The Threads of Magic Alison Croggon (warren buffett book recommendations TXT) 📖

He walked over to the window, pulled it open, and stared out over the sleeping city. Perhaps his only recourse was to throw himself out. It would be a kinder death than disembowelment.

As he returned to his desk, his gaze fell on his shoes, and he felt a lurch of contempt. Had he really sold his soul for a pair of silver buckles?

“Yes, that’s exactly what you did,” said a voice.

Sibelius looked in the direction of the voice. An owl was sitting on his windowsill, its eyes reflecting back the candlelight in the room. He was too exhausted to be afraid, or even surprised.

“You’re in a bit of a mess now, aren’t you, Sibelius?”

Obviously, Sibelius thought, he was hallucinating. He had read that this could happen in states of extreme exhaustion and stress. He laughed humorlessly and sat down, staring at the owl. It looked quite solid for a hallucination. Although he had never had a hallucination before, so he didn’t know what they were like.

“What choice do I have?” he said bitterly. “What choice did I ever have? It’s not like anyone can say no to the cardinal.”

“Of course you had a choice,” said the owl. It sounded impatient, even contemptuous. “You were greedy and ambitious and, I’m afraid, very, very foolish.”

Even through his self-pity, Sibelius felt a twinge of shame. “Are you my conscience?” he said at last.

“No,” snapped the owl. “I wouldn’t want to be anything so filthy.”

Sibelius stared gloomily at his silver buckles. “Anyway, even if I had a choice in the beginning, I don’t anymore.”

“Of course you do. You could, for example, run away.”

“Everybody knows that you can’t hide from the assassins.”

“What everybody knows isn’t the same as what is true. All you need is the courage to stand up for what you believe, in your secret heart, to be right. I think you knew what you were doing was deeply wrong.”

Sibelius shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s too late now.”

The owl said nothing. He found its unblinking gaze unnerving.

“Anyway,” he added. “I know you’re not real. You’re just a figment of my imagination.”

“You know nothing of the sort,” said the owl. “I can tell from here that you know I’m real.” It fluffed out its feathers. “Which, of course, I am.”

“Owls don’t talk.”

“There has been no reason, up to now, for any owl to speak to you.”

“Then why now?” Sibelius was beginning to feel a little frightened. Hallucinations, he felt, ought not to be so insulting.

“You have excited our interest,” said the owl. “I would, for example, be very interested in looking at those documents that you are investigating.”

“They’re nothing,” said Sibelius sadly. “I can’t find a single sign of witchery.”

“They would be very important to the unfortunate people who own them,” said the owl with some asperity. “But maybe you’re wrong. Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place. Or in the wrong way.”

“How would you know?” Sibelius was beginning to get angry now. “I am the foremost expert in the witch script in the entire kingdom, and I can’t find a single mark.”

“You are not the foremost expert. You are just the best at guessing,” said the owl. “I, on the other hand, am an expert. Maybe I could show you. But first you’d have to abandon your task here.”

“If I don’t do what the cardinal commands, I’ll be executed. It’s not like I care whether it’s a witch document or not. I just don’t want to be killed.”

The owl thought it over. “Good point,” it said. “Why not just come with me and forget the whole thing? As long as you bring the will, of course.”

Sibelius rubbed his eyes. He really was very tired.

“Coming with me will be less risky than remaining here and waiting for the cardinal to draw your entrails. Which he almost certainly will when you present him with nothing.”

“You’re right,” said Sibelius sarcastically. “I might as well seek the protection of a nocturnal bird. Or I could save time and jump out the window.”

“I think you are being unnecessarily pessimistic,” said the owl. “Although, true, given that you are being guarded by assassins, this window is our only means of egress.”

Sibelius shook his head. No doubt his mind was tricking him into ending it all. His mind was probably right. The cardinal wanted results by lunchtime and it was almost dawn already. He didn’t have a hope. He was so tired he didn’t care anymore what happened to him.

He laughed mirthlessly. “All right then, owl. I’ll come with you.” He stepped toward the window.

“Excellent. But don’t forget the will!”

Sibelius grabbed the parchment from the table and stuffed it into his pocket. “Now what?”

“Climb onto the sill. This might be a little tricky, so don’t fall off.”

“I thought falling off was the point?” The owl didn’t respond, so he shrugged and climbed clumsily onto the broad stone ledge. The owl hopped to the side to give him space. The night sky was cloudless, and the stars twinkled white and clear in the distance. There was a faint glimmer of dawn in the eastern sky. It occurred to Sibelius that these would be the last stars he ever saw. For a moment he felt a stab of sorrow.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt too much,” he said.

“You might feel a bit of a sting, but only for a short time,” said the owl. “Just be quiet for a while, while I get prepared.”

Sibelius shut his eyes and nodded. He felt completely passive and resigned. Any moment now the hard stone ground beneath would come rushing up toward him and then there would be . . . what?

He wondered confusedly whether he would get into heaven. He had always tried to do the right thing, even when he knew underneath that what people said was the right thing was actually the wrong thing. If he were God, would he let himself in?

He thought he probably wouldn’t.

He tried to remember a prayer, any prayer, but his mind had gone blank.

“Ready?” said the owl.