Midnight

“I’m sure Omen was about to remind you that the altercation began when your son attacked him,” said Miss Wicked.

Ispolin sneered. “So he claims.”

“Now, now,” said Rubic, “we have no reason to doubt Mr Darkly’s version of events.”

“Jenan attacked me,” Omen whispered.

Ispolin folded his arms. “And I say that you are a liar.”

Omen flushed red.

“Look at his face,” Ispolin said. “Only the guilty blush.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Wicked. “Omen blushes at the mention of his own name. Please don’t make my student feel any more uncomfortable than he already does, Grand Mage Ispolin. Blushing means nothing, and Omen is not a liar.”

“How can you be so sure?” Ispolin fired back. “His brother is the Chosen One, isn’t he? Jenan told me all about him, and, from where I stand, this is a boy who has been starved of attention his entire life. His brother is the one people know. His brother is the one people remember. But this boy here is so desperate for a moment in the spotlight that he has fabricated this entire story.”

“I didn’t,” Omen said, shaking his head.

“You’re a liar!”

“Grand Mage!” Rubic said, rising slightly in his chair, “I must ask you to calm yourself!”

“I want him expelled.”

Rubic frowned, and sat back again. “I … Grand Mage, I cannot do that.”

“I want him expelled and I want her fired.”

“Grand Mage, please …”

Miss Wicked adjusted the sleeve of her blouse. “Are we done with this nonsense?”

Rubic held up a hand. “Just a moment—”

Miss Wicked ignored him, and focused on Ispolin. “I walked by and found Jenan choking the life out of Omen. I intervened. Jenan proceeded to physically attack me. I restrained him.”

“You nearly broke his arm!”

“It could have been far, far worse. Headmaster, you realise this, do you not? I could have hurt Jenan far, far worse than I did?”

“Of course,” Rubic sighed.

“In which case, I restrained him with an admirable amount of, dare I say it, restraint. For which I should be thanked. Of course, I don’t do this for the thanks. I do this for the love of teaching, of moulding young minds.”

“If this happened the way you say it happened,” said Ispolin, “then you won’t mind a Sensitive verifying it to be the truth.”

Miss Wicked smiled. “No Sensitive is going to poke around inside my head, Grand Mage. You are just going to have to take my word for it, as an educator.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid you don’t actually have a choice,” said Rubic. “Miss Wicked has been before a Review Board, and we have cleared her of any wrongdoing. Grand Mage, we have taken this meeting with you as a courtesy, but please don’t be under any illusion that you have any sort of jurisdiction here.”

Ispolin glowered, and Rubic turned to Omen and Miss Wicked.

“Thank you both for coming.”

Miss Wicked gave a curt nod, and led the way to the door.

“Not the boy,” said Ispolin. Omen turned. “She can leave, but I haven’t finished with the boy.”

Omen looked to Miss Wicked for help, but her face was impassive.

“Very well,” said Rubic, sighing. “Omen, stay behind a moment, would you?”

“I will take my leave of you,” said Miss Wicked, opening the door. “But, as I had foreseen something like this occurring, I have arranged for someone to come in and speak on the boy’s behalf.”

She left, and Omen frowned. Then he heard footsteps. Familiar footsteps.

They entered the room with a flourish – Emmeline Darkly and Caddock Sirroco, grand and good-looking and imperious. The room seemed to shrink around them, like a lens being refocused. Rubic stood up quickly and even Ispolin diminished slightly in their presence.

“Hi, Mum,” said Omen. “Hi, Dad.”

His mother threw him a sharp glance, but his father was too busy looking furious to acknowledge him.

“We were listening,” Caddock said, turning his gaze on the Grand Mage. “So you haven’t finished with the boy, have you? The boy?”

Ispolin bristled. “I have a legitimate grievance to—”

“The boy is our son,” Emmeline cut in. “The boy is a Darkly, and his brother is destined to save the world. You should be thanking him. You should be thanking us for our very existence.”

“Instead,” Caddock said, “we find ourselves being dragged from our commitments – at the weekend – to defend our son for, what, exactly? For surviving your son’s attempt to murder him?”

“How dare you—”

“How dare we?” Emmeline shot back. “How dare we what? How dare we side with the truth?”

“Jenan did not attack anyone.”

“Jenan is part of the First Wave,” Emmeline said. “That’s what they’re calling themselves now, is it not, this little group of terrorists formed here, at the Academy, by Parthenios Lilt? The headmaster has enough questions to answer about how he allowed this man to teach here, how he allowed this rot to fester in his own school, and they are questions that he will answer, but today, Mr Ispolin, we are focusing on you and your son.”

Ispolin smoothed down his tie, though it looked perfectly smooth from where Omen was standing. “Jenan is easily led. His friends pressured him into joining. It’s this teacher, this Lilt, who is responsible for what happened.”

“I don’t think you’re giving Jenan enough credit,” Caddock said. “Everything we’ve heard indicates that he’s a natural leader – and now he’s with this Abyssinia person, in a flying prison populated by convicts and criminals. He’s the enemy, Mr Ispolin. We didn’t do that to him. Our son didn’t do that to him. He did that to himself.”

Ispolin glared. “It’s Grand Mage,” he said. “Grand Mage Ispolin. You will refer to me as such.”

Emmeline observed him with a sneer on her lips, and turned to Rubic. “I presume we are done here, Mr Rubic.” It was not a question.