Chapter 7: Aoife (part 1 of 3)

  Aoife had more than a little steam that needed letting off, and her sparring partner bore the brunt of her ire. Marlowe had let her take the lead this time, his impudent grin growing wider as he dodged or blocked her every move. Her laboured breaths and embittered grunts echoed within the hollow halls of the abandoned dormitory where they met several times a week to train.

  She had numerous unpleasant thoughts weighing on and swirling in her mind, a sensation that was becoming painfully familiar. For one thing, ever since the Griffin household had been visited by an estranged great-aunt, Ma had gone back into hiding in the bedroom and did not show any signs of wanting to come back out.

  At least physically, the effects of Aoife's blood tricks seemed to hold, and Ma wasn't as deathly pale as she would have been on her bad days. However, she had since shut herself off completely, barely acknowledging the rest of her family—not even little Liam and Fiona. Aoife had tried to engage her in another round of hand-holding therapy but was flatly refused.

  Ma had days like this before, but this episode felt different. There had been a clear precipitating event that seemed tied to whatever fragmented memory she still had of her parents. Aoife had the disquieting notion that bringing Ma back this time would require revisiting that memory, and perhaps tempting that horrific screaming fit again.

  She took a frustrated swing across Marlowe's head and in the process, opened herself up more than she should have. Her partner dutifully declined to take the easy opportunity for a counter and simply bent backward to avoid the hit.

  Thinking of Ma's condition had brought Aoife to another point of vexation. In order to make heads or tails about how Ma had reacted to the stories, they needed the visitor to come back. The woman who called herself both 'Rooey-shee' and 'Lucy' had limped off in a hurry and didn't leave any information about contacting her or about her intentions to come back to them. By the time Aoife had managed to mollify Ma enough that she could rush out onto the street, only concerned or irate neighbours awaited, with Lucy nowhere in sight.

  Logic would dictate that the woman wouldn't just leave things as they were and would more than likely come back for them. But all the same, it was irritating to not know how or when they might meet again. Aoife had half a mind to drop everything and start searching every house in Thameside, but knew that her best course of action was to wait patiently. So wait she did, though her patience wore thin.

  Letting another surge of anger get the better of her, she stepped into Marlowe and tried to grapple with him, intending to end the fight. As she put her arms around the surprised boxer's midsection, she even allowed herself to burn a dollop of heat to get firmer footing against the larger man. She managed to almost lift him off but in the last second, Marlowe grabbed her in return and pushed off with his feet.

  Still holding tight, Aoife felt herself spin around in the air before landing on her buttocks. The momentum would have thrown the back of her head onto the floor as well—likely to painful and devastating effect—had it not been for Marlowe holding onto one of her arms and catching her fall. For a moment, she looked up directly into his face—lips no longer grinning and eyebrows turned up in bemusement. She looked away, embarrassed but also somewhat gratified.

  As he pulled her up to her feet, Marlowe suggested. "Time for a break, you reckon?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he trotted over to one side of the room where the wall was partially collapsed, exposing grimy bricks and rusty metalwork. He picked up the bottle of ale he had brought with him and took a hearty swig, letting out a satisfied sigh at the end. Aoife joined him, though the canteen she drank from contained plain water. She felt his eyes on her as she also took a long swig. He raised his bottle, presenting it with a little shake. "You want to try mine? It's good stuff, freshly bottled. Know a guy at Benny's brew shop."

  She shook her head with the canteen still on her lips, then added between gasps for air. "You know I don't drink liquor."

  "I never understood that," Marlowe mused, chuckling. "I know it's not because you're a girl. I swear, all the Enfielder girls I know were suckled at the teat of Bacchus."

  "Well, I wasn't aware you wanted a suckling partner. Next time, ask for one of these other girls and she might share that bottle with you," Aoife retorted, and immediately regretted that she sounded more angry than teasing.

  "Are you jealous, Griffin?"

  "Jealous that I don't get to be drunk off my head while we're meant to be sparring? Not likely."

  "Don't get serious on me, Griffin. I'm just playing," as he said this, Marlowe gave her a healthy slap on the back. Then he lowered his eyes, suddenly looking uncharacteristically thoughtful. "I get it, you know. I've seen the things booze can do to people. There're times when I think maybe I shouldn't touch the stuff neither, considering what my old man was like... The only good that drunkard ever did for me was to teach me how to fight other bastards like him."

  For all his nonchalant joviality, Marlowe seldom spoke openly about himself. Despite working intimately with each other for months, the two of them knew very little of each other's lives outside St Marcus. Aoife was reminded of her own father, a topic that she often avoided thinking about in private, let alone sharing with others. For whatever reason—perhaps all of her frustrations had put her in a strange mood—she felt a push to open up, ever so slightly.

  "Sorry to hear that about your old man," she said, not putting on any airs and speaking from the heart. "But... for me, it's nothing like that. My Da was tough, but he never let booze talk for him. He... anyway, I just don't like the way liquor makes me feel."

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  This was true enough. Aoife had tried wine once at one of their dinner visits with Aunt Cara, not long after the family's arrival in Thameside. She had not been much older than Liam then, but she could still recall clearly the ill effects liquor had on her. She experienced none of the euphoria, the loose tongue, or even the nausea that people often described. Instead, she just felt drained—as if she'd instantly sprinted around the neighbourhood for miles—and thirsty. It occurred to her that the sensation had not been dissimilar to how she would feel after using up her heat.

  Marlowe studied her, still with that thoughtful look, but he didn't belabour the point. The two of them stood in pensive silence for a while, the rare kind of silence that grew more comfortable the longer it went on. Neither addressed the fact they both spoke of their fathers in the past tense. Perhaps they would, someday soon—but not today. Not just yet.

  Marlowe took another swig of his special order ale before breaking the silence. "What does your future hold, Aoife Griffin?"

  She looked up, startled. Whatever heart-to-heart she might have expected, it hadn't been this. "My future?"

  "Sure," he said with a slight smile on his lips and his piercing blue eyes searching hers. "You're a young lady, got your whole life ahead of you. What's it look like?"

  "I... I don't know. Haven't given it much thought, to be honest," she stammered and felt ashamed, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Somehow, she thought 'survival' wouldn't be quite the answer her companion was looking for. It had been two years since she left school. She no longer kept the company of bright-eyed young people with hopes and ambitions—not that she had been one for such talk even back then. Then she remembered Clodagh and her sister's tearful confessions about a shattered dream. She tried to deflect, trying to rid the inexplicable sense of inadequacy. "Why? You have some grand plans, do you?"

  He nodded, looking much more earnest than Seth Marlowe had any right to be. "I'm going to force my way into the East India Company."

  Great, this again. Aoife groaned inwardly and thought that perhaps Clodagh should be here having this conversation instead, then cursed herself for the flash of anger that this thought provoked in her. Unaware of the war of petty feelings raging inside his companion, Marlowe went on. "Believe it or not, Griffin, there used to be a time where anyone—and I mean anyone, even Enfield's finest like little old me and you—could be recruited to become an adventurer. Guilds and companies would hold open tryouts, and as long as you could show you had what it takes to learn Magic, they'd take you in and train you up. Level playing field."

  He took another swig of the ale—suddenly with more visible aggression—and when he came up for air, there was a snarling quality to his speech. "Nowadays, the EIC's got their precious Hawthorne Academy and turn up their noses at anyone who isn't a graduate. And good luck even sniffing the door if you don't already know someone in high places or your folks have the means to drop off a hefty 'donation'. Well," he emptied the bottle and threw it across the room with a flourish. The bottle flew all the way to the opposite wall where it smashed to pieces with a loud crack. "I can't conjure connections out of thin air but I can gather funds if I'm determined enough. That's all this Carmichael business is for me, Griffin. I don't plan on punching out drunks and lowlifes for the rest of my life. As soon as I've made enough money, I'm going to bribe the EIC into letting me into their blasted school for Magickers. Just watch, Griffin. In a few years, you'd be hearing my name in the songs and papers."

  Marlowe fixed Aoife with those piercing blue eyes, but he wasn't seeking validation or encouragement. He didn't need to. His dream and his conviction in his own ability to achieve it were all the validation he needed. Did everyone with big dreams have such bright, shining eyes? Aoife knew at least one other person who had eyes like these. Even in her growing shame, she simply couldn't look away.

  "I've already told Carmichael," Marlowe continued, and Aoife's transfixed eyes widened in surprise. "Not about the EIC stuff, just that I'm looking for a big payday and early retirement from his hustle. He didn't sound too happy about it, but he agreed to set me up for one last fight, against someone with real clout, someone with the reputation to draw a bigger crowd, bigger bets. Should be happening soon, he said. Already had someone in mind. Could happen any week now, actually."

  Several things went through Aoife's mind. First, a twinge of fear. Someone with real reputation likely meant real fighting ability, perhaps more dangerous than the Galliard she had faced last week. As much as she acknowledged Marlowe's own abilities—which were far and above the usual dregs at St Marcus—she wasn't sure how he would fare against an experienced opponent. Then, a pang of yearning. If everything went according to his plans, Marlowe would soon depart for greener pastures, perhaps within a matter of weeks. Was she ready for that? Had she done all she wanted to do with him, said all that she wanted to say?

  "Come with me, Griffin."

  Aoife stared, not fully registering what had been said.

  "You said you don't have any plans. Well, I'm giving you an idea. Join Hawthorne with me. Become an adventurer. I've watched you fight. You've got what it takes. I dunno how much you've been saving up, but we're the best fighters at St Marcus. I'm sure you just need a few more big fights yourself... or I could... I dunno, stay a bit longer and help you earn—"

  "Wait. Stop," Aoife cut in, face turning red and her hands shooting up in the air to fend off an invisible attack. How could he say all this with a straight face, with nary an acknowledgement of its sensitive nature? "What makes you think... I mean, you need to be a Magicker to be adventuring, don't you? I never... Why would you think...?"

  "Oh?" Marlowe turned a sly smile toward her. "Never thought of yourself as a Magicker, have you? You sure about that? Tell me, Griffin, how's your chest?"

  "My... what?" she sputtered. Copper skin or not, Aoife could turn beet red with the best of them. She could no longer follow the thread of the conversation, yet she was sure this was the most mortified she had felt in her life.

  "Your chest," he replied, utterly nonplussed. "Saw you take a nasty hit there the other night. But you seem to be moving just fine today. Quick recovery?"

  "Oh that," she felt both relieved and disappointed. Then stupid, then worried, then a little bit angry, then embarrassed again. Admittedly, the pain in her ribs had completely gone in a matter of days. She had forgotten all about it until now. The new trick that had kept Ma's pallor at bay seemed to also help her bones heal in record time. Presently, she grabbed the underside of her right chest, feigning pain. "Ouch! Yeah, you're right. Hurts like a storm. You know what, I better go, yeah? Get some rest, get ready for the next one. Good session. See you later."

  She turned to go even as she spoke the words, leaving a grinning-again Marlowe to lean against the half-collapsed wall by his lonesome. He didn't stop or chase after her, but after a few beats, yelled at her back. "Don't be late this week, you hear? Might miss something special."