Maybe our guest has made a long journey," Mom points out, with the evenness of opinion Sofia always admired in her. "We shouldn't judge unfairly."
All the while, the man has been smiling affably, not at all perturbed. Or maybe he hasn't heard.
"Of course," he says, and no one knows in answer to what. "If you please, Your Majesties, instead of unneeded riches, I can bring you a gift of wonder."
"Fair enough," Dad says good-naturedly. "We do love magic shows."
"Bring it!" James claps, enthusiastic, as Amber crosses her arms, waiting to be impressed while wearing her most unimpressed scowl. Sofia, her train of thought interrupted, just turns and watches.
The stranger clears his throat into his closed fist, and as the wand emits a few black sparkles in preparation, Sofia notices his gestures have a very unnatural quality to them.
She pays closer attention, and every single move he makes, from the theatrical way he opens his arms to the blocky wand movements, gives the same impression to her. It almost looks like he's been mimicking people, without really understanding the origin and purpose of their actions. How funny, she thinks.
She really feels like she has seen this man before. She tunes in on her intuition, like Snow White taught her. Differently from the other time, though, there is no unease in her gut around this mysterious stranger. Also differently, this time Mr. Cedric doesn't appear in a turquoise puff of smoke to introduce himself to the newcomer. She knows her friend is very busy―probably quite taken with learning to use his new wand at the moment―but it's still a pity that he'd miss the opportunity to meet a colleague.
Mr. Corax starts doing magic, dipping the beautiful black wand in the air like a quill in its inkwell, and purple and green glitter-like sparkles spring out of it. Sofia, life-long magic enthusiast, soon falls to the entrancement. She can't help but touch one of the sparkles that floats next to her before it dissolves into thin air; it pops, making her giggle and leaving a frizzy sting on her finger, like a little snap of static, not entirely unpleasant.
The mysterious sorcerer just mutters his spells―instead of proclaiming them as Mr. Cedric does, she notes with interest―in that deep voice that she knows from somewhere, and conjures a story in shapes of light and colour, like a picture book weaved under their rapt eyes as they gasp and stare and clasp their hands.
It's one of the fables that have always put an uneasy feeling in her chest, because there is no happy ending; she couldn't say The Nightingale and the Rose is exactly her favourite, but it did keep her awake most of the night, thinking, the first time her mom agreed to read it to her until the end. Never before had she known a story where a sacrifice made out of the kindness of one's heart ended up being useless.
When it's over, the red rose that cost the little Nightingale's life thrown in the gutter, they all stand, bright-eyed, and clap for the talented conjurer. Sofia knows her mom and Amber are fond of the story, but it is Dad, she notices with surprise when she glances up at him, who is staring ahead with a single tear rolling down his cheek.
"Some gift of wonder you gave us, my friend," he says thickly. "May I request some fireworks, to lift the mood?"
Mr. Corax grins and bows, waving his wand and sending a constellation of colourful beams up into the darkening sky. In the light of magic, his expression turns wicked for an instant, his broad smile revealing a row of slightly fangy teeth. The faces he makes keep growing more and more familiar to her, but Sofia can't place where she might have seen him. On her way to Tangu? By the sea? Has she read about him in a pirate story?
Soaking up the praise like the rose soaked up the Nightingale's heart, for the big finale the sorcerer sweeps his arm in a broad gesture, and the lights take the shape of a great red bird, a shrieking phoenix that vanishes from the sky in a glorious lick of flame.
Everyone claps, even the servants who have halted their coming and going for a moment to marvel at the display. Sofia, the bird theme finally jumping out at her, sees her budding suspicion sharpen like a magnifying glass held over a map.
Dad, overcome with enthusiasm, thanks the sorcerer for the beautiful performance. As further gratitude he offers, as it's customary, to host the stranger for the night. The black-clad man, as it's customary, humbly accepts.
Sofia keeps an eye on the man as they all walk through the castle, noticing how he almost seems to know his way to the dining room. By the time they sit down at dinner, as she climbs into the chair next to the guest as it is customary, her suspicions are pretty much confirmed.
Those claws must be so very uncomfortable for eating, she guesses from the way he brandishes cutlery. No one else notices, engrossed in listening to Dad explaining how a dam works and why the village can wait no longer to build one. And then listening to Baileywick as he mentions some issue with a window in one of the upper floors. The stranger too listens closely, but he also struggles unnoticed with his food until Sofia starts to really pity him. She sees him look longingly at the uncut meat on his plate, and his unsteady grip on knife and fork that is one slip away from social disaster. She sympathises.
He finally attacks the thick bread slice, methodically ripping it apart and dipping the pieces in the sauce at least, all along looking quite sullen. Sofia, unable to watch a guest go hungry right next to her at the royal table, stretches to the bowl of Chef André's best mashed potatoes, and serves a dollop for herself. It has tender, juicy dices of ham in it, and a spoon is easier to use than fork and knife.
"Potatoes, Mr. Corax?" she offers, holding the spoon in her other hand so that he may get the hint. The stranger narrows his eyes at her; if out of gratitude of suspicion, she can't tell.
"Why, thank you, Princess," he says, a bit dryly.
As the man can finally eat, Sofia digs happily into her own potatoes.
"Seems like you came to us in a time of great need, Corax," Dad says, using the stranger's name with kingly familiarity. Sofia likes that very much about her stepfather, his easy-going way of treating people. "Would you lend us a hand, and accept in exchange our gratitude and hospitality?"
"Can't see why not," Mr. Corax says, in a very regal and gracious manner despite the bits of mashed potato on his face. Sofia nudges his leg and dabs her mouth with the silk napkin on her lap; the man, to his credit, doesn't lose a beat in mimicking her. "It happens often that my travels bring me where I am most needed. I'll be glad to help."
"Alright!" the King smiles, in that distinctively James way. After just a moment, though, his brows furrow again. "You see, we are having exceptionally bad weather this year and, as I was saying, our nearest village urgently needs a dam, to prevent the Old King from flooding, both now and this coming winter."
Sofia's thoughts immediately go to Ruby and Jade, and the rest of her friends from the village. Dad didn't call the river Royal River like they usually do in the castle, but instead he absentmindedly called it the Old King, like they do in the village: she guesses the news must be very recent. She wants to ask why can't Mr. Cedric help build the dam faster, but her father speaks again.
"Now the works are way behind, and since our Sorcerer seems to be unwell," and he exchanges a glance with Baileywick, "we do need all the magical help we can get."
"Heavens know we do," Baileywick sort of mutters out the corner of his mouth, looking skywards. He looks like he's recalling something that pains him greatly.
To her worries about the village, Sofia can now add a few ones for Mr. Cedric. For some reason, Baileywick's quip makes the stranger laugh instead. It's a peculiar laugh, a series of guffawing haw-haw-haw sounds with a small rattle in the end. Sofia whips her head around so fast she almost knocks her glass over. Once again, she knows that laugh.
"Apologies," Mr. Corax says, clearing his throat as if he had water down the wrong pipe, just as unnaturally as his other gestures. "It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty."
Sofia spends the rest of the dinner squinting at him, so focused she barely picks at her dessert. And yet, for all she racks her brain, she can't guess why Mr. Cedric's raven would try to pass himself for a visiting sorcerer.
When everyone is sated, they all rise to their feet. Baileywick approaches the man to give him directions to his assigned room. Sofia looks at him, tall and straight-backed, against the big window of the dining room. She can still see Mr. Cedric's tower from there, even though a thin white fog is slowly thickening, greying out the view, and the drizzle turned into the expected full-blown cloudburst. In the wind that flurries the fallen leaves off the ground and bends the barely visible trees down in the gardens, even the stout lone tower seems to shake a bit.
"Right on cue, this is the kind of weather we are talking about," Baileywick says, gesturing to the storm outside. "Apparently, the wind gusts are so strong a windowpane was bashed in today."
"Was anyone hurt?" Sofia asks anxiously, coming up to him.
"Everyone was fine, Princess," Baileywick reassures her. After a moment, he adds, "Well, Cedric did fall down, but he said he was fine."
There's another, distinct huff of amusement, that Mr. Corax is quick to dissimulate.
That's it, it's confirmed, Sofia decides. She must go to Mr. Cedric immediately. With a mind to also bring him some dinner, and see for herself if he's alright, she bids her goodnights and sets to the kitchens.
On her way there, she stops in her tracks and lets out a gasp of surprise upon spotting Mr. Cedric himself, just turning the corner.
"Mr. Cedric!" she calls, running after him. "I must tell you something!"
The sorcerer, startled, almost drops the yellow globe he's holding. He looks down at her, and his eyes have dark shadows all around, and look really red. He must really be unwell, she thinks, her hands clasping in apprehension.
"Do I look like I have the time for chit-chat right now, Princess?" he asks, a bit through his teeth. He looks like he can't quite keep still. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Busy with what?" she asks quickly. Mr. Cedric hesitates, ticking on the sphere with his fingernails.
"Looking for Wormwood," he admits in the end. He inhales to say something else, but he thinks better of it, swallowing the words.
"Is Wormwood missing?" Sofia gasps, now certain. "Since when?"
"This morning, I think," he says, hunching defensively. She waits for him to continue, and under her eyes his demeanour changes. A flinch of anxiety makes him avert his eyes, and pulls his face into a grimace. "We... we had an argument, and then I had to leave―and now my workshop is in chaos and I cannot find him... Princess," he lowers his voice, speaking in a fevered, stuttering whisper, "Princess, I fear he's been stolen."
"Mr. Cedric, calm down," she says gently, going a bit closer to touch his arm reassuringly. He twitches under her fingers, so nervous it makes her want to cry. "I know where Wormwood is."
"You do?" he gasps, his eyes going wide. As Sofia takes him by the sleeve and starts to pull him in the intended direction, he frowns again. "The dining hall? But he never goes there. Is he―is he alright?"
Right in that moment, Mr. Corax is letting himself out of the hall, and when they turn the corner they run straight into him.
The man lets out a dissonant squawk of alarm, and spreads his arms for balance. Mr. Cedric is shoved back, sleeve ripping away from Sofia's grip, and falls over. The crystal ball slips from his arms, and rolls away down the corridor.
"Out of my way―!"
"Watch wherever you're going, you―!"
Sofia fights the urge to slap her palm on her face. The same exact disdainful tone. How could she be so late in putting the pieces together?
Mr. Cedric, still on the floor fighting the robe that flopped back over his head and rubbing his nose that slammed hard into the man's shoulder, spends a few moments muttering about people that don't look where they're going, in quite unkind terms.
Mr. Corax doesn't seem bothered by his harshness, looking much like he's used to it, not even the littlest bit taken aback. He blinks a couple of times, then a strange expression softens his handsome face, one Sofia cannot quite place. It's kind of the same face Amber makes at James' antics sometimes.
"My apologies," he says, in a completely different tone.
Sofia already noticed his voice, very deep and with a slow, relaxing cadence. She heard him speak quite a lot now, and to think it took her so long to recognise it as Wormwood's―but, she suddenly thinks, Mr. Cedric has never heard Wormwood speak! She sets to find a way to pull out that weird, unmistakeable laugh.
"Uhm, why don't we grab a bite, Mr. Cedric? I didn't have dessert and you look half-starved," she blurts out, gesturing to the table.
She spies the expression on Wormwood's face, but he merely cracks a mocking smile. It's not enough for Mr. Cedric to recognise him for sure, but along with his eyes―bright green on the iris, and bright yellow where there should be only white, and blinking white and reflective when he angles his head, just like Robin and Mia's eyes do―it should never have fooled her.
"I don't have time for supper!" Mr. Cedric yells, kicking his feet like a frustrated child. With an edge of teariness, he queries, "Princess, please, do you know where my raven is, or were you just tricking me?"
In that moment, while her mind blanks at the mere thought of ever being that cruel, the crystal ball bounces off the wall and comes rolling back towards them. Mr. Cedric sidesteps it the wrong way, and gets tripped like a pin in a bowling lane. This time, Wormwood doesn't even try to hold back, he bursts into a sonorous laugh at his tumble.
Wincing a bit, Sofia steps forward to help Mr. Cedric up. She knows the man to be very sturdy―she has seen him fall down more times that she can count―but still, this wasn't exactly what she had in mind.
Wormwood, quicker, just bends fluidly at the waist and grabs Mr. Cedric's elbow. He pulls him up all at once, as if he weighted less than a fallen leaf. He's still laughing, and she can see Mr. Cedric's furious scowl as he's about to speak―but only a high strangled squeak makes it out of his throat.
Finally, he's looking the stranger in the eyes, and hopefully fitting together the pieces just like she did. Wormwood still has his hand on Mr. Cedric's elbow, as if he forgot it there.
A very strange sequence of expressions pass over Mr. Cedric's face, changing like clouds in a windy sky. He looks like he completely forgot to get angry at the stranger for laughing, and he doesn't even snatch his arm away. He opens his mouth to say something, index finger raised―but then halts and rethinks, words caught in throat. He repeats this a couple of times, going from looking like he just swallowed a whole lemon to that face Amber makes in P.E. class. Lastly, he glances left and right, up at the man, and finally down at her.
"If... if you'll excuse us, Princess Sofia," he almost gasps, grabbing the man by the edge of his cloak and dragging him off.
"Goodnight!" Sofia waves at the duo, more questions than answers floating in her head.
Evidently, Mr. Cedric doesn't want people to know this visiting sorcerer is actually Wormwood. Is it possible they had some accident with magic? But Mr. Cedric said he hadn't seen Wormwood all day...
Musing, she walks down the corridor, picking up the heavy crystal ball. I'd better take this with me, she thinks, for safekeeping.
Sofia Holmes, private detective.