Back at home, Jack was happy to no longer have so many blood-soaked items in his room. He cleaned his weapons and the other items he’d recovered from the dead rogue; they required a wipe with a damp cloth.

  After scrubbing the dried blood from his dagger, he settled in his room and used the looted whetstone to sharpen the tainted blade. “You’ve already saved my life twice,” he murmured as he ran the blade over the wet whetstone a dozen times. The blade didn’t require much sharpening.

  Satisfied with the results, Jack sheathed the dagger and tidied up the workspace.

  With nothing else requiring his immediate attention, he began crafting a chronos sphere spell scroll. No sooner had he put pen to paper than he heard his mother return. I wonder where she’s been? Leaving his work behind, he went to greet his mom.

  “Hey, Mom,” he called out from the stairs. He watched as his mom hefted the baby’s heavy pram over the front step. She grumbled, “Stupid, bloody step.” As she struggled to steer the bulky pram through the narrow doorway. Trailing behind her was little Zia, carrying her own small bag.

  “Ah, Jack,” she said with relief. “Could you help me bring in the bags, please?” she asked. “They’re not heavy,” she assured him. “I’m just tired, and I never would’ve made it through this flipping doorway with them dangling from my wrist,” she added, bumping the pram with extra aggression to prove her point. “And Richard needs changing, so I’d really appreciate the help getting him in the house quicker.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure, Mom.” Jack wanted to rush and help, but the hallway was too narrow for him to pass by. He watched his mother with a wince as she bumped the wheels of the pram into the hallway table.

  Anna leaned over Richard’s pram and nudged the table a little out of the way. When she moved again, the wheels caught on the umbrella stand.

  She sighed with frustration. “Zia, could you move that out of the way for me, please, sweetheart?” She pointed at the offending wicker basket stuffed full of umbrellas.

  Zia set down her own little bag in the hall and, without complaint, squeezed past Anna to remove the offending item from her path.

  “Thank you, my love,” Jack’s mom said, giving the little girl a warm, grateful smile.

  Zia jumped onto the bottom step beside Jack, making space so the pram could pass by. Then she retrieved her bag and followed Anna into the kitchen.

  Jack brought in the remaining two shopping bags from the door and lifted them onto the kitchen table. “Did you buy anything good?” he asked, poking his nose into one of the bags.

  Turning, his mom exchanged a look with Zia. “Didn’t I say he’d be sniffing around for food the moment we got home?”

  Zia nodded and giggled. “A-are you hungry, Jack?” she stuttered.

  Jack smiled. “A little, but that’s not why I came downstairs.” It hadn’t been the original reason, but now that food had been mentioned, he realised he was famished, and his stomach gave a loud rumble to prove it. “I just came to say hi,” he added, feeling a twinge of guilt, even though he wasn’t lying.

  “Hmm, hmm,” his mom hummed as she placed the baby in the cradle. “So you don’t want something to eat then?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Jack replied. “How’s your day been?” he added in a weak attempt to steer the conversation away from a topic that was making him look bad.

  “Tiring,” she said with a yawn. “So, you can make your mom a nice cuppa tea.” She grinned. “Or be my hero and change your little brother’s stinky nappy.” She flopped into one of the kitchen chairs, kicked off a shoe, and began rubbing her foot.

  Jack went to make a cup of tea. His mom’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.

  ***

  After a delicious meal, Jack spent the rest of the day crafting spell scrolls and, in the evening, presented the sketches of the six adventurers to his father. Jack’s father had already spent almost ten minutes in silence, examining the six sketches and reading through the information and cover letter intended for the Inquisition.

  Across the table, Jack waited with bated breath, hoping everything was up to his father’s high standards. He knew his dad wouldn’t speak until he had examined the documents and reached a conclusion.

  “Do you want another biscuit, Jack?” his mother asked, breaking the silence. “Little Zia’s moved on to more complex biscuit recipes… but the results never seem to last long,” she added with a teasing smile at Zia.

  Zia was hovering over a fresh batch of biscuits straight from the oven, fanning them with a tea towel to cool them faster. But when she caught sight of Anna talking about her, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she stopped wafting the cooling tray.

  As tempting as Zia’s biscuits were, Jack shook his head. He was determined to wait until his father had finished analysing his work.

  Fifteen minutes later… “This is exceptional work for a new Novice Scribe, Son,” his father declared, tapping on the table. “I can only dream of what you’ll be capable of in the future.”

  Shit! Jack thought. He’d forgotten that, in his father’s eyes, he’d been a Novice Scribe for a handful of days, not an Apprentice Scribe for over twenty years. A flush of embarrassment rose in his cheeks. “Th-thanks, Dad,” he stammered, scratching his neck as he tried to think of something to say. “Like father, like son?” It was all he could manage in response. His voice was uncertain, and he felt like an impostor in his own skin.

  A rare chuckle escaped his father. “Credit where credit’s due, Son. This is exceptional workmanship, Jack.” Placing a warm hand on his son’s shoulder, he continued, “Take the praise and be proud. You’ll go far at the Royal Library. I’m sure of that.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I need to lower the quality when Dad sees my work, Jack thought. Desperate to steer the conversation in a different direction, he added, “So… Dad… is the cover letter acceptable?”

  His father, recalling the true purpose behind the sketches, nodded. “Yes, yes. This will be more than adequate.” He tapped a finger on the cover letter. “You’ve included more than enough detail to identify the six adventurers without drawing undue attention to yourself or our family.” Gathering the small stack of papers, he added, “I’ll have these delivered to the Royal Guard in the morning.”

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, that’ll be the end of that drama.

  “Didn’t you have something for me to read?” his mom asked.

  “I do?” He looked at her, confused.

  “The poem… You said I could read it,” she said with a smirk.

  Realisation dawned. “I do!” His chair squeaked across the tile floor as he sprang to his feet. “I’ll go get it.” He left behind his mom’s laughter as he bounded up the stairs, eager to show his mother the poem he had penned in the meadow.

  A minute later, his socked feet skidded across the tiled floor as he waved a piece of paper in front of his mom, like he used to when he was five, returning from nursery school with his latest masterpiece.

  Zia looked up from the small table she was sitting at—she was drawing something—and laughed as Jack slid by.

  His mom chuckled and took the page from his hand, settling back in her chair to read the poem. “The Blue Dance of a Summer Whisper…” she read the title aloud, before continuing in silence. A minute later, she gave him a happy smile. “Oh, this is lovely, Jack,” she praised, making him grin.

  His father, passing behind his wife on the way to the aether-powered cooler, paused and stood reading the poem over her shoulder. Before his mom could protest, his dad had plucked the poem from her hands and sat down at the table with it.

  Jack watched his father’s brow crease in concentration. At random intervals, he’d let out a ‘Hmm’ or raise a finger mid-thought, before he transfixed his focus back on the paper. Jack’s stomach twisted as if he were back in school, awaiting the results of an exam he wasn’t sure he’d passed.

  He looked to his mom, who shrugged. Neither mother nor son had any idea what was going on, so both returned to watching Jack’s dad like a hawk, fascinated at what would happen next.

  He’s analysing it like it’s an ancient text, Jack thought. Please don’t tear it apart… It’s just a silly poem I did on a whim.

  Young Jack had no interest in poetry and only a passing interest in art in his past life. Now it was important to him. He’d taken up writing poems and drawing pictures of wildlife after he’d lost his family to the Baron. It made him feel closer to his late father, who enjoyed penning a poem or sketching a kingfisher hunting by a calm river.

  Again, a thoughtful “Hmm” hummed from his dad’s lips as he tapped the paper with a finger, stood up from his chair, and, without a word, left the kitchen with the poem in hand.

  Jack heard the door to his dad’s study open, then close with a quiet click. The silence left in his father’s wake felt heavy, like the room itself was holding its breath.

  The front door creaked open, and Polly burst in, breaking the silence. “I’m home… Hello?” she called.

  When no one answered, she poked her head into the kitchen. “Why is it so quiet you can hear one of my pins drop in here?” she asked, frowning.

  Still no answer.

  Polly dumped her bags of tailoring supplies against the kitchen wall and sat at the table. “What are we doing?” she whispered.

  Anna replied in a hushed tone, “Your father’s taken a piece of Jack’s work into his study.”

  Polly sat up straight. “Has Jack done something wrong? Finally.” She looked eager. “Has he been seducious towards the crown?”

  Jack and his mother replied at the same time. “What?”

  “Has he said something seduficious about the King?” Polly was grinning. “Is Jack gonna be for the noose?” She mimed herself being hung, one hand high in the air holding a rope, her neck bent to the side with her tongue lolling out.

  Jack laughed. “You think I’m trying to seduce the King?”

  “What? No?” She gave him a strange look. “Unless you are? That would be even funnier.”

  Jack shook his head in confusion. “What are you going on about? You make no sense, Polly.”

  “What does sed…” Zia stuttered her question. “What are sed-uff-fish-esss?”

  Anna, Jack, and Polly chuckled.

  Zia glowed pink and went back to drawing.

  “It means he’s pissing off the King,” Polly replied.

  Zia giggled, then covered her mouth with both hands.

  “Pollyanna! Language,” her mom snapped. The baby gurgled in his sleep in agreement.

  “Sorry, Mom.” Polly smirked. “Well, Jack? Are you trying to pi…” She looked at her mother, who had an eyebrow raised. “Are you being sedufous? Are you plotting against our kind King?”

  Jack laughed. “You’re just making words up now. Are you trying to say seditious?”

  Anna snorted.

  Zia looked confused.

  Polly frowned. “That’s what I said. Serdatious.” It had changed again. “Well, are you being… are you plotting against the King?”

  Jack chuckled and shook his head. “No, Polly. I’m not plotting against the King or trying to seduce him.” He grinned. I am plotting against a Baron, though. I’d like to see that bastard swing from the gallows.

  Polly’s shoulders slumped. “Then what have you done wrong to bring Dad’s wrath down on you?”

  “You have a broken brain,” Jack said with a grin.

  “Jack. Don’t be mean to your little sister,” his mom said.

  “Sorry, Mom,” he replied. She started it.

  Polly grinned. “So, what’s our perfect angel done wrong?” She looked at her mother.

  Her mother shook her head. “Nothing. You shouldn’t let your imagination run so wild. Your dad took one of Jack’s poems to his study. That’s all.”

  “Is that it?” Polly asked, sounding miffed. “Then why did you say you were plotting against the King?” She was looking at Jack.

  Jack groaned and dropped his head to the table in defeat. His hands over his head. She’s an idiot.

  Anna chuckled.

  Polly ignored them and turned to their mother. “Is there any food? I’m starving.” And like a squirrel who’d spotted another nut, she’d moved on.

  “Yes, there’s food, there’s always food!” Jack’s mom replied, exasperated. “I swear, the only time you kids notice me is when you’re hungry.”

  Polly wrapped an arm around her mother and kissed her on the cheek. “That’s your own fault for being such an amazing cook, Mom,” she said, planting another kiss on her cheek.

  Polly noticed Zia drawing and crept towards her, growling like an animal.

  Zia shrieked with laughter and ran away giggling, until Polly scooped her up and began spinning her around the room, pretending to fly her like a messenger drone.

  “Zia, Zia, Zia!” Polly shouted, and just like that, the volume in the house returned to its usual level of chaos.

  Everything came to a halt when the study door squeaked open, and Jack’s dad emerged thirty minutes later. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes twinkled in the light of the aether lanterns.

  “I did it! I made the poem better,” he declared, waving three sheets of paper in the air, despite Jack’s poem having only been written on one.

  His father sat at the table and beckoned Jack over.

  Jack read his poem that his dad had copied onto another sheet of paper. He frowned when he realised it hadn’t changed.

  “See here, Son?” His dad said, pointing to two commas. “Fixed them.”

  Jack scrunched his eyes at the poem. Nothing has changed? Then he noticed a minor alteration. “You changed the em dashes to commas?”

  Jack’s father nodded. “Yes, Son. Many authors overuse them—especially inexperienced ones—when a comma is perfectly fine.”

  Jack shrugged. “Okay… but there’s nothing wrong with using an em dash?”

  His father tapped the table. “True, Son. However, with the new aether-powered automaton inscribers, we run the risk of being accused of using AAI’s since they have a tendency to overuse em dashes.”

  Jack nodded and frowned as he remembered his past life. In the future, many scribes were replaced by the new AAI’s. The automatons couldn’t inscribe spell scrolls or perform other high-level magic, but they could copy books, write newspaper articles, and perform other low-level tasks.