Life was a bit better for Fran after that. She always made sure she was out of the suite by mid-morning, so that Riarté couldn’t be bothered to find her and drag her to the dark room. So instead she went exploring. She didn’t see another soul for about a week, while she stared at the rooms. The library must have taken up half a floor, and took more of Fran’s hours than she would have believed possible. There were odd rooms, like what proved to be the chapel, now abandoned to it’s faded tapestries and crusts of candlewax. There was a room that had it’s entire floorspace as a swimming pool, a high wicker stool in the shallow end the only surface above the salt water. This became one of Fran’s favourite rooms, she like nothing better than slowly sliding into the warm water. She hadn’t swum since school, but after a certain amount of inelegant thrashing, she remembered the rhythms.

Until one day, when she went to put her clothes on the wicker stool, and found somebody else was there already. Someone else in this case being a Persian cat, it’s white coat soaked to it’s body. It mewled in protest. "Oh, sorry, sweetheart, didn’t see you. There." Fran wrapped up the protesting cat in her towel, and scrambled back out of the pool. "Come on, before you catch a chill."

Together, the two ventured into the room opposite in the corridor.

It was of indeterminate size, one end being taken up with a vast hearth, by which there was tea laid out on the table. The rest of the room was lit by tea-light candles, two church candles delineating the door. Fran listened to the soft crackling of the logs for a moment, noting the cat, now perfectly dry, slip away. Touching the teapot, she discovered it was still warm, so she splashed a little milk into a cup, and watched the clear brown liquid fall from the pot, the fire behind it.

A voice, curse-soft, came from behind her. "In the late fifteenth century, the owner of this house went mad, dragged a lady houseguest into this very room, accused her of sourcery, and burnt her alive, right about where you’re standing." Fynn’s face was half-shadowed. "Are you afraid?"

"Fynn, I’ve been afraid on a nigh hourly basis for weeks now. Old ghost stories aren’t going to make a difference one way or another."

Fynn gave up. "Can’t we at least be civil to each other? I was sent to tell you that you’re to dine with us tonight. Formal dress."

"I see. Milk or sugar?"

"Sorry?"

Fran nodded at the teapot and smiled. Fynn smiled back.

"Milk, please."

Riarté was at the head of the long table, Fynn on his right. The dining room was exactly as expected, chandeliers and silver cutlery. Both enchanters stood at her entrance.

"Miss Holmes, you look most presentable."

"Thank you," said Fran simply. She was watching Riarté like a cat. He noticed and shook his head slightly. She was safe for tonight. Fynn didn’t notice the exchange. The starter was something melony, with white wine. Fran didn’t usually drink, but she took a few sips to show willing. She was never sure how far she could push Riarté. She couldn’t seem to reconcile this intelligent, almost charming man with that dead-eyed creature throwing pain at her. Rationally, she knew it was the same man, that a person may pet a dog in the street on their way to throttling a baby. But she wanted to believe in allies more. Riarté finished his starter and neatly laid his fork to one side.

"I must admit, Evelyn, you fascinate me. Whatever we do, there’s always a little part of you that remains hidden. Nothing ever really touches you."

"Perhaps not. Certainly not calling me by the wrong name."

"Forgive me."

"Only for that?"

Their gazes locked, and Fynn nearly choked on his wine. Riarté smiled, breaking the tension.

"Tell me, Francesca, what do you think of my apprentice?"

Fran tried not to enjoy Fynn’s discomfort. "Sheltered. He’s my age chronologically, but far more innocent."

"He is a most learned enchanter. But, you see he has the same problem as you. He cannot unfold all of what he is."

"I see." Fran sipped her wine. "Tell me, Fynn, when did you last leave this house?"

Fynn frowned. "Does it matter?"

Riarté’s hands reached out, and the table rippled so that the plates for the first course were replaced by a main course of duck.

"Before your graduation, didn’t you live in a sort of triangle between your house, your campus and the city centre?"

"Yes, but I always had the option of nipping off to London for the day. The triangle was purely for convenience."

"And so it is here. Fynn’s triangle is simply smaller. Could you pass the carrots, please?"

"Well now, I hadn’t realised how late it was. Fynn, you may walk Fran back to her room."

"Certainly." Fynn leapt up, and bowed cheekily to Fran. She managed not to chuckle.

"Fynn," said Riarté without looking up, "Miss Holmes is a lady. You will bow with full and proper respect."

"That won’t be necessary." Fran stood. "Good night, Riarté."

Fynn glided silently beside Fran along the darkened corridors. She matched him pace for pace.

"So, did I pass?"

"Pass?" The young enchanter seemed distracted.

"The audition. That’s man’s always testing me."

Fynn stopped. "You mean you didn’t notice? He was testing you all right, all through dessert. He was trying to read your mind."

Fran felt cold. She’d thought she’d be safe. "He couldn’t read me?"

"No, you’re too shielded. We’ll, we’re here. Goodnight, Fran." He darted forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. She didn’t stop him.

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, "nice."

Fynn laughed in surprise, then faded into the shadows. Fran carefully counted to five, and then grinned like an idiot.

 © Naomi 'Ni' Claydon 2000. No copying without permission.