In which being Unofficial Royal Sorcerer is hard work, and then rabbits come in and give you the talk.
Quiet and unfrequented, the Royal Library makes for the perfect hiding spot.
Books still fit strangely in Wormwood's hands, the grain of paper still new under the sensitive pads of his fingers. But the rustle of turned pages, and the familiar smell of book-dust are like a calming lull, slowly easing away the near-panic of his run back from the garden.
Maybe he'll just spend the night here, he considers, as he has no interest in using the room lent to him. When the grey afternoon bleeds into evening, he pilfers a lantern for the tucked-away table he has claimed as territory for the time being. At least, he decides, he'll stay until he has understood what sort of abomination he ended up creating.
Hoping to stumble onto some overlooked clue, and thus find the connection he's missing, he mentally reorganises what he knows one more time. The Wishing Well is using its speech a lot differently than it should; only the Wand he paid it with can be the source of such influx of power. But that doesn't explain the Wand's change of colour...
Then, the blackberry, enchanted perennial climber born of Wormwood's flight feather, is instead feeding off the whole island to keep producing fruit as the wisher asked. Through this fruit, the Well was able to somehow establish a link, allowing the raven to access Cedric's core and use magic.
Me, leeching off energy like some dirty parasite, what a disgrace, he bemoans, the true extent of his responsibility still escaping him in part, something too vast to truly comprehend. This cannot do. I must fix it, no matter what.
Wormwood knows he's a very fast reader, with an excellent memory: if the information is in this library, he will find it, even if he has to take the King on his word and stay cooped up there for a month. After all, he reasons, texts on castle and kingdom history are more likely to be here than in Goodwyn's collection, where the focus is more on the theoretical and applied side of magic than the historical one. And yet, as the oil in his lantern slowly burns down and books stack up around him in looming towers, he starts to doubt his logic.
There is no mention of the Wishing Well anywhere. Aside from the Enchancian Anthem, of course... but something tells him the Anthem doesn't refer to this particular well. And even there, there's no follow up: not a word in History of Enchancia, barely anything in the chapter of Modern Artefacts and Their Uses that deals with semi-sentient magical objects... but nothing about a well with the kind of almighty power this one seems to have. The Well hidden away in the back gardens must be a very unique object, either too old or too recent to be in recorded history. It must have been built by someone very powerful, and very dangerous, Wormwood thinks. Someone very good at keeping secrets.
The questions dear to Wormwood are still all open. Why would the Well promise him magical autonomy if he brings Cedric to it? What are its intentions with him? Just how big is the damn bramble going to grow? What have I done, why have I been so stupid―but he cannot give in to self-commiseration. He must keep looking.
For the past two hours, a nagging feeling has been distracting him, like an unfinished thought in the back of his mind, a siren song calling him back to the tower. He has left Cedric to his devices without explanation, if he woke up in the meantime he'll have so many questions...
"Which is why I should go back with answers," he mutters to himself, faking resolution. "If only there were any in this wretched library. It's not like I'm avoiding him or anything."
"Who you avoiding, birdbreath?" a voice suddenly calls, making him jump and knock over one of the book piles.
He swears at the smirking rabbit like he only did that one time he locked him in his cage and stole the counter-spellbook.
Clover just laughs. "Yo, Sofia sent me to give you this. She's out at derby practice until dinnertime, but she says hi."
Wormwood accepts the little Crocus pouch with a grunt in place of thanks.
In all the agitation that followed, he had almost forgotten about their morning adventure. In the end, he couldn't even attempt to start his apology—not with Cedric as closed off and hostile as he was during their time together. He'd like to think it was because Roland was there... but deep down he knows it's him, he's the reason. And Cedric doesn't even know the whole extent of what his action have caused... this entire thing just got completely out of hand, how is a flower supposed to explain that? He pockets the Crocus, and sighs into the useless book in his free hand.
"Man, you look tense," the rabbit comments, lounging on a discarded volume. "Whatcha readin', anyway?"
"A fine page of none of your damn business," Wormwood clips, turning a page with a sharp flick of his wrist. His index nail goes through the corner like a knife in butter. "Drat."
"Right, right. None of my business but... I was thinking 'bout that thing you said, not having roosted for a long time, and that whole deal? I didn't want to say in front of Sofia, but other ravens I know tell a helluva different story."
"What other ravens?" Wormwood snaps, finally distracted. "This area is mine, no one else comes here."
"Oh man, are you for real?" Clover snorts. "Okay seriously, your turf stuff is really weird. I know some others who live in pairs, groups, big families and whatnot... they're like, really chill. Alright like, they don't rebound easily, I've been told, but nobody else sees the... friendship matter the way you do. Who taught you that stuff? Are your parents the same as you?"
Wormwood mutters, "Nobody taught me. I do my own research."
He almost said I never met my parents, and bared himself to mockery. But why should he believe this rabbit, now? The books say differently, and books aren't supposed to lie. Are they?
The rabbit is looking at him, something that is half a smile and half a cringe on his furry face. "Like, on books? Written by humans?" Clover asks slowly, patting the volume under him. "Never talked to another raven?"
"Evidently." Wormwood huffs, sullen. "Why? Do you think I have any use for your pity or something?"
"Nah, Sofia told me you saved her from falling off the mountain," Clover says, a serious look in his eyes. "So... let's say I owe you one, and I come to you bringing a word of advice."
"Keep it," Wormwood rebuts, holding up a hand to Clover's pink nose before he can lean in. "If she hadn't come with me she wouldn't have been in danger in the first place. Don't do me favours, rabbit, I do not need or want any."
Clover drags in a groaning sigh. "Whatever, pal, bottom line is: one, some things you can't learn on books, and two, your feathers are gonna fall out from stress if you don't get your master to cuddle you more."
"Cuddle m―" Wormwood almost chokes on his own saliva. A hundred retorts rise and fall like a tide in his mind, and in the end he can just squeak out, "He―is not my master."
"Yeah, whatever you two interspecies buddies call each other, no judgement," the rabbit says, paws up. "We are still pack—flock animals, aren't we? And like it or not, we are domesticated. Imprinted, paired, or whatever you want to call it. When a single human is your whole... everything, you have to make do, right? And a tummy-rub never killed anyone. At least, not anyone I know."
The raven sputters. "A what―look, rabbit," he manages, rubbing two knuckles into his left temple, "our one-time collaboration is way too shaky ground for you to get this chummy, I'm warning you."
"That's cold, after I let you put your claws on my ass," Clover says in mock-offence. "Good times, though. We ain't half-bad, as a team."
Wormwood wonders if sometimes Clover forgets to watch his language around the Princess, and if one day she'll belt out a swearword right in the middle of a family dinner. But the rabbit taught me! Oh, the faces they'd all make.
"Hm. With the Princess mediating, perhaps," Wormwood concedes.
No matter how hard he tries to keep them still, round them all up, and push them out—the rabbit's words have already nestled in his thoughts. To think of contact as something fundamental, a need they all have, something that others simply find in their families or in their human companions without even thinking about it...
"What you advise, anyway," he mutters defensively, "is not much of a raven thing."
"To be honest, seems to me you know jack shit about raven things," Clover says bluntly, with a shrug. "So you can just do whatever you feel like, as long as you ask nicely and listen, I guess? And it's good for the humans too. We cabbage-chewers gotta be careful who we chill with, but a bird of prey like you, what's to fear? I mean, you're all over the guy anyway, aren't you?"
Wormwood scoffs. Even in his raven form, he would rarely concede himself to hold Cedric's fingers in the grip of his beak, not to bite them, but just to feel the pressure, like another beak holding his. And the solace of Cedric's hands around him...
"We are scavengers, actually," Wormwood retorts, piqued, since it's the only part of the rabbit's speech that seemed to make sense. "I just never... I don't think he would―I just... we've never been apart before, that's all. I miss my... just, someone I was used to... not missing."
"Sure," Clover cuts through his coil of words, lengthening the vowel with insinuation. "You miss him like the air you breathe? Like sunshine in this fucked up weather? Like―"
"Like the skies I used to roam."
A pause. The raven frowns, and Clover just looks at him, and it takes him a moment to realize he spoke. He scratches into his elongated brow with a claw-tip, wondering how this keeps happening. It does make sense, in a way: flying is also something that he always took for granted, just another part of himself. The sharpness of his bill, the reflexive clench of his talons, the wind under his wings. The sorcerer's voice pacing his days. He daren't look at the rabbit's face for a moment.
"Deep, man. Was that yours? Is it a song?" Clover says, clapping his front paws. "Anyway, case in point: I was gonna go with a food reference, but... well, like, the stuff you feel... it doesn't seem like it stops at friendship, if you catch my drift. Or even at that pairing-bond stuff you mentioned."
Wormwood slaps his book shut, giving up on it. "I shall admit, furball, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Bro," the rabbit whistles. "No offense, but no wonder y'all look so pissed off all the time. Trust me, you should ask how it all works."
"Ask who?" Wormwood spats derisively. The list of humans he knows isn't that long. "I'm not that chummy with the King yet."
Actually, King Roland would probably tell him, hellbent on teaching good values as he is, if he worded the question academically enough. The image is exhilarating.
"Nah, to the magic man himself, of course. Rumour has it he's got more game than he lets on. Speaking of being chummy with the King, word in the stables' that some twenty years ago―" But the rabbit suddenly perks in the direction of the door. "Gotta go, sounds like someone's looking for you."
And in a blink, he's gone.
"Twenty years ago what?" Wormwood asks to the empty library. It's amazing, some part of him notes, that such a fat rabbit can move so quickly.
I don't have time for this, he thinks angrily, re-opening Mysteries of Enchancia, A Review. But he can barely make out the words on the page through all the thoughts in his head. What are these rumours the rabbit heard about? What happened twenty years ago? Why is there nothing in this damn library?
"Ah, you're here. How fortunate," says a prim voice from the corridor; Wormwood's line of thought is snapped once again.
"Indeed," he forces himself to answer, without hurling the book at the Stewart.
"Your sudden disappearance has caused quite the embarrassment down at the village, Corax," Baileywick says, adjusting his glasses to regard him with the sternness of a kindergarten teacher.
Wormwood blinks up at him, hoping his expression alone can convey the barely contained annoyance in his soul.
"My... colleague collapsed, I'm sure you have noticed," Wormwood replies, a bit through his teeth. "I just brought him back to the castle, so he could rest."
"Regardless, an explanation would be appreciated, next time. The King was very worried."
Wormwood holds back a sneer. Sure, next time one of us almost hops the twig, I'll make sure to waste time informing you of something right there under your nose. And since when the King worries about Cedric's health? They were never friends or anything, not even as kids. Quite the opposite. And as adults, there is only enmity and scorn between them. Were they chummy, once, over two decades ago, is that what the rabbit heard?
Impossible, he thinks, I was there. I would have known. Firmly, he shoves the thought back where it came from. Since when can Clover be trusted, anyway? But if it ever came out he was right about the ravens...
"Is there something you require of me?" Wormwood asks, mostly to swat away his own thoughts. Whatever it is, hopefully he'll be able to get it over with quickly.
"Yes, actually. Do you happen to have some Grow-Fast Powder on hand?" Baileywick asks. The raven blinks at him.
The man drones on at his stunned silence, explaining how for this year's Autumnal Equinox feast, the King would like to start a tradition of inviting the villagers and nobility alike to the palace, as they do for the Villagers' Ball they host every spring.
"But alas, the dreadful weather we are having has managed to ruin the whole village's Community Garden, not to mention the castle's private plots. Even what we had in the greenhouse! The situation is a little critical at the moment. We would need that fertiliser powder Cedric used last year, possibly by tomorrow morning."
Wormwood knows exactly what the man is talking about: they call it a powder, but it's actually a potion, modified to sublimate into particles for easier handling and carrying, in a quite convoluted and painstaking process. But they want it done by tomorrow morning, and he's not quite sure it could be finished in time even starting right this instant.
"One doesn't happen to have Grow-Fast powder on hand. It is made, and it takes a great deal of time and skill," he tells the man. All these people just demand things, as though they had no idea the actual effort they require. They probably don't, he realises. "Isn't this competence of the Royal Sorcerer?"
"It has been elected to seek you out, since you've been so kind as to make yourself available." From Baileywick's wording, Wormwood is sure it was the King's idea. So much for worrying about Cedric, the prat. "Also, Cedric's door is locked, and we don't have all night to wait out his tantrums."
Wormwood narrows his eyes. "Magic is already costly in normal conditions, and even more so when a sorcerer is unwell," he hisses. "He has strained himself to build that dam of yours."
"Oh, we were labouring under the assumption that you had built the dam. Cedric is not usually so thorough," Baileywick says with polite surprise. A stiff shrug, and a new watch-checking. "Anyway, it just means that he did his job, for once. If we all got a day off every time we feel a little faint, this kingdom wouldn't run very smoothly, now, would it?"
A spark of anger goes off in his stomach at the injustice. It is a complex world, this one humans inhabit. Full of rules that nobody bothered to write down, impossible to detect from outside and seemingly put there just to trip people up. And the way this world treats Cedric, it makes him furious. The King going to the new sorcerer for a potion, when his very own Royal Sorcerer has never failed to deliver one that worked as intended... with one single, tragic exception, alright, but should that hang over Cedric's head all his life?
The human world is just as unfair as the animal world, Wormwood can conclude. And at least, the animal world doesn't take pride in making itself upholder of all law and righteousness. But what do I know, he thinks. Turns out a rabbit had to come and enlighten me about my own species.
"Also, I'll have you know that dinner will be served in half an hour," Baileywick adds, with a slyness so subtle, it would escape most. He knows very well Wormwood won't be able to attend, but invites him anyway, just to put on a show. Wormwood glances at the window, taking in the darkening sky outside.
"I am afraid I will have to pass," he declines, keeping up the polite farce that seems to be the whole of a human's life. As he raises a look of challenge to the Stewart's even gaze, his nails score the underside of the table. "If the powder is needed by tomorrow morning, I should start immediately."
Only after the Stewart has cheered―Wonderful! I'll inform the King―and left, it occurs to him that he, actually, has never brewed a potion in his entire life.
Still in her riding clothes, Sofia puts away the red blanket neatly folded on the window-seat. No one has been in her room all day, as requested. She heaves a sigh of relief, but it ends in a hiss when she bends at the waist.
In her right hip throbs a dull ache, her leg dragging with a bit of a limp: during practice, she steered Minimus the wrong way into the aggressive wind, and it caught his wing wrong and caused him to jerk and throw her—all this, Minimus explained in a panic as she lay groaning in a haystack.
The practice cushions scattered all over the derby field are enchanted to catch any falling bodies near them, but she was completely out of range. Out of pure luck, they were overflying a field, and the haystack softened most of her landing. Sir Gillium made her walk it off and get right back in the saddle, but he did look a bit concerned. She wonders if she should get it checked. It's probably fine, Sofia tells herself, gingerly rubbing the sore spots.
Since she can't talk about the adventure on Mist Bowl Mountain, she'd like to at least tell this small adventure to someone... but Dad worries about every scratch, and her mom, thinking it's nothing to worry about, would tell him anyway. She sighs. She could tell Clover, if he comes back for his goodnight cuddle. Or Mr. Cedric tomorrow, if he's in the mood to listen. And Wormwood, why not. He made such a funny expression when he scolded her for being reckless, just the same Mr. Cedric still makes when she steps too close to his potion cabinet.
Sofia wasn't able to meet up with them after they left for the village. I'm sure it went fine, she thinks, sounding unconvinced even in her own head. None of her animal friends has come to update her yet, either, which is a bit frustrating. I'll have news soon. I shouldn't worry.
As she vigorously brushes hay from her hair, something out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. The yellow crystal ball, still on the puppet cart, is glowing intermittently.
"What's up with you, crystal ball?" she asks, only half to the object, nearing it and picking it up. When her hand touches it, the glow becomes permanent. "Hm, that's funny."
A knock on the door startles her, almost making her drop the sphere. Instinctively, she hides it behind the little teal curtain. "Come in!"
"Sofia," the King greets, with a smile. As he walks nearer, the smile stiffens. "Sweetie, why is there hay in your hair?"
"Hi, Dad," she greets back, between pleased and surprised. On a whim, she decides to tell him, and see if he has been able to allay his worries. "Oh, I just fell into a haystack."
Dad blinks down at her, brow growing tense. Seems he wasn't.
"From your horse...?" he says, in a mildly strangled voice. He makes to help her pluck the hay away, but then hesitates, and leaves it to her to do herself. His eyes have taken a concerned cast. "A haystack, hm? Sofia, don't you think derby getting a bit too dangerous?"
"Not at all," she says. "Minimus and I are both okay. Our team lost the practice game, though."
"But does it happen often?" the King insists. "I mean falling, not losing the game."
Sofia shrugs. "Not that often. But everyone falls sometimes. You told me you also used to fall a lot, didn't you?"
"I... did, yes," Dad says, a shadow over his eyes. "But listen, no more flying unsupervised like you did this morning, alright? Especially in this weather. I don't want you getting hurt."
"I'll be careful," Sofia promises, vague. Her sore hip gives her a pang, as if punishing her for hiding it. Dad's expression remains a bit more serious than what she'd like. "... is everything okay, Dad?"
The question seems to startle him. "Hm? Yes. I just... have an odd feeling lately," he finally admits.
Sofia has always been able to tell when adults lie. When her mother used to smile all through Father's day, years ago, and tell her everything was fine, to ignore the pitiful glances of the other villagers, to ignore the red in her eyes. When Oona's mother made an effort to be courteous, even though Sofia could tell she wanted her untrustworthy human face and her mysterious shape-shifting mermaid tail out of her Cove, away from her daughter, immediately. When, just the previous night, Mr. Cedric was trying so hard to hide how hurt he was, looking so lost and scared and heartbroken.
If Dad says he has an odd feeling, she can tell it means he has a bad feeling. She never liked people putting up a façade for her sake, thinking a young child like her won't see through it. Yet everyone keeps doing it, like a big game they all need to play at all times.
"Did everything go alright in the village?" she probes, weighting out the possible causes of worry, and going for the most recent.
Dad nods. "At least that problem is fixed, albeit..." and he halts, and again she can sense he's not telling her something. "This Corax fellow... you made friends very fast, right? I know he looks a bit odd, but does he seem like an alright guy to you?"
Taken aback, Sofia searches for a way around the subject. "Uhm, he is really determined," she starts. "And very loyal, and actually really funny―once you get to know him. Good reflexes, he'd be great at derby if you ask me... but why are you asking me?"
"Because I trust your judgement, Sofia," the King says with a brief smile, and Sofia's heart gives a surprised, joyful leap. "Corax seems indeed a very capable sorcerer, and I wanted to ask him to stay with us for a while, if he's not otherwise engaged. Although, I don't want to offer our hospitality to another Sascha, you see. That's why I need your advice."
Sofia takes a moment to consider the options. This is good news, in a way. It means Wormwood and Mr. Cedric have more time to sort their matters out, and don't need to rush it. On the other hand, will Wormwood have to live behind his fake name forever? And, when she recalls how the possibility of being replaced seemed to worry Mr. Cedric so much, Dad's words strike a very bad cord. But, however she may phrase the question, it shows that she knows too much.
"I do like him, and I'd be happy if he stayed with us," she says evenly, after a pause. "But I think you should discuss this with Mr. Cedric too, to see if it's alright with him. He could think that you think he's not enough."
He gives her a look of mild surprise. She has an inkling that consulting Mr. Cedric didn't exactly cross his mind.
"They seem to get along fine, no problems working together," Dad says, with a shrug. "Seem kinda chummy, actually. And I don't think Cedric cares much about what I think of him, anyway."
Sofia bites her lip. It's good to hear that they are on speaking terms: they must have talked, then, and the advice she has given Wormwood proved effective. Even if her hip is still sore from the fall, the upsetting afternoon she had seems a shade lighter now. And yet.
"No, Dad, what he does is really important to Mr. Cedric," she says cautiously. "He does his best everyday! He wants nothing more than to do a good job for you."
This time, Dad has a bit of a strange reaction to her words. He clears his throat, and suddenly looks like he's been walking in the sun for some time.
"Has a funny way to show it, then," he mutters.
Sofia deduces something happened down in the village, that made the King come back with his opinion of Wormwood intact, and his opinion of Mr. Cedric lower than ever. There is the possibility that in his weakened state, Mr. Cedric wasn't able to do what they required of him. Her chest gives a pang of worry.
A bit anxiously, she insists, "But Dad, he's not really feeling well today. If you only gave him a chance..."
"There's no one else in this castle I have given more chances to, Sofia," he says. "But it's a complicated matter, I don't expect you to―"
"But weren't you friends, when you were my age?" she presses, and Dad looks stunned for a long moment. "Baileywick told me. That you were always running about and making trouble, that you took riding and dance lessons together at Royal Prep, and he'd help with the Science Fair every year."
"Wouldn't help me win for sure," Dad mutters under his breath. His eyes have a strange, distant cast, like he's not sure if the memories are fond or sad. "It's true, of course. We grew up together and all... but when people grow up, you see, some friendships just... grow apart. And if they're still stuck under the same roof, like it or not, they must learn to put those old matters aside. And it doesn't mean the friendship has a way to come back."
His words, delivered quietly and evenly as always, give Sofia a feeling of unsteadiness, of ties and impossibility, of change coming too fast to adapt. In her experience, if one gives it time, and space, end effort, friendship always finds a way to come back. But she has a feeling Dad and Mr. Cedric have given it nothing but contempt.
"So, what happened to this friendship?" she inquires.
"People make... choices, and they change. Sometimes, when the worst happens, life shows just how different they are." Sofia squints at his vagueness, and he heaves a sigh, looking outside into the cloudy sky. "It's very complicated, Sofia. One day you'll understand."
"Not if no one tells me," Sofia observes, splaying her arms. But Dad hasn't heard her, lost in thought.
Then, talking like he's thinking out loud, he says, "Something Corax said got me thinking... we've been lucky, but with Cedric's fame... if we were ever under attack, we would be in serious trouble..."
She blinks. Dad never talks about these matters with her, or with Amber and James either. He thinks they're not old enough, she guesses, not ready.
"Are we... expecting trouble?" she asks again, a bit more directly.
"I just have a feeling, that's all," Dad dodges again. He gets up, straightening his jacket. "Thank you for your advice, Sofia. Come to dinner as soon as you're changed, alright? We'll be up very early tomorrow morning, to get everything ready in time. If we want this Equinox feast to happen, a very busy day awaits us."
It is Sofia's turn to heave a sigh. "Okay, Dad."
When his steps have faded out down the corridor, she checks back on the crystal ball. The glow has dimmed and disappeared.
Consult the 9 year old for all important decisions.