In which good reflexes come in handy more than once.

That's a great idea, Wormwood! Sofia had said, with a lot more enthusiasm than he expected. She dragged them to the kitchens first, to grab a satchel and some apples for their skipped breakfast. Let's go right now!

But I know the way, he had objected. You don't have to come with me.

But can you ride a flying horse? Sofia retorted, almost rhetorically. He blinked at her: for a second, used to just flying to Mist Bowl Mountain on his own, he had forgotten he doesn't have wings anymore.

Come to think of it, Wormwood considers, legs clenched around the horse's round belly, light purple wings swatting his knees with each stroke, it might not have been such a great idea after all.

"This is an odd way of flying," he notes, looking down, shifting his long ears around with a knuckle to get them to fit under the riding helmet. A pang of nostalgia for his wings hits him out of nowhere. It's been less than 24 hours, he chides himself. Get a grip. "Never thought I would fly on borrowed wings."

"Always a first time!" Sofia laughs. "How are you holding up, Minimus?"

Before they took off, Clover took her aside and whispered to her for a good five minutes. Warning her against Wormwood's wicked trickery, for sure, reminding her to be careful around him. Wormwood had seen her wave her hand, as if to swat the rabbit's worries away.

"Fine!" the small horse replies, sounding a bit winded. "Listen, not to be a drag pony, but tall dark and handsome here is kinda crushing my ribcage."

"Relax, Wormwood," Sofia says, and he attempts to unclench his knees. "Remember, never think about falling when you're flying."

"Princess, are you trying to tell a bird how to―"

"Wormwood?" Minimus interjects. Starting to feel famous here, Wormwood thinks, rolling his eyes. "Is this the guy who took your Amulet last Hallow's Eve, Sofia? The raven?"

"Ah, yes. A misunderstanding. We're friends now," she says easily. "You and I are helping him get some Hocus Crocus to win back his best friend's heart!"

"Oh, wow, are they fighting or something?"

Here we go, Wormwood thinks in dismay, as the Princess spiels to explain his business all over again. There is certainly an advantage to her many connections, and her enthusiasm sure makes him feel like this wacky plan actually has a chance, and yet...

He reaches into his breast pocket, where Cedric's robe sits folded up: the purple wand, still safe in the left sleeve, won't stop poking him in the ribs. Uncomfortable, he broods until Mist Bowl Mountain comes into view.

"Here we are," Sofia says. "Without a carriage, I think we can land closer the top! Please make it as close as you can, Minimus."

"Aye aye, Princess!"

They fly above the Crystal Forest, the Musical Mist Geysers, and other traps that sprout the way they do in all places where the soil is magically charged.

"Can we skip the ogre, too?" Wormwood asks.

"Sorry, too steep," Minimus says apologetically. He lands heavily into the rocky clearing where the gatekeeper's lodge stands. Wormwood dismounts on shaky legs. "But Sofia's good at riddles, don't worry!"

Wormwood groans, "That riddle has been unchanged for decades."

He knows it by heart, and the answer makes his insides twist. More valuable than gold, hard to find and easy to lose, he thinks. Is it my dignity?

Without letting the ogre start his presentation speech nor his riddle, he barks, "It's a friend."

And, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the cunning snakelet smile.

"Gosh, it really is too easy," the ogre mutters, lifting the gate to let them pass. "Oh, hello again, little Princess!"

Wormwood glances back in disbelief, "What, are you friends with the damn ogre too?"

"Yep," Sofia laughs, waving back. "He's nice."

Wormwood elects to save his breath for the steep trek ahead. Minimus notes it's almost as foggy near the top as the stables behind the castle earlier that morning. When the clouds part, Sofia points out the view, and Wormwood feels again like the air currents are carrying him, soaring above all, the whole kingdom in the span of his vision. It might not have been a day yet, but he feels like he hasn't flown in years.

Out of nowhere, he regrets never having gone very far in his excursions. He saw so little of all that is there to see, too tired and rooted in habit to be curious anymore. And as a human, it's so much easier to leave the tower, it makes him almost forget what it used to feel like, the terrible dread that overcame him when the silence grew too heavy.

Well, if this doesn't work, I suppose it might just be the time to travel, he thinks. He'll have to do something with his lengthened life, won't he? He takes a shuddering sigh in the thin mountain air. Suddenly, the thought is not as comforting as it should be.

Minimus, a horse of lesser concerns, also draws in a sigh. "Man, I could use an apple right now."

"We should be close now, anyway," Sofia says. She sits on a flattish rock, and pulls three red apples from her bag. "We can snack, and then start looking from here."

Wormwood sits down gratefully. Too taken with the task ahead and his own dreary thoughts, he had almost forgotten about the blisters under his feet. He stretches his long legs out, and sinks his teeth messily in the red fruit, suddenly famished. Sofia laughs at him, but for some reason it doesn't bother him. It's almost pleasant, in fact. How odd.

As soon as they're done eating, Sofia gets up to look around, and Wormwood tries a couple of healing spells for his feet.

"You're still using the Wand," Sofia scolds, waving her apple core at him.

"I need to walk there to give it back, don't I?" Rolling his eyes, Wormwood holds the spell until the sore spots harden to calluses, so that walking barefoot won't hurt anymore. "Finally, that's better."

"That's a personal vendetta against shoes if I've seen one," Minimus comments, still chewing. "And that's coming from a horse."

"Look!" Sofia exclaims before he can reply, pointing to the cliffside above them. "I think it's the Hocus Crocus! Wormwood, gimme a boost!"

"A what?" The child reaches her arms up towards him, waving her hands impatiently. He looks from her to the cliffside, way too high for any of them to reach. "You mean I should... lift you?"

"Yeah! If you stand on Minimus' back, and I stand on your shoulders, I think we can reach it."

For a moment, Wormwood can't move a step. He stands paralysed as the horse nudges him in the shins, his gaze trained to his hands and their long arched claws, chilled sweat down his spine.

"But―" he starts to say, but a gust of wind makes the delicate violet flower tremble above them. Sofia releases a small noise of impatience, pulling on his robe.

"Quick! Before the wind blows it away!"

Wormwood sets his jaw, and bends to lift the Princess onto his shoulders. She weights even less than Cedric, and the cautious grasp of his fingers encompasses the whole of her waist. His claws don't cut her, not even when he has to tighten his grip to hold both of them up as they climb onto the horse's back.

"Steady, will you?" he snaps, when Minimus opens his wings for balance.

"Hey, we're all doing our best here," is the cordial, yet strained, reply. "Sofia, can you reach?"

"Almost, almost," she grits, bracing on the rock and digging the balls of her feet into Wormwood's shoulders. "I hope this time the wind doesn't do that trick at the last seco-o-ond―!"

Of course it does. As the second gust of wind tugs away the fragile roots of the Crocus, an inch from Sofia's extended fingers, Wormwood watches the Princess jerk back to grab it as if time had slowed down.

She breathes, "Got it―!" But her triumph ends in a gasp as she tips off balance. Wormwood spins on himself, leaping off the horse's back after the shift in Sofia's weight. The moment of suspension ends brusquely, with his knees an inch from the edge of the ravine.

He lets out a long exhale. When he opens his eyes, the purple flower is in his face, Sofia's fingers closed around the stem the way Wormwood's fingers are closed around her ribcage: firmly, but without harm.

"Nice catch!" Sofia laughs, throwing her short arms around Wormwood's neck. He has seen her hug Cedric a couple of times, but can't really move or react, blood still chilled in his veins. She squeezes him briefly and says, "Thank you! We did it! You can be nice, see?"

"What―why did you do that, you little tyke?!" he hisses. "Do you have a death wish?"

"No! I didn't want to lose the Crocus!" Sofia says, as though it made perfect sense. Still propped in Wormwood's arms, she pulls a little pouch from her bag, and neatly folds the flower away. Her voice, right next to his ear, seems to come from the other side of a room, and his arms won't unclench. "Minimus would have caught me if you missed, don't worry."

"That's a lot of misplaced faith, Princess," Minimus notes, in a shaky voice, "It was really cool, but I also got a coronary there so please don't do it again?"

"Alright," Sofia shrugs.

"Let's just... go back, shall we," Wormwood mutters, untangling his arms and rising to his feet. He flexes his fingers, amazed. The Princess is another small and scrawny thing, and yet the touch of his hands doesn't seem to have done any harm. Is it all a matter of control and habit, has the previous night's instance been merely a lapse?

For most of the trip back, as the Princess and the horse chat amiably, he doesn't utter a word. The trip back seems much shorter, and soon he recognises the twists and turns of the river under them.

"There is where I spent the night," Wormwood says, pointing down. Sofia tilts her weight to make Minimus fly lower, until his front hooves graze the tops of the trees.

"Ohh, how pretty!" she says. The meander, with its bright greenish water and the mangrove roots clutching the riverbanks, looks so different in the daylight. There is no trace of the dense mist the fox asked him to do something about.

"It is scary at night, I assure you," he says, a bit sullen. Sofia chuckles at him.

"You couldn't stay in the tower after what you did, could you?" she says, sobering up. She frees one hand from the reins and pats gently on his, where it grips the front of the saddle at her side. "You started feeling bad right away."

Wormwood doesn't answer, but he knows she doesn't need him to. He thinks of the flower in her bag, the flowers in the workshop, the folded up robe in his own pocket. Will all of this do any good? What then? The burden of being human feels like it's been on his shoulders for weeks instead of hours.

"Don't worry, alright?" Sofia says, when the castle comes into view, curtain of clouds thickening above it. He realizes he's been quiet for a while. "If you talk to Mr. Cedric as soon as you can, I'm sure you'll be able to fix it, and everything will―does the island look a bit too yellow for the season to you guys?"

The instant he follows her lead, Wormwood can tell exactly where the early autumn is spreading from. At the very centre of a wide circle of paradoxical drought, encompassing almost the whole island and blurred green at the edge, even from here he can see the dry branches that were the Well's overgrown hedges.

"Possibly," he evades, and the chill that runs down his spine has nothing to do with either the drizzle that started to fall once more, nor with flying wingless a mile up in the sky.

They circle the island, flying briefly over the village―so that's where all the mist went, Wormwood notes, watching it advance to the castle like an earth-bound cloud―and land as stealthily as possible.

As Sofia is getting saddle and bridle off the horse, a Guard runs to them.

"Mr. Corax, right?" the young man says, addressing Wormwood with a certain stiffness. The raven nods. It's fair: he knows the face of this Guard, but never bothered to remember his name either. The man spots Sofia and bows quickly. "Princess."

"Hi, Frederick," Sofia says, pouring fresh water in Minimus' bucket. Wormwood shakes his head; it wouldn't be a surprise if she knew every guard by name at this point.

"Please follow me," the man says, turning to Wormwood again. He gestures to the landing pad, where a flying coach awaits. "The King urgently requests your aid in the village."

Roland sure is quick to take people on their word, Wormwood thinks. Before he can give an answer, the King himself jogs up to them, exuding an air of impatience.

"Oh, here you are, Sofia!" he says with a smile, spotting her. "We haven't seen you all morning, I was wondering where you'd disappeared to!"

"I just gave W―Mr. Corax here a tour of the royal grounds, Dad," Sofia lies smoothly. "We took advantage of the nice morning. Here's an apple for you!"

Wormwood tilts his head in evaluation. Not technically a lie: a half-truth and a distraction tactic in close succession, Sofia's voice barely a little faster than usual. On the King's face, not a clue. Impressive.

She hides things with a lot of ease for someone so irritatingly good at heart. She doesn't need her parents to know she ventured so far in the kingdom with someone they believe to be a complete stranger, fully confident in her own assessment. And, certainly, she doesn't want them to know she almost plunged down a ravine at the top of a mountain just an hour ago. Wormwood catches her eye when she glances up, and concedes her an intrigued eyebrow raise.

"I see, I see," the King says, twirling the apple in his hands before taking a bite from it. Looking back at Wormwood, he addresses him frankly, "You were certainly in good hands, then, Corax. But I hope you're up for another flight!"

"Of course," he bows curtly, his voice oily.

"Are you going to the village for that dam thing?" Sofia pipes up. "Couldn't I come too, Dad?"

"I'm afraid not, sweetie," the King answers gently. It is almost sickening, the care in everyone's voice when they address her. "The matter could be a bit dangerous, near the river in this weather and all."

Sofia's lips thin into a line of displeasure, but she doesn't insist, the finality clear in her father's voice. As soon as the King has pet her on the head and turned his back to instruct the guard, she shoots Wormwood a conspiratorial glance.

"We wouldn't want the Princess to be in any danger, now, would we?" Wormwood smirks. Sofia gives a dainty shrug, and makes to pull the satchel over her head.

In that moment, the King calls him again, and he has no time to get the Hocus Crocus back. Wordlessly, she sets the bag back on her shoulder and gives him a thumbsup. Seems he'll have to leave it in Sofia's care, just like the secret about his identity. He nods, and sweeps away, walking briskly to the carriage just as the King calls him once more.

Once there, he wants to ask what they're waiting for, if they were in such a hurry, but the King precedes him.

"Now, if only Baileywick can find Cedric, we'll get going," he says, with an edge of contempt. Wormwood's stomach does a backflip. So soon? "Two sorcerers are better than one, right? Especially since Cedric's a bit―well, nevermind. I hope you can... manage to work together."

Wormwood swallows soundlessly, Roland's words leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The previous day at dinner, he briefly wondered why he used to find the guy so repulsive: seen with his family, he seemed such a skilful leader and an amiable man. He remembers thinking, the people would rally for this man, and feeling a deep unease creep into the very core of all his plans. Now, hearing him make jabs at Cedric behind his back like this, in front of a stranger...

"Talk to me, my friend, let us pass the time" the King sighs, startling Wormwood out of his reverie. Wormwood wishes he would stop calling him that. Sofia is one thing, but the man he regarded as an enemy for three decades... "And please, excuse Sofia for dragging you off, she's a pint-sized force of nature. How do you like our fine kingdom, so far?"

The raven throws a glance to his surroundings, looking for inspiration. "Hm, you have interesting... ways of getting around," he notes, gesturing to the flying coach. Knowing it will fall flat, he deadpans, "Good thing I am not afraid to fly."

"Indeed, indeed," Roland says, proudly pushing his chest out. "A royal prerogative, flying horses. They are very rare, just a few wild herds from here to Tangu."

Wormwood modulates an impressed hum. "Must be useful in battle, I presume?"

"Well, now," the King says, with the same pensive noise Sofia often makes, "I do hope we never see battle, to be frank. And we would need some more horses and coaches... and sturdier materials." Somewhat fondly, he knocks on the old lacquered wood. "But yes, they sure have been a tactical advantage throughout history."

"But not the only advantage," he sayss, maybe with a bit too much certainty. The King gives him a slightly disturbed look.

"Fear not, we won't be under attack anytime soon," he placates, as if trying to coax a wild forest creature, the smallest trace of offense in his voice. "The other rulers and I work hard everyday to preserve our friendly relations, within the Tri-Kingdom Area and beyond. I will keep doing my very best to ensure we enjoy this peace for a long time."

Wormwood clenches his jaw to smother a laugh. We'll see. "My interest is purely academic, of course," he says softly.

"Well," Roland says, taking a last bite of apple and looking up in recollection, "for example, around three centuries ago, when my forefather King Rupert ruled―"

"A time of great invasions, warmongering, and overthrowing attempts," Wormwood interjects, rapt. He clears his throat. "Apologies. Please continue."

Holding back from speaking one's mind sure is hard. Maybe I am a secrecy hazard, after all. But then, he reasons, Enchancian history is famous enough for an outsider to know the broad strokes.

"Yes, well," the King concedes, electing to humour the tactless foreigner. "From what the records tell us, enemies kept using magic to get in and out as they pleased, and that made it necessary for us to protect the castle against it. Most of the defence system against apparition spells was set by Solomon the Sentient himself―who was Royal Sorcerer at the time, I'm sure you know―and is still in place today."

"Against Transport charms, you mean?" Wormwood asks, feigning ignorance.

"Yes! It is impossible now to magically appear on the castle grounds from the outside. And from what I understand, some crucial places―like the armoury, the dungeons, and the Sorcerer's tower―are... uncracked?"

"Uncrackable," Wormwood corrects out of habit. "Warded against all access except people plainly walking in or out, so that magic cannot be used to free prisoners, or access weapons and magical artefacts."

"Exactly! You really know your stuff, Corax!" the King says, genuinely impressed. "We were lucky you came to us when we needed you."

He claps him on the back, and Wormwood has the sudden urge to do the same, but with enough force to shove him across the landing pad.

"I find it remarkable," he says delicately, trying not to let the threat show through too much, "this focus on the defence, and the lengths you'd go to avoid spilling enemy blood. Quite the break from the past, so to speak."

Roland shifts his weight, now looking decidedly uncomfortable. No human likes being compared to their predecessors, Wormwood deduces.

"We'd prefer not to spill anyone's blood, frankly. I'd imprison a criminal for life, at best. I mean, at worst." The King blinks, clearing his throat. "For crimes against the state, or murder... very serious offences. Or I might have to throw someone in the dungeon for a bit... but luckily, I haven't had to do it in years."

"Indeed? Is there no crime that would warrant capital punishment?" When the King looks at him weird again, he tones it down with some more oil, "Forgive my directness. Where I was born, the laws aren't so lenient."

The animal world is, after all, unfair by design: the law of nature takes no prisoners, cannot be escaped, and even the mighty predators must succumb to its rules of balance.

"The Royal Library is at your disposal, my friend," the King says, nodding graciously, if a bit tense. "Personally, I consider our laws just rather than lenient. Bodily harm is such a serious instance, we wouldn't be models of coherence if we used it as punishment, would we? A moment," Roland looks away, towards the stone arch that leads to the castle entrance, unable to hold his impatience. "What is taking Baileywick so long, I wonder? The man is nearly a recluse, for goodness sake, where could he be? … where was I?"

"Bodily harm," Wormwood echoes, with an easing gesture.

"Ah, yes. A line that should never be crossed, at all costs," he says, index raised. "All the more so within friendly relations! I try to teach my children and my subjects the same principles, you see."

He smiles, earnest, and Wormwood forces himself to smile back. There is something, hanging unsaid behind the King's eye, some unresolved thorn in his side, from a past that isn't proper discussing with a stranger. Wormwood can sense it, smell the discomfort. Don't start thinking now of your mistakes of youth, Roland, he thinks mockingly. There wouldn't be enough space in that Library of yours.

… and yet, not that I'm any better, he finds himself thinking.

"I see," he says instead. His voice came out a bit smaller than intended.

After a satisfied nod, the King turns back to wonder out loud where his Stewart could possibly be.

Cedric stays cooped up in Sofia's room for most of the morning.

With the aid of daylight, filtered in streaks of grey through the intermittent drizzle, the dreamless slumber he had been longing for finally comes to him. He vaguely recalls the Princess getting up and puttering about, the ephemeral touch of a small hand on his cheek... but no one comes to bother him, even after she's been gone for a few hours.

Like the previous morning, getting up proves difficult. When he manages to pull himself awake, groggily feeling around for sheets and feathers that aren't there, he is lying supine with one leg out of the window-seat, the back of his head against the wall, and a spot of drool on his shoulder. The Princess must have seen him like that when she got up, he thinks, rubbing his sticky eyelids. How disgraceful.

Cedric nearly falls from the window-seat when he bends to retrieve Sofia's red blanket, slid off him at some point during the night. He throws it back on the cushions, and forces himself to get up. His back and arm still ache, and all of his limbs feel heavy and sore, just like the whole week after the Merroway Cove fiasco.

He's not exactly tired, either. He knows himself, he wouldn't be able to sleep more anyway. Rather, he feels drained, as if all his energy had been sucked out, leaving him barely enough to keep himself upright, his stomach hurting as if he had been used as a punch bag.

"Must be my shaken nerves," he mutters, cold floor sending chills up his bare feet as he recovers his shoes from near the fireplace. His grey socks, dried stiff the previous night like the rest of his clothes, have yellowish halos on them, and putting them back on is almost physically painful.

He helps himself to Sofia's washbasin, and the pink towel she already lent him. When he looks back around the room, a bit more awake and cognizant, he notices a sheet of paper on the floor next to the window. It's folded in two, with a little heart on the top fold. That as well must have fallen off him, he guesses.

Dear Mr. Cedric, it says, good morrow! I'm sorry you had such a bad night. I made sure no one will come in, so please stay as long as you need. Remember to have breakfast! –Sofia

He glances back guiltily at the blanket, that he left crumpled up on the window-seat like a common rug. With a sigh, he pockets the letter and goes to fold it.

Then, feeling like an incautious deer stepping out of the protection of the woods, he tiptoes out of the room. Wondering if it's too late in the day to sneak to the laundry room unseen, he avoids the escalator and stalks towards the ground floor, ducking into side-hallways at the first sound of a servant's step. Just as he's about to make it, his hand on the railing, Baileywick himself turns a corner and does a double-take.

"Ah, Cedric! I've been looking everywhere for you!" the Stewart calls, marching to him in a hurried stiff trot. Frozen in place, Cedric glances left and right for escape routes, and confirms there is none. He fidgets under the man's inquisitive gaze, trailing down the miserable state of his attire. "My, where is your robe? And your tie?"

"In my tower," Cedric replies dryly, looking away. "What do you want?"

The Stewart glances at his pocket-watch and, for once, cuts it short. The King needs him right away, he says, they are going to the village to do something about the dam.

"Does he... need me to build the dam?" Cedric asks, between tentative and disbelieving. "What am I, an engineer now?"

"Obviously not, don't be silly," Baileywick scoffs. "He just needs you to do something about all this rain. It's really been slowing the works down, and it's going to start again in―" he checks his watch again, "well, practically now, since it took me a good twenty-five minutes to find you."

"The rain," Cedric repeats slowly, ignoring the jabs. "The King wants me to... stop the rain."

"Only above the area where the workers need viability. A thirty feet span, perhaps?" the Stewart says primly, like only a man without the slightest inkling of how magic works could. Explaining how complex this request actually is would take hours, so Cedric just closes his eyes and pretends to be somewhere else for a moment. "Anyway, once you see the situation, I'm confident you will find a way."

"At least one of us is," Cedric mutters out the corner of his mouth. If Wormwood were perched on his shoulder, he'd be stifling a chuckle right now―No, he chides himself, don't go there. Not here, not now.

"Also, while you're at it," Baileywick goes on, unperturbed, "if you would be so kind as to do something about all this fog too, it would surely help."

Cedric blinks, a blissful empty moment of stupor in his crowded mind. "The... fog."

"Yes, fog. I'm sure you have noticed, it's causing all sorts of visibility issues," the Stewart repeats, his tone so drily polite he could have just mocked him and spared them both the bother. As certain as if he were the one who has to do it, he says, "With the Family Wand, it shouldn't be a problem at all."

Drat. He really had to go and bring the Wand into this. Cedric chews on his tongue until the saliva turns sour in his mouth. Not only he doesn't have the Family Wand, but not even his everyday one. Out of habit, he starts thinking of how to phrase what's happening when he will retell the story to Wormwood, in a way that will make him flop his wing over his face and laugh―stop it, you dimwit.

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," he snaps, just to get Baileywick off his back as he steps in the general direction of the tower.

They want him to battle the elements, just when he feels like a single raindrop would knock him off his feet... the minimum they can do is wait until he breaks into his own tower to steal back his own clothes, at least. Maybe his everyday wand is still there on the floor somewhere―

"Good! Come along then, there's absolutely no time to waste," Baileywick says instead. The retort dies in his throat when he sees the armed guards summoned at the Stewart's call. Baileywick takes a young one by the shoulder. "Carl, please go and tell the King I finally found him."

As if time were going at a slower pace, Cedric watches the young guard nod and scuttle off, short ponytail swinging with each step down the stairs. For a moment, as the other guards escort and all but rush them down and outside, he is seized by the fear that Wormwood actually spoke the truth―that Sofia has lied to him, that he's being thrown out and banished right then and there.

His heart doesn't climb down from his throat until he has hoisted himself into the carriage after Baileywick―the covered winter coach, re-equipped for flight after the crash on last Wassailia, instead of the usual barouche. And there, in the very air already heavy with the smell of damp old upholstery, another bad feeling makes the tiny hairs on his nape stand on end.

And in the seat on the far right, poised like a panther dozing in the sun, Wormwood sits.

The pit of his stomach, where he still feels like he's been punched, twists into a leaden knot. Cedric has spent all night and morning fighting thoughts and memories of him... and now he's there―it really did happen. All of it.

Cedric sinks his teeth in the inner part of his lips, forcing his stiff legs to move and bend and let him take a seat in the coach he'd want to be a thousand miles from. It is surreal, to see Wormwood sitting there like he belongs in that seat, as if he really undertook the role he threatened to steal from him, draped in the very robes Cedric put on him.

Wormwood lifts his bright green eyes, painfully familiar in the uncanny grace of his human features, meeting his gaze as casually as a stranger passing by. Immediately, Cedric starts avoiding them, and they both do a good job at staying calm. At least, Cedric does. Wormwood doesn't seem fazed at all... which shouldn't come as a surprise, he tells himself, biting down until his lip hurts more than the sting in his eyes.

"Mr. Cedric," Wormwood finally greets him, hatefully neutral. Hearing his name in Wormwood's mouth, Cedric feels like he's being thrown out all over again. His neck still itches with the memory of his grip―that is not Wormwood, he affirms. This thing is nothing like the companion I used to have. "Pity the young Princess couldn't come with us. She was just telling me how she wished to see you."

Cedric scoots on the seat, until there is as much distance as possible between the two of them, a diagonal of space crowded with Baileywick's and someone else's knees and their hanging hostility.

"Mr... Corax," he manages to hiss, in a deliberate hesitation. He stiffens, inside and out, willing the raven's very gaze to stop burning him. "Indeed, pity."

How dare he mock me like this, he thinks, his thoughts in a roil, crossing his arms over his chest to hide their irate tremble, hasn't he done enough? Is Wormwood determined to bully him until he resigns and leaves on his own accord? Have he and Sofia met behind his back, what has Wormwood told her―and what has Sofia told him―?

Someone on his left side coughs delicately, and just then he notices the King is there too.

"Y-your Majesty," he saves, in a breathless gasp, bowing awkwardly in his seat. He sat down without acknowledging the King's presence, but Roland just hand-waves his faux-pas. Baileywick, who trails after the kingly coattails like a devoted mutt, clicks his tongue in disapproval.

Couldn't I have just gone to the village by myself, he thinks angrily, since I have to do all the work anyway? King and Stewart tie back the ends of a conversation left hanging, probably by the need to retrieve him. Although they already have the wonderful Mr. Corax, what do they need dim old Cedric for? To laugh at? Roland is reassuring Baileywick that the castle will be fine for a bit without him; as usual, Baileywick wants to protest but then holds it. Same old, same old. They're both wearing capes and thick rain-boots, Cedric notices, looking down in irritation at his very permeable shoes and socks. In his shirtsleeves, he's already cold now.

As the carriage begins to move, accelerate, and finally takes off, a heavy silence falls on the four men. Half-bathed in the white fog, the castle seems perched on a sea of nothing. An ominous, dark grey cloud breaks, and it starts to pour. Cedric heaves a sigh.

The trip is, if a bit bumpy due to the bad weather, objectively brief. It still feels like a lifetime. Roland starts asking Wormwood curious questions, and Cedric shrinks into his seat, hoping no one in the carriage will think of talking to him. He tries and fails to tune out the alien sound of Wormwood's voice as he answers. Roland has asked him about his sorcery training, and half of it sounds plausible. The other half seems to be engineered to run Cedric through the heart.

"I am originally from a small village near the sea, up in the North," Wormwood says affably. Cedric presses his forehead into the window, the pain in his chest almost unbearable. "But I started traveling early in my youth."

Talking about his studies, he is making use of his long experience in the field at Cedric's side, and walking the thin line of the King's ignorance―it would be hilarious, if only they were both in on the joke. Cedric knows he won't be in on Wormwood's jokes, ever again.

"And of course, later in my studies I've been tutored by Mr. Cedric here." The mention of his name makes him whip his head around, like a slap to the face.

"Oh? When was this?" Baileywick perks up, looking from one to the other. "You can't be that much apart in age, can you?"

Mr. Corax is younger than he looks, he could say, but his jaws feel cemented together. He seethes in silence. In fact, he's never held a damn wand before yesterday.

"So you two know each other!" the King says, sounding oddly delighted, a lot of unguarded surprise in his voice. "Marvellous, why haven't you said it sooner?"

"We are only six years apart, and actually go way back," Wormwood says, with unthinkable cruelty.

The other two turn to look at Cedric with their eyebrows up in their hairline, and Cedric forces himself to nod. He hunches over, a cold ache spreading into his middle, like someone stabbed him with a Foreverfrost dagger.

Uncaring if Cedric freezes to death and shatters, Wormwood adds, "It is so ingrained, I guess neither of us thought of mentioning it."

Then, completely earnest, Baileywick comments that for having been tutored by Cedric, Mr. Corax is incredibly competent, and compliments him on his make-do skills. The King gives the most gracefully held back hint of a snort Cedric has heard in a while.

The crystalline chink in the raven's ego, too, is almost audible. For the first time in his life, a jab at his expense actually makes Cedric feel better, because Wormwood's smile stiffens, and his affable tone dries to annoyance as he answers the next few questions. After a while, Cedric stops listening completely, watching the raindrops streak the windows, the treetops poke out of the mist under them, as rocks out of a steamy sea.

The swollen Royal River extends under them like a thin grey snake. It reaches a considerable width some miles in each direction, changing many names and touching many lakes in its course. But near the village of Dunwiddie, it is not much more than a navigable, if a tad fickle, creek. Nevertheless, when it decides to flood, all the power of its extending body seems to concentrate on the frail spot where the forest becomes human settlement, putting the whole village at risk.

As soon as they land, it's immediately obvious that the works have fallen behind.

Earlier in the year, Cedric had been asked to employ some time consulting his books and charts, and arguing via seagull mail with the Royal Astronomer and Weatherman, and even though they couldn't agree on a precise date, they concurred that the next winter would be early, and very harsh. As soon as the villagers got air of this, they petitioned the King for the dam to be built before that, to keep the water-flow steady all year round, and Roland was finally forced to prioritize it over other matters.

"It's not going right, Your Majesty," explain the men in patched-up raincoats and heavily worn work slacks, gesturing to the river engorged with rain and streaming fast, eroding pieced of the cradged floodbanks faster than they can work. "We fear it's already late."

"The Old King used to be so well behaved," says an old man, who looks like the type to don his work clothes, shake his head, and take credit even though he can't do much anymore. "But that was back in my day, when the village wasn't so big! We ate away too much of the forest, and now it wants it back."

Everyone ignores him, leaving him to mutter by himself. Technically, he's not wrong: the fewer roots holding the riverbanks together, the easier to flood where the levees are frail and man-made. Cedric briefly entertains the thought of suggesting to plant some devil's grass on them... but he has a feeling the feisty old man would petition to have him burned at the stake if he tried.

"We are still behind on the diversion channels," the tallest man says, back to the point. "The water keeps rising, and we keep wasting time and timber."

"And we can barely see our own feet in this damn fog!" the old man jumps in again, swatting at it with his hands as if he could push it all away. "It looks almost like a curse, something from down below!"

Cedric finds it extremely hard not to roll his eyes. The rain is already soaking through his clothing and he's trying hard not to think this is the second time in the span of two days these clothes get wet while he's still wearing them. He convinces himself people aren't looking at him, tells himself to not mind it, not mind it, not mind it.

"Cedric, are you listening?" Baileywick says, a bit louder, making him jolt a little. It's probably the second time he repeats it.

"Of course," he saves. "I was just... evaluating."

He runs a hand over his forearm, looking for a robe sleeve to roll up. He finds only the sting of scabs under Sofia's bandages, the hasty stitches she put in his shirtsleeve, and the frightening absence of his wand. He breathes in, trying to appreciate the last three seconds of quiet he has.

"I have something of yours, here," Wormwood's deep, drawling voice says, startling him from his concentration. "You left it behind, after our talk."

You call that a talk?! he wants to yell at him, but at the same time a small hope unfurls painfully in his chest. Now he'll turn his head, and Wormy will hand him the Family Wand―its wood silver-white as it should be―and he'd be certain that what happened had been only a strange fever dream, some sort of twisted joke, a little revenge for Cedric's mistreatments. And maybe... yes, maybe he did deserve it, after all―

Something heavy flops over his head. He pulls it down, his fists full of purple fabric, dry and as dragging as glue on his wet shirt.

"Why, thank you," he grits out, jaw locked so hard his teeth gnash, stabbing his wet arms through the ample sleeves of the robe. The disappointment is so bitter, he feels like retching. "Were you waiting for me to drown, in this downpour?"

"Some of us are busy," Wormwood replies, piqued. He throws Cedric's yellow bowtie back at him, and Cedric has neither the energy or the dignity to further the discussion. He keenly feels the men staring at them, like a prickle on the back of his neck.

"So they really do know each other," Baileywick says out of the corner of his mouth.

It takes a few moments for the warmth to travel through the wet muslin of his shirt and reach his skin, but the purple robe was made to be worn all year round, and it traps body heat quite easily. Wormwood must have kept it under his long cloak.

Cedric tugs the sleeves in place, and in the left one, he finds his purple wand. He glances at the raven with suspicion, but Wormwood is playing dumb and looking straight ahead, pretending to listen to the humans' complaints. It's not the Family Wand, but it's something, isn't it?

Dedicating a bit of thought to the task ahead, now that it seems doable, he considers his options. They want him to stop the rain, so they can work without plunging in the mud to the knee. Since he can summon a little shower or blizzard at will, they are probably convinced he can just control the weather, as if he could just put the village under a giant umbrella and...

"Aha," he murmurs, here's an idea. Moving closer to the water, he waves his wand in a circular motion, creating a small silver dome, and then lifts his hands to let it ascend, and expand until it covers both sides of the river.

"Oh, it's working," Roland's voice says, in a tone of complete disbelief, his palms held up to catch the spare raindrops. The men around him emit a few grunts of surprise, touching the expanding barrier of rain pushed off by the spell, like easily entertained children.

"Bah, witchcraft," the old man mutters, spitting on the ground.

Pretending he hasn't seen or heard, Cedric casts hopeful eyes up to his spell, wondering how to hold it up without having to stay there the whole time.

Then, where the silver barrier touches the fog, it seems to weaken, like a worn fabric stretched too thin. The first holes appear, letting in water―is it going to explode like the window did? In a moment, the shield rips and the contained rain slathers down on them. A few harsh words fly―the old codger sure has a lot to say about his mother―but none harsher than his own inner voice.

"Were you going with an Impervious charm?" Wormwood asks, his steps squelching behind him, until his tall frame is directly between him and the workers. "Don't you need a basis to make it stable?"

Wormwood towers over him, just like the evening before, dwarfing him in his shadow, pushing him to the side without a single touch.

"Yes, obviously, that's what I was going for―they made me lose my focus," he hisses, tightlipped. Waving a hand in the direction of the thick mist, he complains, "Also there's something blocking my spells in there." Maybe it really is cursed.

Wormwood emits a pensive hum. "Let me try," he says.

Just when Cedric was starting to consider putting what happened aside, Wormwood pulls the Family Wand from his sleeve, and brandishes it like he has any right to it. The bile climbs back up to his mouth.

"Be my guest," he spats. A glance behind him is enough for his morale to plummet―an almost physical vertigo―and he has to steel himself at the look of complete resignation on the King's face. Both he and Baileywick are already looking expectantly at Wormwood.

Cedric cannot bear to watch him wave the Family Wand, and use spells that were never taught him the proper way. Out of the corner of his eye, he can still see the confidence in his gestures, the vigorous certainty of his craft. That's the type of wand-work Father would praise, he can't help but think, his guts twisting with envy.

But Wormwood's spell, to everyone's surprise, also fails. It dissipates into thin air, as if the approaching fog ate it away. The edges of the world become blurry in Cedric's vision, his head spins, and he has to take a step forward not to trip. He must be a lot more tired than he thought, he thinks, trying to blink the dizziness away.

"It doesn't seem possible to contain it," Wormwood is saying, as if he had been explaining how magic works to Kings and peasants all his life. Calmly, confidently, without a trace of shame. Cedric hates him.

"Some Royal Sorcerers you got, Your Majesty," the old man barks, deaf to the others' exasperated shushing. "Back in my day, when Roland the First was in charge, they'd be thrown in the dungeon to rot..."

"Aw, pity. We really hoped you could help us," the King says, a bit loudly over the old man's rant. How is it, being the one compared to your father, for once? Cedric tries to convey in a glance, trying not to gloat too clearly. Wouldn't it be great, if Roland started falling from the people's favour right here under his eyes? The public humiliation will surely make him snap at Wormwood too... "But I'm sure you did your best, Corax."

Embittered, Cedric glances over to the river, current eating away at the levees like the seething anger inside him is eating away his resilience. Maybe he also needs to build a dam, somewhere in himself, so all of these little things won't erode him anymore.

"Of course," Cedric says out loud, to everyone's confusion. He doesn't feel like explaining, so he just moves even closer to the cradges, standing just a few feet from the water. If the elements won't be contained, for some reason, then he must get to the root of the problem, and eliminate the need for the work altogether.

Someone starts to say, "Hey, don't go so close to the―" but he tunes it out mid-sentence. For this, he needs focus. His best, he scoffs, I'll show you a real sorcerer's best.

The river just needs a weir crest, not even that tall, with a couple of wooden floodgates in it―should be more than enough, for a river this small, how hard can it be? The trick is, he must hold back the current and at the same time switch the timber with the stones piled on their side of the river... a bit tricky, but it can be done. That strange mist eating away his spells, though, could prove to be an impediment.

Behind him, he hears the rustle of Wormwood's robe, and a muttered spell. A strong gust of wind, like the wingstroke of some mythical bird, makes the fog curl on itself and recede. Wormwood is grinning, smug in his success.

"Showoff," Cedric mutters. So this is what he threatened him with, he thinks with a shudder. Something, probably the fear from the previous night, makes him dizzy again for a moment.

Wormwood's spell goes to his advantage, anyway. Quickly, he loads a containment spell powerful enough to block the current, and casts it just behind the stoplogs already wedged in the riverbed. It works, but the water quickly starts to overflow the half-done diversion channels.

"Are you trying to flood the village, warlock?" someone shouts over the daunting rumble of water, and the King's voice says his name in a tone of warning. Cedric, holding the containment spell in place with one hand, and levitating the stones so they'll float into the river, can't tell apart the drops of rain and sweat running down his temples anymore. The men keep shouting, agitated like a coop of frenzied chickens, but he's only half-listening.

"Do you want the job done, or not?" Wormwood finally barks, his commanding voice instantly shutting everyone up. The raven casts another couple of wind-strokes―to keep the fog at bay and the men silent, Cedric guesses.

Putting all his strength into it, Cedric aligns the stones into formation and binds them together, leaving the space for three floodgates underneath. The timber, now in need of repurposing, he severs to wooden flashboards, secured in place by scores in the drystone wall.

"Oh, hey, it's a dam," someone comments. Cedric heaves a sigh.

His arms and knees are shaking, as if he had lifted and dragged every pound of stone with his own muscles. In lack of anything to grab for support, he grips his own good forearm behind his back. This took him a lot more energy than he thought... but at least it's done now. His vision starts swimming, and he blinks and blinks as the countryside wobbles around him.

"How will it hold together, though?" a voice asks. "It's already filling up!"

Out the corner of his eye, Cedric sees Wormwood's shoulders drop a little. With what must be the stiffest, most annoyed flick of wand ever waved, the raven lifts the floodgates, letting the contained water spill out in an orderly, regular flow. The diversion channels gradually empty out, leaving the dug up earth uncovered.

Immediately, as if everything fell into place in their minds in a single instant, the group of men gasps in awe.

"It works! Great job!" the King exclaims, trotting near to clap Wormwood on the back. The others follow him, a small crowd around the raven who of course, of course they'd think he was the one to save the day. Of course. "I knew we could count on you!"

Cedric turns away, his vision blurry. Just because Wormwood got all the credit, it doesn't mean he has to stare at his gloating face, does it? He can barely hear the enthusiastic voices anyway, through the deafening buzz in his ears. The dizziness is not going away. Is he about to faint, right there in front of everyone?

The soil bucks under Cedric's feet, and he takes half a step back, trying to steady himself. Then, a vertigo like a rush of wind knocks into him―and under his heel, only air. Dazed, he looks down, to the still swollen river awaiting, like a gaping maw that groans, finally, witch-boy, finally.

Wormwood doesn't look like he's gloating, he thinks in a vague instant, glancing back up. The raven's face is stiff, as between contempt and disbelief. The last thing he sees is a shot of bright green as Wormwood meets his eye, his jaw tensing up in a mute gasp.

Then the cold swallows, and the world goes dark.

Clients from hell, Enchancia edition.