The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) Read Free Page B

or piles of dusty tomes. In fact, everything looked quite ordinary, although along one wall were three long shelves filled with books and scroll cases, all neatly arranged, with not a speck of dust to be seen. A welcoming fire burned merrily below a warm-coloured stone chimney breast, hung with a selection of watercolour sketches of flowers and birds, mounted in simple wooden frames. In the opposite wall a door stood open, revealing a tiny kitchen hung about with various utensils and bundles of herbs. An assortment of brightly coloured rugs lay on the well-scrubbed plain wooden floor, and deep blue curtains hung at the single spotlessly clean window, beneath which was a comfortably upholstered window seat with scatter cushions. From this vantage point the grey cat studied Grub for a moment, then settled down and began to devote all its attention to washing its paws.
    Symon ushered his young guest to a large, comfortable armchair beside the fire, then began busying himself with cups and teapot. “Well, what do you think of my little place?”
    At a loss as to what to say, Grub thought for a moment, before replying with a wistful little sigh. “It’s very nice. Very… er … homely!”
    The little magician inclined his head in agreement. “And that is how it should be, don’t you think? Not all magicians lurk in dark dusty rooms, surrounded by unfathomable gadgets and muttering spells and incantations night and day.”
    He handed Grub a cup of curiously scented tea, then flopped with a huge sigh into the chair opposite. “Try your tea. It’s very good.”
    Grub took a tentative sip. Nodding in appreciation, he took a few more sips then put his cup and saucer on a small inlaid table that stood beside his chair. He squirmed a little, looked down at his hands for a moment, then glanced at Symon from under his eyebrows.
    Leaning back in his chair, Symon clasped his hands under his chin and calmly regarded the boy. “So, tell me. How did you end up with a name like Grub? I’m sure it’s not your real name, is it?”
    The boy shook his head. “It’s because of the way I live, I s’pose.”
    Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and began to pick at a broken fingernail. Symon waited, a circle of aromatic blue pipe-smoke wreathing his own halo of thick white hair. Personal revelations were, in his opinion, nearly always forthcoming at the behest of the one making them. Except in very special circumstances, they were best not rushed.
    After a few moments, Grub raised his head and looked Symon squarely in the eye. “If you must know, my only home is on the streets. I don’t steal, mind. I live off what I can cadge or catch.”
    The corner of his mouth twitched with a vestigial smile. “It was when me and my mate weren’t much more than little tackers. We see this loaded apple-tree, so I go and ask the lady if we could have some. She waves her arms about and says ‘Get away from here, you grub.’ Anyroad, my mate heard her, and the name stuck. Now it’s the only name I go by.”
    Symon gave Grub an understanding nod. “I can’t imagine that it was so long ago that you’ve forgotten your true name though.”
    Grub’s mouth gave a grim twist. “Oh, I know that all right.”
    He leaned back in his chair and began to gaze at the flames licking round the logs in the fireplace, as if memories had rushed in and stolen his train of thought.
    Symon stood up. “When did you last eat?”
    Grub pulled his gaze from the fire and frowned. “Eat? Let me see. Yes. That would be the pie I shared with Legs, but I’m not sure when that was. The chunk of mouldy bread they threw at me in the gaol, well, I left that for the rats.”
    Without another word, Symon scurried off to his kitchen. A short while later he returned carrying a tray laden with cold pie, sliced meat, pickles, and bread and butter, plus plates and cutlery. Grub had abandoned the fireside, and now stood at the window, peering into the gathering dusk.