How the Wild Geese Head Home

For a moment, he just stares. Mirages of people fizz in, layering on top of one another – a woman with a basket, another with a bonnet, one with her dark hair pooling in the hood of her cloak, a tall, well-dressed gentleman wearing a top hat, a boy with an oversized sweater – but he ignores them to drink the sun-bathed place in.

“Here we are.” The man tucks his tie back into the suit. “This is my home, and from now on it will be yours too.”

He tears his eyes from the house and looks at him, waiting for a but, a twist. But what happens next is a tap on the shackle around his neck with the cane. Along with the ones on his wrists, it melts into shadow, and the bright afternoon light washes it out of existence.

“You won’t be needing them. You are not a slave.” The man draws back, and despite the indecipherability of his features, somehow he looks satisfied. “You are a magus’ apprentice.”