Normally, the thought of new books at the library would thrill Barclay, as there wasn’t a subject he didn’t like to study. And though he’d buried his dreams of travel in the past, he still loved reading about adventure. But tonight he had other things on his mind.
Setting the freshly washed mushrooms aside, Master Pilzmann finally looked up at Barclay, and his jaw dropped on seeing the dirt and flecks of leaves covering Barclay’s clothes.
“My boy. What happened to you?”
Barclay’s face reddened, as it always did when he lied. “I—I fell.”
“Running again? You can’t keep breaking so many rules—the mayor will sentence you to community service for the ninth time. And you’re filthy. Is that… blood?! Where could you have—”
“I’ll go bathe,” Barclay squeaked, then he left his basket on the table and hurried out the door toward the well.
Master Pilzmann’s house was at the southern edge of Dullshire, against the town wall, so there was no one to see Barclay as he hauled a full bucket of water to the outhouse. He stood, naked and shivering, as he wet a cloth and wiped the grime away.
Within minutes, someone knocked. “I brought you fresh clothes,” Selby told him. “And medicine.”
Barclay cracked the door and grabbed them, not in the mood to say thank you.
“Has the Mark gone black yet?” Selby whispered.
Yet? Barclay’s heart clenched as he examined the tattoo, still a brilliant gold that gleamed brighter than a coin. Clearly, Selby believed it was only a matter of time before the Beast escaped.
The Mark squirmed on Barclay’s shoulder, as though trying to pry itself off his skin.
Maybe Selby was right. The girl had said the Lore Keeper forms the bond, not the other way around. What had happened didn’t make sense. It was an accident, a mistake. Maybe the Beast felt the same way. And if it broke free, there was no telling what it would do.
“It’s fine, just go,” Barclay grunted, and he heard Selby scamper off.
He applied the ointment, cringing as it stung, then put on the clean clothes. He left the outhouse and threw his old sweater in the garbage. It was a shame to lose it—he only owned four—but if he took it to the tailor, then she would ask questions about how he’d gotten such a large tear.
It really was a matter of “yet,” he realized. Because if the Beast didn’t break the bond and eat him, then his lie would unravel—and this mistake would cost him way more than community service. Either way, his life was over.
He blinked back tears and headed inside.
A second after he’d taken a seat at the table, Master Pilzmann cleared his throat. “Did you wash your hands? Your fingernails?”
“I…” Barclay looked down, his cheeks hot. Dirt still crusted under his nails. No matter what he did, he never managed to fit in.
His chair made a loud screech as he stood up and hurried to the sink. He dunked his hands into the pail and scrubbed until his skin pruned and his knuckles reddened. He didn’t usually mind the dirt, just like he preferred his hair long. But now he couldn’t look at his hands without all the events of the day rushing back to him.
As he scoured the dirt from under each fingernail, he thought about all the years spent trying to convince Dullshire to accept him, all to be ruined by something that wasn’t his fault. And he couldn’t help thinking how Dullshire had bullied him about things outside of his control his entire life. None of it was fair.
Neither he nor Selby ate much at supper—Barclay because he was far too nervous to stomach any food, Selby because he didn’t like mushrooms.
“And here I thought carrots had been totally banned for years,” Master Pilzmann prattled. “Turns out, I’d been confusing them with turnips this whole time! I’m very glad to be straightened out—I’ve been so put off with Mrs. Kraus. Hard to trust your neighbors when they could be running an illicit produce stand…”
Barclay, normally interested in town gossip, paid no attention.
At some point the topic of conversation must have changed, because Master Pilzmann leaned over and touched Barclay’s damp hair and Barclay flinched. Master Pilzmann’s hand was dangerously close to the Mark.
“I’ll cut this tonight. It’s much too long.… I know that’s how you like it. But I do agree with Mr. Jager—it’s starting to look rather wild. And—”
“I do like it long,” Barclay said sharply, leaning away from him.
“But it’s…” Master Pilzmann sighed, and the sound of it made Barclay’s heart clench.
“Am I a good apprentice?” Barclay asked quietly.
“What? Of course you are.” The man’s face softened. “What’s brought this sullen mood about? It’s only bad luck you didn’t find the Mourningtide Morel! Tricky little grubbers—”
“Then why does it matter if I like my hair long?”
Barclay’s voice was louder than he’d meant it to be, but he was angry. Dullshire’s many rules were meant to keep the citizens safe—especially from the Woods—but so many of them were nonsense. Barclay was smart and dependable, and he tried so hard. So why didn’t all that matter more than a few silly broken rules? Why did it feel so impossibly hard to belong?
Master Pilzmann paled. Barclay never raised his voice at him.
“It’s just that… you stick out quite a bit, my boy. Always dashing about like you’re in a hurry. Filthy as a sheepdog that ran off in the Woods. And the reading so much about adventure… You must know how people talk.…”
When Barclay didn’t respond, Master Pilzmann said, gently, “Never mind about the hair, then.”
Barclay wanted to groan. It wasn’t about the hair. It was about how Master Pilzmann was so obviously waiting for Barclay to mess up. How all of Dullshire was just waiting to get rid of him.
“If I’m a good apprentice, then why is he here?” Barclay asked, glaring at Selby, whose eyes filled with tears. “I’m a better apprentice than he has ever been.”
Master Pilzmann’s mouth hung open, aghast.
“Go to your room, I suppose,” he said, as if entirely unsure how to punish Barclay, who had never needed punishing from him before.
Barclay considered ignoring him. If there was ever a time he’d like to run, it was now. Running—like his Beast-warding charm—cleared his head. But he was also bone-tired and couldn’t afford to break more rules, so he said nothing and slugged up the rickety steps to the attic, where the two boys slept.
That night Barclay lay in bed staring at the flickering candle on the nightstand between him and Selby. Outside the charms dangling from the windows chimed. The tinging used to soothe Barclay, but now it only sounded haunted. As if the monsters the charms warded away should include him.
“What if it escapes while you sleep?” Selby whispered.
Barclay hadn’t realized the other apprentice was still awake. He rolled over so his back faced him. “It won’t. I’ll wake up every hour to check it.”
“Will it eat everyone?”
“No,” Barclay hissed. “Go to sleep.”
“Does this mean you can do magic now?”
“Selby,” he groaned. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t want to think about this. He just wanted to wake up in the morning and learn that this day had never happened and that his very boring life had once again returned to normal.