Dark Mirror 1.5 - Fallen from Grace by M.J. Putney Read Free Book Online

Excerpts from Allarde’s Diary
     
    October 13 th , Year of Our Lord 1801
     
    I’M DOOMED .
    Any minute now, I’ll be summoned to the headmaster’s office and expelled from Eton. It’s an upsetting prospect even though I never wanted to come here.
    But my father said that heirs to the Duke of Westover always go to Eton, and that was that. (I’m still waiting for someone to explain why Eton is called a “public” school when every boy here is wellborn and from a wealthy family.)
    Still, Eton has been better than I expected. I’ll miss the old place and the friends I’ve made here.
    Which, if any, will still be my friends now that it has been scandalously revealed that I have magic? I’ve never understood why people of my class loathe and despise magic and mages when the common folk think magic is a blessing. This hatred made even less sense after my cousin Elspeth was exposed as a mageling. There is nothing wicked about Elspeth. Poor Elspeth, condemned to Lackland Abbey.
    Now it will be “Poor Allarde.”
    Even Eton’s fagging system wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. The theory is sound: Acting as a servant for seniors teaches humility since even the highest-born must learn to serve instead of being served. The fag-masters in turn learn to exercise authority and to be responsible for those beneath them. It’s like a rehearsal for being lords of our estates. I hadn’t realized I needed to learn that, but I did.
    Since the system can mean that younger boys are bullied by the older ones, I was relieved to be assigned to Lord Smithson the first year. He was the easiest and most likable of the seniors, and I missed him after he left for Oxford. I’d assumed our paths would cross in the House of Lords eventually. Not now, though. Not if my father disinherits me so I can’t inherit the dukedom.
    Though my other fag-masters didn’t measure up to Smithson, they’ve been tolerable. That changed this term. My new fag-master, the Dishonourable George Crickle, is a brute. He didn’t just demand that his fags polish his boots, he kicked us with them. Now I understand why one hears tales of abuse at Eton and similar schools.
    Not that he dared raise a hand to me since I grew so much over the summer. I’m taller than he is and much better at sports.
    Though I had heard from younger boys that he was dreadful to them when there was no one around to interfere, it wasn’t until this morning I realized just how vile he is. I was passing by his room when I heard a horrible muffled cry, like a wounded animal.
    Should I have walked away? If I had, I wouldn’t be waiting for expulsion. But I couldn’t ignore such pain.
    I was horrified to open the door and see that Crickle had bound a boy’s wrists to his bedpost and was beating him with a riding whip. His victim was the youngest of his juniors, Blakely Minor, a shy little fellow who never causes trouble. Crickle was out of control, drunk on his own violence as he thrashed with all his strength.
    I loathe admitting it even here, but I was so enraged that I lost control as thoroughly as Crickle. My magic didn’t appear until after I started at Eton. Up till now, I’ve concealed it without a problem. Though I haven’t been able to resist experimenting to see what I could do, I’ve always done so in secret and recorded my results only in this bespelled journal that no one else can read.
    My greatest talent seems to be moving objects by magic. With practice, the objects have become rather large. Other members of the nobility would certainly not approve. It’s a stevedore’s ability, not the least bit lordly. But I love feeling the rush of magic and strengthening my power by trying ever more difficult tasks.
    Even so, I truly have no idea how I managed to tear the bronze statue of Henry VI off its pedestal in the middle of the school yard and hurl it into Crickle’s bedchamber. My intention was to free Blakesley Minor, then give Crickle the thrashing he deserved.
    But