Jack’s heart skipped a beat when he heard his father return home from the Royal Library. The last time he saw his dad was when he’d impotently watched Baron Greaves drive a dagger through his father’s heart because he knew of the existence of a blood magic grimoire. At the thought of the Baron killing his father, he clenched his fists in anger, snapping the scribe pen he held.

  “Damn it. That was a nice pen.” He pulled his hands away from the scroll he was working on so as not to drip ink all over it. He discarded the broken pen in the bin and wiped the ink from his hand. “That’s 3 silvers in the bin.” Scribe pens weren’t cheap, but fortunately, it wasn’t his only pen.

  The scratch from the blood-red rose thorn had reopened and itched. Roses were becoming one of his least favourite flowers.

  After cleaning up the mess, he headed downstairs to the kitchen, where he’d find his father. His dad’s first stop was always the kitchen to greet his wife.

  As he entered the kitchen, he saw his father sitting at the table with a smile on his face. His dad looked a bit younger than he remembered. The neat beard was shorter, and there was less grey hair and fewer laughter lines. Jack smiled back, trying to keep his emotions in check.

  Dad’s alive. He held back his tears. He’s alive and here.

  “I hear we have a new scribe in the family,” his dad said. “Congratulations, Son.”

  Jack’s mother was beaming. “We are both proud of you.” She stood behind her husband.

  Hearing his father’s proud voice was too much for Jack. Tears started to flow as he ran to his dad for a hug. “I-I’ve missed you so much.” He wrapped his arms around his still-sitting and now-shocked father.

  “Calm down, Son,” Jack’s father replied. “No need to be so… emotional.” Like many men, he rarely showed his true feelings.

  His mother gave Jack a hug from behind. “I think it’s all the stress of choosing day. He was upset this morning.” She patted him. “Though he was a little hot earlier,” she muttered while checking his temperature.

  Jack didn’t care what they believed; his parents were alive and hugging him. Well, his mother was checking his temperature, while his father sat awkwardly, being hugged; his dad wasn’t much of a hugger. “I’m. I’m a scribe… like-like you,” he managed to say between sobs of happiness.

  His mother pulled him away. “Come on, sit yourself down, and I’ll get you a warm drink with honey.”

  Jack nodded his head and released the death grip he had on his father.

  After calming down, he and his parents sat around the kitchen table drinking honey tea while discussing the future.

  ***

  “…it’s already arranged,” his father explained. “Jack will start working at the library eleven days from now. A week from Monday, you’ll be the Royal Library’s newest scribe.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Jack nodded. I’ll be working with my dad again, as a scribe. He smiled for a moment, forgetting about the problem that was Baron Greaves.

  His dad continued, “As a new Novice Scribe, he’ll have to start at the bottom, of course.” He smiled. “It won’t take long for him to prove his worth and move up.”

  “I’ll do my best, Dad,” Jack smiled as his father pulled something from his pocket. I remember this moment. He almost started crying again from the happiness he felt.

  “A small gift for a talented young scribe.” His father slid the small, intricately carved wooden box over to his son. “It was created by the same artisan who made mine.” He patted his chest where he always stored a similar box in a customised pocket within his suit jacket.

  Jack touched the small wooden box. This small rectangle of wood was the only thing that survived the fire that consumed his family and home. He ran his fingers across the carved quote that decorated the outside of the varnished case. He knew the quote by heart; he’d read it thousands of times. It was all he had left to remember his loving family.

  Knowing I loved the written word, he furnished me from his own library with scrolls that I prize above my very breath.

  It was a well-known quote, amongst scribes, from a famous playwright, where a destitute scribe had saved a Duke’s only child from a runaway horse. When offered a reward, the scribe asked for scrolls rather than gold. He was gifted the Duke’s most precious scrolls from the lord’s library.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Jack opened the wooden case to reveal a high-quality scribe’s pen. He picked up the silver pen and felt its weight. He’d used this very pen for twenty-five years. It was the only pen he’d used after the fire had taken everything from him. “I love it, Dad.” He held back a tear so as not to ruin the moment. “I’ll treasure it always.”

  His dad smiled, and his mother clapped.

  That evening, Jack spent a relaxing evening with his family while forgetting about his worries.

  ***

  Jack lay on the hard wooden boards of his bed while trying to get to sleep. It didn’t help that there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that if he went to sleep, he would wake up in Tartarus.

  “This is so annoying,” he moaned while rolling over, seeking comfort. Mom should have given me Polly’s mattress.

  His mattress was leaning against a wall, lethargically drying.

  “Stupid sister,” he complained as he willed the mattress to dry faster. “I’m going to find more spider egg sacs this time.” He smiled at his cunning plan for revenge.

  While he lay there unable to sleep, he planned out the following day. Officially, he’d tell his mom he was going into the city to buy scribe supplies. Unofficially, he’d be visiting various spell scroll shops to see if he could sell the four spell scrolls he’d created.

  I need a disguise, or better yet, a cloak and mask. Although the city was the largest in the Kingdom, he didn’t want to take the risk of a merchant recognising him or assuming he’d stolen the spell scrolls. A disguise would partially solve the issue.

  Could I convince a merchant I was an elf? Elves aged so slowly that it wasn’t unusual for a fifty-plus-year-old elf to look like a human teenager. Hmm. I don’t think I’m pretty enough to be an elf. Perhaps I could pass as a half-elf. That’d be easier to pull off. I’d just need some fake pointy ears, he chuckled at the thought, and perhaps a silver wig. If I had my cloak, the disguise would be so much easier.

  It wasn’t unusual to see adventurers in masks and hooded cloaks wandering the city. It made for quite a contrast when the streets were filled with a mixture of adventurers wearing armour and robes, and the white and blue-collar workers wearing suits or conservative dresses.

  No one in his family wore a cloak, and he had no coin to buy one. He considered making one. His sister, Polly, had tailoring supplies.

  I could borrow some material and create a basic hooded cloak. Not having a better idea, he focused on sleep. After another hour of tossing and turning while trying not to think about Tartarus, he fell asleep.