Chaos and Conjurations

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3A day back in London. A single day. Not even that: a night and a morning. And something’d gone wrong, or grown more wrong. Henry nudged the plate of iced buns closer to Theo, as rain brushed the window-glass of the tower. “There’s more.”

“Oh…thank you, but no. Go on.” Theo had a final sip of tea, set his cup down. The rain made melancholy sounds, paper-thin patters across the College’s old stone and neat grass. “I’ve got to go and check on the Library. At last.”

Henry hesitated. Too many words, protests, pleas, snarled themselves across his tongue. Theo had slept beside him, the night before, in the familiar too-small bed in the familiar small tower. Theo had not reached out for him, but hadn’t objected when Henry had put an arm around him, trying to draw him close.

Henry himself had not had a nightmare, but he thought that was probably just weariness. A long carriage journey, concern over Theo, a late-night arrival and a thunderstorm as they’d crossed the College grounds to Theo’s cozy home, where Theo’d once taken him up to the rooftop and kissed him for the first time as nighttime lights and torches and stars came out to glow…

“Don’t say it,” Theo said now. “Not again.”

“I know you’re feeling…better.” That wasn’t accurate, or not entirely. In one sense, yes. Recovered from the backlash, the physical exertion. Faithfully drinking Dom’s anti-headache tea. Nearly back to normal—as long as Henry himself refrained from putting strain on Theo’s magic.

“I am, and I can certainly manage inspecting our collections and ensuring that the Silver Scrolls are properly stored and not growing tarnished, and also examining the archival records.” Theo resettled a coat-cuff; he’d chosen pale green today, celadon under mist, with a creamy waistcoat bearing delicate pearl buttons. He looked beautiful, classical, and expensive. “I want to know who else might’ve been looking at those ledgers, and those sorts of draining-spells.”

Henry didn’t want to argue, and did it anyway. “Those texts can—”

“Hurt? Seduce? Entice? Yes, I’m aware.” An emotion flickered across Theo’s face, too fast for Henry to pin down. “I’m good at my profession. As are you.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Henry said helplessly. Once upon a time he’d known how to talk. How to charm. How to conjure up the right answers, often with a lopsided grin.

This was different. This was him and Theo.

He looked at Theo across the breakfast tray. Short, glorious, and stubborn, Theo looked right back. Unflinching.

Henry thought for a second, astonished, that he and Theo did not after all know each other well; that they’d known each other for a matter of weeks, most of which had involved heightened emotions and intense situations; that his heart was completely Theo’s, but he did not even know Theo’s favorite color or whether Theo knew how to ice-skate or might like to learn.

He knew he’d taken Theo’s life apart. And had that been a hint of relief, that Theo might reclaim some piece of that well-ordered librarian’s refuge? At last, Theo’d said. At last.

The rain grew louder, clamoring.

Henry took a breath, let it go. “Your assistants will be happy to see you, I’m sure.”

“I shudder to think of the state of my request box.” Theo got up, collected plates and his teacup, took them to the tower’s tiny kitchen. Over his shoulder, called back, “If you’ve finished, could you bring your cup? If not, I’ll get it later.”

Henry downed the rest of his tea in one gulp—hot and sweet, cinnamon and roses, it scorched his throat—and came over into the kitchen, where Theo was industriously cleaning plates. “Here.”

Theo half-turned, and smiled. His eyes were very green, and warmer than the chilly wet morning; Henry felt hope unfurl like springtime in his chest.

Theo said, “Thank you,” and then didn’t say much else while finishing the quick washing-up and putting leftover iced buns away. But he did lean a hint of weight into Henry’s taller height, as Henry stood beside him and did some drying. Henry’s heart leapt up and down.

Theo took his hand, after they’d finished. Laced still-warm fingers into Henry’s. And sighed. “I don’t mean to be prickly. I do love you. I’m worried for you as well; of course it’s mutual.”

Henry swallowed hard. Squeezed Theo’s hand in his. “I love you, Theo. Please tell me if I do anything to hurt you, today.”

“You’ve been splendidly careful. You can do a bit more; I’ll feel it, but it’s more of a friction than a real pain, I promise.” Theo tugged him closer, and put a hand up and pulled Henry down into a kiss. It was quick, but bright and firm; sparks slid all the way through Henry’s bones. “And please do be careful—not about me, about asking questions. You don’t need me to tell you, though. You know how to do your…well, you know what you’re doing.”

Henry put both arms around him and held on. He appreciated Theo not saying your job; he did not think he was a spy any longer, balancing secrets, juggling identities, shifting the balance of war. He couldn’t do that again; the ghosts of soldiers and battlefields bloomed for a moment and faded, in his head.

He rested his cheek in Theo’s dark hair, knowing he was likely rumpling it. Theo’s arms went around his waist in turn.

He would do this, not because it was his job or because his country asked it of him, but because his own heart demanded he find the answers. For the men and women of the Magicians’ Corps and for the soldiers they’d protected; for the friends he’d lost when they’d walked into that trap. For the simmering rage he felt, that someone would use the war and false information that way, for an end of their own.

For Theo, who’d saved Henry’s life and been so badly wounded as a result. Another violation, another scar.

He’d find the answers. He promised that to the rain, and Theo’s hair, soft as silk against his skin. “I’ll be careful.”

“So will I, as much as I can.” Theo hugged him more tightly, then let go. And, yes, ran a hand through his hair, attempting to smooth it. “I ought to go, it’s a quarter to nine. What time is your appointment with the Liaisons?”

“Ten, but I’m planning to be early. I’ll leave when you do.”

“Momentarily, then.” Theo glanced around the small kitchen space. The curved tower wall, ancient thick stone, wrapped them up away from the rain. “Come and find me when you’re done? I’ll tell the assistants to send me a Shout, if I’m down in the archives.”

“I will.” Theo wanted him, and wanted him to come over to the Library. The knowledge was sweeter than the tea. “Theo?”

“Hmm?”

“Is your favorite color green?”

Theo clearly hadn’t been expecting that particular question; he blinked, laughed, grinned. For a moment he looked his actual age: a young man just out of school, barely a College graduate, for all the genius and the new lines at the corners of his eyes. “Yes? Dark green, in fact. Have you ever seen the cover of the Codex Aureus, with all those emeralds and sapphires set in gold?”

“Er…no?”

“Well, that sort of antique emerald, deep but sparkling.” Theo eyed him, amused. “Did you simply want to know?”

“Well, yes.”

Theo blinked again. “Oh. I…oh. I love you, you know. Henry. I—oh, drat, the time, the Library, I should—” He flung a kiss at the corner of Henry’s mouth, and spun toward the door. “I’ll see you later, then! Stay dry on your way over!”

“Yes,” Henry said to the closing door, small and red against the pewter skies; breathless, he touched his lips, felt the presence of Theo’s mouth against his. Yes, a hundred times over, he thought. Yes.

He could not do much about the state of his own hair, which wanted to stand up like a spiky red dandelion, but he could make himself as presentable as possible, for a Home Office visit. And Theo’s polishing and mending charms had worked wonders on Henry’s boots, a quiet loving repair.

Henry opened the door again, and held out a hand to the rain. His magic—earth-magic, world-magic, the thrum of deep soil and growing roots and pleased rich ground—murmured beneath his skin, tasting, drinking it in.

He couldn’t use it. Or—as little as possible. He knew Theo would feel it, a scrape and a tug, pulling a string out of a raw wound. Theo said it was only an irritant, so far, assuming the magic was minor.

Theo did not own a non-magical umbrella. Of course not; they were both magicians, and a simple weather-deflection was basic practice.

The sweet soul-hot hum of gold and brown and topaz, of green grass and blue streams and sunkissed stone, rose and ached like desire in his veins. Here again, his again, unbroken and undrained and whole—

He felt raindrops slide in velvet promise along his fingers.

Something small—Theo had said it’d be all right—

He went out the door and shut it behind him, closing Theo’s tower securely.

He walked among the raindrops, and they did not soak his hair or his clothing. It was a small enough magic, a diversion, a conduit: through Henry, the rain reached down to the earth, which took it in. It was only an expansion, in a sense: being the magician he was, letting it flow.

He hoped that would be small enough. He couldn’t read Theo’s mind, nor the other way round; it was an awareness, not telepathy. He didn’t want to exert power that direction, so he tried to quiet his own mind and simply listen.

He thought Theo had felt it, was feeling it—a flicker of distraction, of heat, like a first sip of too-warm tea, shimmered intangibly in the distance. But it did not seem to be interfering with whatever Theo was doing, and Theo did not send him a magical Shout or a scurrying undergraduate with a message to stop everything at once.

Maybe, Henry thought. Maybe this much was safe.

Maybe he could not hurt Theo, after all.

He followed the soggy path along the College green, and found the East gate, a recognizable wooden bulwark that’d seen generations of students. He touched the oak of it in passing, an impulse, going out. It did not seem to mind.

Henry turned at the street corner, following memory and land-sense and landmarks, and went to find answers, or to begin to try.

* * * *

Theo arrived at the familiar medieval stonework of his College Library, opened the tall wooden doors, and immediately discovered at least four fires to put out. Metaphorical ones, of course, but no less irritating for all that. The assistants had done as well as might be expected, the last three weeks. But they weren’t him.

A cart of unshelved scrolls sat near the stairs. No one had filled out the schedule for the private reading rooms, despite the fact that at least one had obviously been in use, from the Mathematical Elements lying upon a table and the unlocked door. Six different scholars from three different continents had sent requests asking to come and do research in the College archives, and at least one of those messages had been waiting nearly the full three weeks. And the printing presses hadn’t been set up on the sixth floor for the demonstration Theo himself was meant to be giving to the fourth-year students soon, about histories of magical ink and paper-bindings as a home for power….

Demonstrations. Teaching. Academic explanations of bibliomancy, contained and practiced and circumscribed. Every ink, every page, every process, chosen ahead of time. Lesson plans, with students dutifully scribbling notes under the eyes of ancient wood-grained shelves, while rainlight poured through the long clear glass windows.

Theo pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Felt the dark aching flare behind his skull.

Students, all of them. So young. Not having gone to war. Not having killed a man. Expecting nothing of their librarian, other than answers about rowanberry or lavender or tear-infused inks.