Page 70 of Homegrown Magic

“We’re glad to see you too. And don’t worry, people might come and go, but Bloomfield will always be here for you.” Clementine gives Margot’s arm one more squeeze and then moves down the bar to help another customer.

Panic overtakes the guilt in Margot’s belly, making her heart race as she runs a hand along the smooth, stained oak of the bar. It’s been here since Granny Fern drank at the tavern—and Fern’s name is carved into the wood two seats down from where Margot sits. Across the room, beside the welcoming, familiar hearth, Mike and Dara sit in a corner booth, arguing over the books they’re both reading. Tulip is at a table near the back of the room, chatting with several other women from the village. A low hum of conversation, music, and laughter fills the room. None of them has any idea how close they all are to losing everything.

Margot’s eyes fill with tears. Bloomfield might be here for her in spirit always, but it certainly won’t be here for her if she doesn’t figure out the Natural Caster Potion, whether Menorath follows through on the promised extension or not; either way, it’s only a matter of time.

29

Yael

Middle of summer

“Your productivity levels have been impressively steady these past six weeks.”

Yael startles, glancing up from their desk to find their father standing over them. Baremon rarely makes appearances in the Hall of Currency Exchange. Through the open door to their outer chamber office, Yael can see the number crunchers and errand runners with their collective heads buried in their work in an effort to escape Baremon’s notice, their noses in danger of smudging the ink.

“I—Thank you?”

Their father lifts one salt-and-pepper eyebrow by the smallest degree. “Do you accept the compliment or debate it?”

“Thank you,” Yael tries again.

Baremon nods his approval. “The correct response. Remember to take yourself as seriously as you take your work.”

Yael looks down at said work. Piles of reports meriting hours of bleary-eyed reading. It’s now nearing noon, when Yael will stop long enough to visit the office altar for the magic to perform a clear-thought spell on themself. The air around them will crackle with the smoky, metallic tang of Clauneck magic. Then they’ll return to their desk to forge on, refreshed and refocused, until the offices close.

“Thank you,” they say again. “It is…good to be useful.”

“Quite. Speaking of, I’ve a meeting with a client this afternoon who speculates in adventuring parties: funding voyages and profiting from the bulk of their findings. He’s got a hand in trades across kingdoms—spices, precious metals, rare beasts. He’d like to expand, hiring underlings instead of agents to forge contracts on his behalf, cutting out the middlemen as it were. It’d require greater guarantees from us, but with the potential for exponentially higher returns. Your mother is on her way to the office to sit in. You’ll sit in as well.” Of course; much like Yael, Menorath is commonly called upon to present a unified, family-oriented face for the company, while much of what she does to shore up their power takes place beyond the office. “And pay close attention to his proposal. As a representative of the exchange department, your input will be valuable.”

This is not common. Baremon’s never been interested in their opinion before. “All right, I will.”

“It’s rewarding to watch you finally embrace your potential here, Yael.”

This is high praise indeed. And it should feel good, shouldn’t it? Their family’s acceptance is what matters most in this world. So why is there some poisonous pearl of discontent buried deep inside of Yael?

“Sir, may I ask…” They hesitate until Baremon nods his permission, then lower their eyes to the reports on their desk before confessing, “When I left, I…I never thought I was important to…to the company.” Though Yael can’t bring themself to look up, they watch their father’s shadow across their desk in the brazier light (the Hall of Exchange lacks windows, aside from those in their uncle’s office) as he stands immobile, considering them at length.

At last, Baremon asks, “Do you remember when you were a child, and your mother took you along to the mint to watch the currency being made?”

“Yes.” Yael does not.

“You recall that the mint holds a dozen screw presses that cut and stamp the coins?”

“Yes.” Yael does not.

“A great many moving parts, those machines. The apparatus that feeds in the blanks. The die housing on the spindle. The beam that pushes the spindle down into the housing to stamp the blanks. The weights that contribute the required force to press a picture into metal. The retrieval apparatus for the struck coin. In kingdoms without our resources, they use laborers to do the stamping, six per press, hauling on ropes as violently as they can. But of course in Harrow, the spellcasters of the mint keep the presses running; it’s an astonishing achievement of magic and mechanics, paced to strike a coin per second. A marvel of a machine. Until some morning when a caster poorly weights one arm of the beam, which puts uneven pressure on the spindle, which strikes crookedly against the housing, which unevenly stamps the metal, which catches in the retrieval apparatus…You understand my meaning?”

“Yes.” Yael does not.

Nor does their father seem fooled. “I mean, Yael, that one tiny, unimportant, ill-fitting part of a mighty machine can mean the difference between success and disaster. If that little part fails, the entire mint fails in its purpose: to create coinage for us.”

“For the kingdom,” Yael corrects their father, then winces, unable to stop themself from looking up now.

But their father offers them a rare smile. Baremon’s smiles are handsome and always unpleasant in the aftermath, like taking a bite of cake to discover the baker’s forgotten to add sugar. “Is it not the same thing?”

The noontime sun is high and hot when Yael leaves the Clauneck Company offices on an errand to the inksmith. It’s a chore that should’ve gone to one of the department’s many subordinates, but instead of passing the job along, Yael kept it for themself. They wanted to be outdoors after their father’s visit. Devils know why, because now they’re sweating. They could’ve at least taken a company carriage; the inksmith isn’t located in the Copper Court, with its shining rooftops and polished storefronts, but among the shabbier streets to the east, just south of the Willowthorn River. As they turn down the correct lane at last and trudge across the cracked cobblestones, Yael can smell the slip where the ferry leaves for the Rookery. The district on the far bank where barkeeps and street sweepers and coachmen-for-hire live—all of those in the serving class who aren’t attached to the households of the rich—is an entire world away from the Clauneck estate.

Yael’s taken that ferry a time or three themself. It’s something of an Auximia tradition. Occasionally, students would abandon the fine taverns around the Ivory Court on a whim, seek out a tavern in the Rookery, and claim it as their own. For a week, perhaps two at most, they’d shower denaris on the barkeeps before convenience and luxury lured them away again.