system do you use?” I ask. “Lasers? Heat sensors?”
“Magic.”
I start to smirk, thinking this is another of his jokes, but his grim expression unnerves me.
“I've cast some of my strongest spells on this room,” he says. “Anybody who enters without my permission will run into serious obstacles. And I don't use that phrase lightly.”
Dervish sits in the large leather chair behind one of the desks and rocks lightly to the left and right as he addresses me. “I know there's nothing as tempting as forbidden fruit, Grubitsch, but I've got to ask you not to come into this room when I'm not here. There are spells I can cast to protect you — and spells I can teach you when you're ready to learn — but it's safest not to tempt fate.”
“Are you …” I have to wet my lips to continue. “Are you a magician?”
“No,” he chuckles. “But I know many of the ways of magic. Bartholomew Garadex was a magician — among other things — but there hasn't been one in the family since. Real magicians are rare. You can't become one — you have to be born to it. Ordinary people like you and me can study magic and make it work to an extent, but true magicians have the natural power to change the shape of the world with a click of their fingers. It wouldn't do to have too many people with that kind of power walking around. Nature limits us to one or two per century.”
“Is …” I hate to say his name out loud, but I must. “Is Lord Loss a magician?”
Dervish's eyes are dark. “No. He's a demon master. He's as far advanced of magicians as magicians are of the rest of us.”
“When I … was escaping … I used magic.”
“To fit through the dog flap.” He nods. “Many of us have magical potential. It usually lies dormant, but the presence of the demons enabled you to tap into yours. The magic within you reacted to theirs. Without it, you would have died, along with the others.”
I stare wordlessly at Uncle Dervish. He speaks so honestly, so matter-of-factly, that he could be explaining a math problem. There's so much I want to ask, so many questions. But this isn't the time. I'm not ready.
I scratch my head and pluck a long ginger hair from behind my left ear. I rub it between my fingers until it falls, then face Dervish and grin shakily. “I'll agree to stay out of your study if you'll do something for me in return.”
“What?” he asks, and I can tell he's expecting an over-bearing request.
“Will you call me ‘Grubbs’? I can't stand ‘Grubitsch.’”
The cellar's full of wine racks and dusty bottles.
“My other great love, apart from books,” Dervish purrs, wiping clean the label of a large green bottle. He advances, lights flicking on ahead of him as he walks. I wonder if it's magic, until I spot motion-detection sensors overhead.
“Do you drink wine?” he asks, leading me down one of the many rack-lined aisles of the cellar.
“Mom and Dad let us have a glass with dinner sometimes, but I don't really like it,” I answer.
“Shocking!” he tuts. “I'll have to educate your palate. Wine is as varied and unpredictable as people. There are some vintages you just won't get along with, no matter how famous or popular they are, but you'll always find something you like — if you search hard enough.”
He stops, picks out another bottle, appraises and replaces it. “I roam around for hours down here some days,” he sighs. “Half the pleasure of having such a fine collection is forgetting what's here and rediscovering it by accident years later. The choosing of a bottle can be almost as much fun as the drinking of it.” He snorts. “
Almost!
”
We return to the steps leading up to the kitchen and he pauses. “I have to ask you not to come down here either,” he says. “But this has nothing to do with spells or magic. The temperature and humidity have to be maintained
just so
.” He pinches his left thumb and index finger together. “I'm fairly easygoing when it comes to
“Magic.”
I start to smirk, thinking this is another of his jokes, but his grim expression unnerves me.
“I've cast some of my strongest spells on this room,” he says. “Anybody who enters without my permission will run into serious obstacles. And I don't use that phrase lightly.”
Dervish sits in the large leather chair behind one of the desks and rocks lightly to the left and right as he addresses me. “I know there's nothing as tempting as forbidden fruit, Grubitsch, but I've got to ask you not to come into this room when I'm not here. There are spells I can cast to protect you — and spells I can teach you when you're ready to learn — but it's safest not to tempt fate.”
“Are you …” I have to wet my lips to continue. “Are you a magician?”
“No,” he chuckles. “But I know many of the ways of magic. Bartholomew Garadex was a magician — among other things — but there hasn't been one in the family since. Real magicians are rare. You can't become one — you have to be born to it. Ordinary people like you and me can study magic and make it work to an extent, but true magicians have the natural power to change the shape of the world with a click of their fingers. It wouldn't do to have too many people with that kind of power walking around. Nature limits us to one or two per century.”
“Is …” I hate to say his name out loud, but I must. “Is Lord Loss a magician?”
Dervish's eyes are dark. “No. He's a demon master. He's as far advanced of magicians as magicians are of the rest of us.”
“When I … was escaping … I used magic.”
“To fit through the dog flap.” He nods. “Many of us have magical potential. It usually lies dormant, but the presence of the demons enabled you to tap into yours. The magic within you reacted to theirs. Without it, you would have died, along with the others.”
I stare wordlessly at Uncle Dervish. He speaks so honestly, so matter-of-factly, that he could be explaining a math problem. There's so much I want to ask, so many questions. But this isn't the time. I'm not ready.
I scratch my head and pluck a long ginger hair from behind my left ear. I rub it between my fingers until it falls, then face Dervish and grin shakily. “I'll agree to stay out of your study if you'll do something for me in return.”
“What?” he asks, and I can tell he's expecting an over-bearing request.
“Will you call me ‘Grubbs’? I can't stand ‘Grubitsch.’”
The cellar's full of wine racks and dusty bottles.
“My other great love, apart from books,” Dervish purrs, wiping clean the label of a large green bottle. He advances, lights flicking on ahead of him as he walks. I wonder if it's magic, until I spot motion-detection sensors overhead.
“Do you drink wine?” he asks, leading me down one of the many rack-lined aisles of the cellar.
“Mom and Dad let us have a glass with dinner sometimes, but I don't really like it,” I answer.
“Shocking!” he tuts. “I'll have to educate your palate. Wine is as varied and unpredictable as people. There are some vintages you just won't get along with, no matter how famous or popular they are, but you'll always find something you like — if you search hard enough.”
He stops, picks out another bottle, appraises and replaces it. “I roam around for hours down here some days,” he sighs. “Half the pleasure of having such a fine collection is forgetting what's here and rediscovering it by accident years later. The choosing of a bottle can be almost as much fun as the drinking of it.” He snorts. “
Almost!
”
We return to the steps leading up to the kitchen and he pauses. “I have to ask you not to come down here either,” he says. “But this has nothing to do with spells or magic. The temperature and humidity have to be maintained
just so
.” He pinches his left thumb and index finger together. “I'm fairly easygoing when it comes to
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