Information

Cararthur has a minion!

Bastian the Hovering Misfortunat

Cararthur
Legacy Name: Cararthur

The

Twilight Feli
Owner:

Pan

Age: 8 years, 7 months, 3 weeks

Born: September 12th, 2015

Adopted: 8 years, 7 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: September 12th, 2015

Pet Spotlight Winner
December 14th, 2016

Statistics

Level: 7
Strength: 10
Defense: 18
Speed: 10
Health: 22
HP: 13/22
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

The Story

The year is 1927.

In America, cars are being mass-produced for the first time in history. In Germany, a man named Hitler is rising to unprecedented political power at an astonishing rate. Across the world, millions flock to the sensational new technology of radio.

And wizards are not uncommon.^[1]

In 1927, the most famous wizard of the age (arguably, of course) was Alexander Cararthur.

Unlike many of his peers, Cararthur did not subscribe much to the ways of showmanship.[2] Instead, Cararthur was more partial to a quiet life away from the public eyes, spending much of his youth and successive golden years in the northern region of England, near the outskirts of a tiny village called Spoken Hollow, a pleasant, if quite forgettable place [3] (which suited Cararthur just fine).

His place of residence, Ravenstone Manor, sat nestled on a hillside overlooking the village. But from a distance, the mansion looked more like an enormous tomb than a Wizard's house. The gargoyles nesting on the front gates did nothing to discourage this impression, either.

No one went to Ravenstone Manor if they could help it. And if they did, they usually did not come out again. [4]

There were only two known persons in more than a decade to have passed beyond the gates and return safely. The first was a sixteen-year-old courier by the name of Peter Chatterly[5], and he did not go willingly.

The second was none other than Cordelia Germaine[6], who was something of the village darling at the time. Equal parts as sweet and saucy as the confectionery shoppe she owned on North Rutter's.

This was, of course, speaking solely to human visitors of the manor. No one ever counted the cat[7], who came and went as he pleased.

Cararthur's notoriety within the magical community was mainly due to his experimentation in enchantments, though he was a prominent practitioner of all five of the recognized magical disciplines [8] , including elemental, having himself been gifted with an innate ability for water magics.

One particular interest of his that was no less as impressive an accomplishment (though dangerous, according to some) was Cararthur's fascination and subsequent hunting of magical spirits and beasts. The fact that most of the northern British Isles are fae-free (at least, free of any fae of the unseelie persuasion [9]) to this day is widely attributed to Cararthur's lifelong crusade against them (a crusade in which his sister was also an active advocate, before their unfortunate parting of ways).

What exactly Cararthur did with all of the unseelie spirits he cleansed from Britain is unknown--though many speculate that the countless doors lining the hallways of Ravenstone Manor stay locked for a reason...

Credits

Profile

Being a scant compilation of verified facts accrued from public records such as birth certificates, estate deeds, licenses, permits, and the like.

FULL NAME:Silas Alexander Cararthur
Pronunciation:CAR-arthur
PREFFERED TITLE:Alexander or Cararthur
DATE OF BIRTH:October 11th, 1892
SPECIES:Human
HAIR COLOR:Black, with a white shock behind his left ear.
HEIGHT:6'2
AGE:35
OCCUPATION:Deputy Council Head of British Wizards and Practitioners United - Silver Order
NATIONALITY:Resolutely British
RELATIVES:Sister, Moira Cararthur, deceased. Twin niece and nephew, Lenore and James Arrington, respectively.
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Unconfirmed; assumed single.
ORIENTATION: Unconfirmed
FAMILIAR: Bastian, a black and white patchwork cat.
MBTI TYPE: Introverted-iNtuitive-Thinking-Judging (The Scientist)
ALIGNMENT:Lawful Neutral

Description:

Many so-called eye-witness accounts make Cararthur out to be something like the dark, mysterious antihero of some cheap penny-dreadful. Needless to say, these were highly sensationalized.

He was a tall man, with a long and lanky build and, according to accounts from both sexes, possessing a very agreeable face. He was always dressed in the modern fashion, though not to an extent that would make him singular in the midst of a crowd. In fact, many reports indicate that if it had not been for his signature shock of white hair tucked behind his left ear, he could have easily been mistaken simply for a rather attractive passer-by.

The sensationalization of his character as a dark and brooding misanthrope came mostly from the fact that he was, by all definitions, something of a recluse. This, combined with his rather reserved and solemn disposition, lent itself to infinite romanticisation of his true nature.

The few in the village who had actually made his brief acquaintance described him as an eloquent gentleman, mild and soft-spoken, but with an unsuspected twist of dry wit that would elude you if you weren't listening carefully--the kind of humor that would manifest as a wry remark spoken into a champagne glass or uttered as a memorable exit from the conversation.

On the whole, a good man. Though not one to suffer tedium. (For more details, see the account of the unfortunate witch who tested his patience.)

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1.

Though that isn't to say that they're an every day sight, either. Wizards, like cats, tend to be very particular about who sees them, and when. In general, they keep to themselves, letting the rest of the world deal with its own messes in its own time. But if you were to pass one on the street, be polite: tip your hat, wish them 'good evening', and tell your mates about it at the pub later.

Whatever you do, for goodness sake, don't gawk. You wouldn't gawk at a prowling sphinx or a hoarding dragon, would you? Well then, there you are.

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2.

There had always been (and always will be) a stark divide in the magical community between those who practice magic for themselves and those who practice it for the attention of others. Cararthur, of course, was one of the latter--one reason that he and Houdini were forever at odds (that, and the fact that Cararthur was the better practitioner, for which Houdini resented him until the day he died).

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3.

'Forgettable' meaning, uncannily so. The village received a fair amount of traffic heading in and out of Scotland, which kept their meager economy afloat through the Depression five years later, but no traveler who ever passed through remembered it enough to mention it or intentionally return (in fact, Spoken Hallow was not officially included on any British maps until well into the 70s, when Cararthur retired from the public eye to live out the rest of his years in the Daoist monasteries of Mongolia--a fact which a group of the most paranoid of villagers found highly suspect).

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4.

This was not always the case, however. For almost thirteen years, Cararthur, along with his sister, Moira, would throw the most exquisite, lavish parties for holidays throughout the year, culminating in a village wide Christmas celebration that would last into the new year (though depending on who you asked, their All Hallows Eve celebration was the true crown of the calendar year). Usually, the festivities that occurred earlier in the year would be invitation only, with the later celebrations (such as All Hallows Eve and Christmas) including a more public perimeter. (To secure an invitation to the Cararthur's Spring Ball was a mark of extreme prestige; it's rumored that a Spanish duchess nearly threw herself off the bluffs in despair when she did not receive one.)

However, these events abruptly ceased after the Cararthurs had a significant falling-out, which resulted in Moira estranging herself from her brother for ten years. She later died tragically in an automobile accident, without having reconciled with her brother.

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.5

A transcription of his account follows below, taken as an informal interview by a reporter friend of his who worked for the local paper, The Mercury.

(Note: the interviewer's questions have been omitted from the transcription for the sake of space and journalistic quality.)

PETER:I didn't want to go, y'know? But the only thing worse than havin' to go up the hill and face those hideous gates would've been to not go, and tell Mr. Aberforth why a package on my route weren't delivered--he's my foreman, see. 'Bout as approachable as a starvin' buzzard. Err, don't put that in your story, eh Bill?

PETER: I thought I could get away with just leavin' a note on the gate at first--we do it all the time, and anyway, who knows when a wizard' home and when he en't? But then Bill, and on my honest oath, I en't joggin' you, right as I went to pin it up on the gates, they just fell inward, easy as if a breeze 'ad bumped 'em.

PETER:Well I knew then I was bein' watched. Couldn't tell by what, but a wizard's gate don't just fall open like that on accident. [...] I was leery, 'course I was, and I don't mind admittin' a little afraid. But what else was there to do? Couldn't go back and face Aberforth, and if a wizard were watching', 'e'd know I weren't doin' my job if I left a note instead of bringin' the package. 'Sides, might've been expectin' me. [...] No, I couldn't tell you what was in it. It weren't big, the parcel, 'bout the size of a letter. Might've been a legal document, but that's only a guess.

PETER:The house itself weren't bad once you got close to it. The courtyard was little funny though...like I'd walked straight into spring, all the irises and star drops in bloom, and mind you, it's the dead of winter. But it didn't have the cheery feeling of spring. The colors were too bright, ya know? Like those frogs 'n snakes you see at the menagerie, from Africa. It's the poison what makes their colors so bright, like a warning. That make sense? Eh, I don't know what I'm sayin'.

PETER: I never saw the inside of the house, no. And likewise--err, you can keep a secret, can't you Bill? This'll be off record for a moment, 'cause if Aberforth ever finds this next bit out, I could lose my job at the post--but I never saw Cararthur, either. [...]I know, I know. [...] Well, the cat signed for it. More or less. At least, I think it was 'im. There weren't anyone else what came to the door.

PETER:Real sneering bloke too, the cat. You'd think 'e were royalty the way 'e talked me down. 'Cararthur's not at home,' He says as I walk up, though 'course I weren't expectin' to be talkin' to no cat, so I overlooked 'im at first. Didn't think much o' that at all. 'Down here, you imbecile!' Why if I 'adnt been so surprised, I'd've kicked 'im in 'is smug face. Didn't like the look of 'is eyes, either. All eerie an' different colors.

PETER:Anyway, the cat jumps up and takes the package before I can protest and goes back into the house through a little door. That's the last I saw of 'im. I'm about to start pullin' the bell for 'is attention again, 'cause no one signed for the delivery, an' if I head back to the post, it'd look like it were stolen or lost. I've known Aberforth to press charges on both--but then I take a look, and right there on the dotted line, a signature appeared while I weren't lookin'. 'A. Cararthur' it read.

PETER: Well, that suits me jus' fine. I skarker before anythin' else happens, an' that's that. Sorry it weren't more newsworthy, Bill. I know you're up for an editor promotion. I'd like to've helped more, but I didn't see much more than anyone else in this Godforsaken village has. [...] Anythin' else? Nah, not that I....well, a penny dropped on my 'ead after the cat left. Right out o' the sky. Yeah, 'joo believe it? That's what makes me think that Cararthur were home, an' the cat were lyin' after all. The cat didn't 'xactly strike me as the kind to tip.

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.6

Ah, Cordelia.

Even her mere name incites the kind of sigh that's been coaxed off the heartstrings by a pining schoolboy. And from the assorted accounts of no less than 16 (reported) marriage proposals, it is safe to assume that she dealt with plenty of those.

The details of Cordelia's relationship with Cararthur are hazy, but several common reports were often taken for granted to be factual, and they are as follows:

1. That Cordelia Germaine was the daughter of a famous Yorkshire Alchemist can be proven. The subsequent rumors of Cararthur's brief apprenticeship under his tutelage leading to their acquaintanceship, however, remains harder to verify.

2. That Cordelia was an Alchemist of no insignificant pedigree herself was evident mostly in the astonishingly imaginative style of her legendary confections, even if there was no written record of a Practitioner's Permit or membership to the Great Britain Alchemist Guild in her name.

3. That Cordelia Germaine had a familiar was confirmed by no less than three verifiable sources on multiple occasions--namely, Cordelia herself, Cararthur, as well as the very familiar in question, Andromede, who assumed the shape of a magpie (and who was notably less shy about his true nature than Cararthur's feline familiar, Bastian).

4. That Cordelia and Cararthur were on very familiar terms was no secret. However, the exact extent of this relationship was heavily guarded on all sides. It was commonly accepted that at least one of them was in love with the other--though who exactly was in love with who, no one was sure. It could have been that Carathur was in love with Cordelia, but for reasons his own, never pursued her. It could have also been that Cordelia was in love with Cararthur--a rumor that was the slightly more popular of the two, due to the fact that despite a number of well-matched proposals, Cordelia never married. It could have also been a combination of the two ideas: perhaps they were both in love with the other, but never pursued it to something more than a deep friendship for their own private reason. It didn't help that neither Cordelia nor Cararthur (and to further extents, Andromeda and Bastian) were ever willing to comment on the matter.

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.7

Ah yes.

The cat.

For years the rumor persisted that the cat was Cararthur himself, perhaps dabbling in the messy business of shapeshifting (a practice generally frowned upon in polite circles, as it was thought to be most commonly associated with charlatans and individuals of ill repute)--but this was eventually disproven.

While Cararthur himself was not a particularly common sight to encounter along the streets of Spoken Hallow, sightings of the black and white tuxedo cat that resided within the confines of the Manor were considerably more abundant.

It took a great deal more years than anyone cares to admit to discover that the cat of Ravenstone Manor was, in fact, not several different cats. For a long time the village assumed that Cararther kept two at least--one black and one white, though no one could ever account for the fact that both these perceived felines had the same, eerie, dichromatic stare. It wasn't until the cat was spotted actively shifting between colors that the game was officially up. After that, the cat seemed to abandon any interest in maintaining pretenses, and was thereafter seen solely in what could only be assumed were his actual colors: black and white tuxedo.

In general, the cat was known to have a frigid, waspish temperament, though being a cat, this came as a surprise to no one. He was not fond of being talked to, and even less so of having to talk back--though this did not always prevent him from doing so if the occasion called for it.

On top of the (likely exhaustive) responsibility of being Cararthur's familiar, Bastian also acted as his master's eyes and ears throughout the village. The exact nature of the cat's excursions were unknown, though more than a third of the reported sightings often placed him on the corner of North Rutters and Edda Street, where a certain confectionary shoppe of no small renowned operated.

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8.

Back then, magical practices were generally sorted into five primary categories: Alchemy, Sorcery (referred to in America as Summoning), Elemental, Practical, and Divination. Each discipline, of course, has its own style, prerequisites, and purpose, in addition to its own subsets of disciplines and cross-practices. For instance, Alchemy dealt more with the exploration of physical substances and their properties, whereas Divination was a form of exploring the temporal realm of the past, present, future, and all the possibilities they present. The cross-practice of Divination and Sorcery is, of course, Necromancy, the one practice with which Cararthur never publicly associated (his sister Moira, however, was regarded as a very talented medium).

On the spectrum of accessibility, Alchemy was considered the most publicly available (though one of the hardest to truly master), whereas Elemental magic was considered something of an elite ability, as Elemental magic is always innate and never taught (though as the Great Scandal of Liverpool proved, some within the magical community were successful in in imitating it using combinations of Alchemy and Practical magic for a time before they were exposed. Cararthur saw to that.)

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The Account of Maddie Basset

Cararthur was widely regarded as a patient and forgiving man. That did not, however, make him a fool.

The exact antithesis, then, of a native London-dwelling witch by the name of Maddie Basset.

Through means unknown, Maddie Basset was able to worm her way into an invitation to the Cararthur's Spring Ball of 1914--the last recorded one, in fact, before the Cararthur siblings' infamous falling out and subsequent discontinuation of similar public events. No one is still quite sure how she managed it--her hosts, when asked, could not recall ever hearing of her before, and likewise, only a handful of guests that were present that night knew of her reputation. And the few that did, did not have flattering things to say about it.

Maddie Basset, as far as anyone knew, was a very talented medium--though 'talented' only in the sense that she was extremely good at hiding her fraud. In short, Miss Basset was a tedious, simpering witch with a dramatic flare for doing everything within her power (supernatural or otherwise) to keep the public eye turned on her.

You might, then, be able to divine what Cararthur's impression of her was.

(In any case, Maddie certainly was not.)

After the Spring Ball, she was seen on countless occasions strutting the length of Ravenstone's gates, crying with prophetic zeal either the emanate demise of Alexander Cararthur or her unfailing love thereof.

Most of the village was inclined to view her as nothing more than a harmless, besotted romantic. For a time they even began to pity her and wonder amongst themselves why Cararthur could be so cruel as to allow her to continue in such a hapless manner.

However, that abruptly changed on the morning of September the 13th, when Cararthur's familiar Bastian did not return to the manor from his nighttime roam.

Weeks went by without any sign of the cat, and all the while Cararthur grew weaker from their separation. During these weeks, strangely, Maddie Basset had quit her role as the village Andromeda and returned to her family's home in London, seemingly to have given up the ghost of Cararthur's affections.

It was Moira Cararthur's keen sense of intuition that led them to connect Bastian's disappearance with that of Maddie's.

When confronted by the Cararthur siblings, Maddie Basset was forced to admit that she'd called upon a spirit of no mean station to help her trap Cararthur's familiar. She had hoped, she tried to tell them, only to use him to gain an audience with Cararthur. Nothing as sinister as what they had concluded.

It was unwillingly, and only under great duress, that Maddie went onto explain that the spirit she had channeled had tricked her, using her only as a means to be summoned into the physical world before abandoning her and disappearing with Bastian.

The hunt for Bastian began in earnest then, but not before Cararthur had exacted his revenge on the ignorant medium. To reflect the short-sightedness and vapidity of her heart, and in true poetic grandeur, Cararthur transformed Maddie Basset into a Mockingbird, a bird with no natural talent for songs of its own--a bird of imitations. A simple, tedious parasite.

Bastian was later recovered within the forgotten recesses of a ruinous Tibetan temple. Though he was mercifully unscathed, the incident involved no small confrontation of horror that led directly to Moira's abandonment of her own medium practices in favor of a quieter life. She left Ravenstone Manor soon after and married a well-to-do duke from Cambridge--a choice that Cararthur never quite forgave her for.

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.9

Emerson Row's Comprehensive Guide to British Fae defines unseelie as "a creature of at least partial fae descent possessing known inclinations of malevolence towards humans or other fae." Though originally the definition was limited to indicate only creatures of human likeness, the term broadened half-way through the 19th century to include other spirits, such as beansidhes, barghasts, and kelpies, to name a few.

Cararthur's fascination with malevolent spirits was something of a legend throughout the magical community. Some argued that it was strictly a scholarly interest, while most were obliged to agree that it extended to an unhealthy degree. The truth behind it was likely a mixture of both.

It can be speculated that his obsession with ridding Britain (and later, much of the known world) of unseelie creatures traces back to the fact that his own parents--accomplished wizards in their own right, though not perhaps to the degree of Alexander--fell to the wiles of a particularly brutish Kelpie while vacationing near Dover. While Cararthur and Moira were close to adulthood, the blow still landed hard.

It is also likely that Cararthur, who declined to go with them at the time in favor of his apprenticeship under a well-known alchemist, blames himself for the incident, as it could have been easily prevented.

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The Manor at Midnight

The profound hush of the wizard’s study was as much a part of the room as the bookshelves and writing desk, and just as full of secrets.

Bastian had fallen asleep in his usual spot, curled in the seat of the velvet, wing-backed arm chair that faced the lifeless fireplace, lulled by the soft glow of candlelight coming from the shelves.

Nothing stirred throughout the cavernous house until about half past midnight. While the cat slept on, oblivious, the ashes in the fireplace began to move, swirling as if caught in a draft—except there was no air movement to cause it. They rose slowly, then thicker and faster, until it looked like a miniature blizzard had invaded the house through the chimney.

Unaware, Bastian sighed and rolled over, baring his teeth at a dream.

Then, all at once, when the fireplace was a silent blur of smokey white, it burst into a sheet of electric blue flame.

The eruption of light startled Bastian awake; with a yowl, he launched across the room and dove into the foot space of Cararthur’s writing desk, turning to face the fire from the shadows. All around the study, the candles blew out, plunging the whole room in a sudden, cold, ghostly light. Bastian watched from a safe distance, the light of the blue fire catching in his different colored eyes, causing them to gleam like silver coins in the gloom.

The flame continued to swell, growing brighter and bigger, billowing against the stone hearth until it seemed like it would come pouring out onto the carpet and set the study ablaze. Then, from the white-hot heart of the fire, a large, dark shape reared, stooped almost double under the mantle. It shuffled forward out of the fire and into the study, tracking embers as it did. Behind it, the blue light snuffed and died, leaving nothing but a gentle, sweet smelling smoke in its wake.

The candles all around the room began to reignite, one after the other, until the study had resumed its normal, warm, sleepy glow.

Cararthur straightened and removed his bowler hat, brushing the soot from its brim. He turned and set it on top of the fireplace mantle, next to a small, obsidian statuette of a raven, one of two that faced each other from opposite sides of the fireplace. With his free hand, he brushed a small shock of white hair back into its usual place behind his left ear.

Across the room, Bastian crept out from under the desk as Cararthur began to remove his pale overcoat of grayed, storm cloud purple.

“You seem troubled,” he noted as Cararthur tossed his coat across the back of the chair, revealing the harlequin patterned vest of wine-red and silver he wore underneath.

Cararthur spared the cat a glance as he undid his silk scarf, pinned in place by a large, highly polished opal. He was not old, by any standards: his face was clean-shaven, unlined, and handsome, though very solemn. Only his eyes seemed older than they ought to be—a kind of weathered, tempest blue-gray.

“I take it Mongolia did not go well?” Bastian asked.

“Half the village was lost before I arrived,” Came the hollow answer.

Cararthur slumped into the arm chair, covering his face with one hand. “The whole place reeked of Necromancy.”

Bastian alighted into the chair next to Cararthur and proceeded to settle into his lap. “But it had been there,” He tried to console his master, nosing the wizard’s fingers until Cararthur began to scratch his ears absently. “You knew where it would strike next. You’ve figured out how to predict that much.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Next time you’ll be more prepared.”

“There shouldn’t have to be a next time,” Cararthur muttered. “A whole year of this horrific cat-and-mouse game, and there’s still no end in sight.”

Cararthur reached for a cold, empty teacup painted with delicate cherry blossom designs that sat on the occasional table beside the chair. As soon as he touched the gilded handle, the cup coughed up a curling puff of steam, followed immediately by the faint scent of mulberry and vanilla.

Cararthur took a careful sip from the now-filled teacup. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Very well,” Bastian sniffed, “there’s another matter that requires your attention anyway. Something came in the mail while you were out.”

“Oh?” said Cararthur, conjuring a matching saucer with a small wave. “I haven’t ordered anything.”

“No,” said Bastian, “but something was sent to you nonetheless.”

With that the cat leapt onto the carpet at Cararthur’s feet, and fell into a fit of horrible hacking that caused his whole body to arch and tense. After a moment, something long and thin and slick with slobber fell out of the cat’s mouth—and unopened envelope, addressed to Alexander Cararthur.

Cararthur bent and retrieved the envelope by its corner, trying to avoid the areas that seemed particularly slimy. With the hand that was not holding the teacup, he made a crumpling motion, and the envelope disappeared into thin air, leaving only the letter inside that was mercifully not soggy with Bastian’s spittle. With another wave, the letter rose and hung weightlessly in the air, levitating at eye level.

“It came this afternoon as a special delivery,” explained Bastian.

“Have you read it?” Cararthur asked as the letter unfolded itself.

“No,” Bastian replied. “But the front gate let the courier in, or so the fellow claimed. He seemed too dull to be lying about it.”

Cararthur did not respond. He was too busy scanning the letter. Silence in the room resumed, broken only by the tiny hiss of flame coming off the candles around the study.

Then, even as Bastian watched, the blood drained Cararthur’s face, leaving him marble-white.
“What is it?” Bastian asked warily.

Cararthur did not answer. Instead, with one last wave, the letter folded itself aside, and he took a steadying sip of tea.

“What is it?” Bastian pressed him, this time in a piercing yowl.

“Moira is dead.” Cararthur answered calmly.

For a moment, Bastian did not know how to respond, except to twitch his tail in astonishment. “Your sister? How?” He managed at last.

“An automobile accident,” said Cararthur. “Somewhere in the moorlands.”

Bastian rose and began to pace in front of the fireplace, his tail still flicking uneasily. “What on Earth was she doing in the moorlands?”

“There’s more,” Cararthur went on. “She had children. Twins. A boy and a girl, almost ten years of age.”

Bastian was quiet for a moment.

“You never knew.”

“Moira and I had not spoken in a decade.” Cararthur said. “There is no reason she should have told me.”

But Bastian knew Cararthur too well to miss the note of well-controlled pain in his master's voice. It rankled him to his bones to hear it; he shook himself, trying to get the sound of it out from under his skin.“Well—so what?” He said dismissively. “They’re probably soft, spoiled brats anyway. Their father is no doubt that well-to-do duke she ran off with, but at least he can more than afford to look after them.”

“Duke Arrington was the father, yes,” said Cararuth, “But as he died of fever three years ago, I’ve been named their legal guardian.”

Bastian stopped dead in his tracks.

“Children?” He spat, rounding on Cararthur. “Children here? In this house?”

Cararthur finished his tea and replaced his cup on the saucer. “It would seem so.”

“They’d be safer in an orphanage,” Bastian said.

Cararthur stared into the sleepy embers still glowing faintly in the fireplace, resting his empty teacup in his lap and his chin in one hand. “Perhaps.” Was all he said.

Bastian could almost see the great wheels in Cararthur’s mind turning as he pondered this turn of events. “Now Cararthur,” he warned, “you can’t possibly be seriously considering…Children here, in Ravenstone Manor? Be reasonable!”

“Whether I am serious or reasonable or neither does not change the fact that I am now legally responsible for my niece and nephew,” Cararthur said.

“Then send them abroad to a boarding school!” Bastian said with increasing exasperation. “Somewhere warm and bright and harmless, like the Americas—only don’t bring them to this house. Cararthur, it could kill them—or worse.”

“Do you think, Bastian, that I am unaware of the dangers that this house presents to those who do not know its secrets?”

At the angry question, the embers in the hearth behind Bastian flared scarlet, causing the shadows that filled the room to leap and twitch, and the cat to wince.

“I think,” said Bastian carefully, when the embers had simmered down again, “that you above all people understand how dangerous this house can be to an outsider. But I believe that you might be…overlooking it, on purpose.”

“And what reason would I have for that?”

Bastian studied Cararthur long and hard in the gloom before answering.

“You’re curious,” he said quietly.

Cararthur betrayed no sign of acknowledgement at this. In fact his face stayed absolutely, unusually still, more of a stone wall than ever before, waiting to see if the cat would continue.

He did. “You want to know if there’s a reason she kept them a secret from you—your niece and nephew.”

“Moira came to disapprove of my…professional pursuits,” said Cararthur delicately. “Just as I never approved of her lifestyle.”
“Yes,” returned Bastian sardonically, “because happiness never came from the security of a wealthy husband and being able to share in his many wealthy friends.”

“There is a difference between happiness and fulfilling your potential,” Cararthur pointed out. “Moira had every bit of talent for magic that I do…even more, in some cases. It was selfish of her to abandon it.” He added bitterly.

“And yet it nearly drove her mad,” said Bastian, “or have you already forgotten what happened in Tibet?”

“I haven’t forgotten Tibet,” snapped in an uncharacteristic display of irritation. Bastian knew then that he had found the truth.

“Then how do you still blame her for being afraid?”

“I don’t blame her for being afraid,” Cararthur said testily. “Only for letting that fear get the best of her."

He swirled one finger around the rim of his empty cup until it began to steam again. “I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

“There seems to be a lot of that this evening,” Bastian muttered under his breath, but Cararthur did not hear him. Instead he rose, went to the fireplace mantle, and plucked from it the obsidian raven statuette that sat on the leftmost edge, closest to where he had left his bowler hat. It glimmered briefly in the half gloom, before disappearing from sight as Cararthur clasped it in both palms. Bastian continued to watch from the carpet in strong disapproval as Cararthur began whispering inaudibly into his hands. Then, all at once, Cararthur opened his palms wide, and with a raspy croak, out blossomed a living, fully grown raven, its wings fluttering madly as it struggled to find a perch on Cararthur’s wrist.

Cararthur smoothed the feathers on the back of its neck, then ushered it onto the armchair. It hopped around in place, only to catch sight of Bastian below, and let out a caw of surprise and indignation.

“Oh come off it,” Bastian hissed back.

Cararthur retrieved the letter and offered it to the raven, who took it in his beak.

“See that two rooms are prepared in the east wing, Hugin,” Cararthur instructed. “Have them next to each other. They are to be furnished as nurseries.”

Hugin bobbed up and down in a clumsy bow and croaked back around the letter, “Rrrwak—Aye Master, aye.”

“No expense is to be spared,” Cararthur went on, “and no safeguard is to be overlooked, do you hear? I want them so secure, you could leave a Philosopher’s Stone in plain view without fear of it being stolen”

“Rrrawk—Aye Master.”

Cararthur turned to Bastian. “Anything else?”

Seeing that it was useless to argue any further, Bastian gave in with an enormous sigh.“Decorate one for a boy, the other for a girl,” the cat said. “Give them a touch of whimsy. If we’re going to bring them to live in a house where one wrong turn can cost them their souls, we might as well make it more bearable—by the way, Cararthur, that’s not an exaggeration. I believe that Wanyudo spirit you brought home last year has gotten out, and is now rolling around somewhere in the second or third dungeon floor.”

“I’ll look into it after tea,” Cararthur assured him.

“And keep in mind,” Bastian snapped back to the raven. “I’ll be testing the safeguards of the rooms myself. And if they don’t measure up to my standards…” here Bastian grinned, exposing the tips of his pointed teeth, his claws extending into the carpet. “…I’ll be holding you responsible.”

Not one to be intimidated, Hugin only cawed down at him haughtily, then leapt and soared from the room, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor outside with a whispering swish.

When he was gone, Cararthur sank into the arm chair and reached for his tea. Bastian came round and settled at his ankles, facing the fireplace. “And what if the children prove to be as mundane as their father?” He asked.

Cararthur raised his teacup and spoke over the rim. “Then the Americas is always an alternative.”

But Bastian was unconvinced. “And if they take after their mother? What then? Are you to be their educator? You’re barely home as it is.” Another thought occurred to the cat that made him narrow his eyes in suspicion. “Have you ever actually spoken to a child?”

“Once,” answered Cararthur lightly. “When I was in India. I got lost on my way to a secret Hindu temple and stopped to ask for directions.”

“Oh, well, you’re all set then, aren’t you?” Bastian snorted. “What of the girl? She’ll need a governess, or at the very least a woman to look after her education when she’s older—and then there’s always the possibility that they take after their mother too much—”

“Bastian,” Cararthur interrupted. “You’re rambling.”

“I’ve every right to,” grumbled the cat. “Do you know why?”

“Do tell.”

“Because whenever you go off—which is quite a lot, mind—I’ll be the one stuck here, wiping their noses and keeping them from getting eaten by the monsters we’ve stored under their beds and forgotten about.”

At this, Cararthur couldn’t help but laugh—a rich, musical laugh that Bastian reluctantly join with a chuckle of his own.

“It’s true though, Cararthur,” Bastian said somberly, after they both lapsed into a more pleasant silence.

“It’s not a lie,” said Cararthur, “but I do believe you are overthinking things.”

Bastian laid his head between his paws and stared into the embers. “Am I?”

Either Cararthur was too lost in his own thoughts to hear him, or he did not want to answer.

“What are their names?” Bastian asked.

“James and Lenore.”

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Credits

Story, art, and concept all by me, User not found: rank.

Special thanks to Horror the beautiful profile, helping me fill Cararthur's TC, all of her encouragement, and being an all-around gem of a human being.

Human reference based heavily off of British actor Tom Hiddleston.

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