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Authors: Tiffany Trent
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man?” a voice said from behind him.
The rain had obscured the sound of the man’s approach. Charles turned.
Charles Darwin, the Saint for whom he was named, peered in at him under the laden apple branches. He was ancient. His white beard flowed over his collar. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat and matching coat that glistened with rain. He clutched the head of a cane with a hand as gnarled as the roots of his apple tree. None of his mythical Apes could be seen dancing around him.
Charles stared at him, openmouthed.
Don’t be such a git, the Grue said. He’s a man, nothing more.
The Grue’s hunger beat at him. After all the magical energy expended to get here, they were both completely drained. The Grue needed food, and the most obvious source was right in front of them. Charles pushed himself to his feet. He clenched his fists and then shoved them in his pockets. He didn’t want to do this—not so soon anyway—but the Grue didn’t care what he wanted.
Darwin watched him with a knowing look, far too knowing.
There was no reason to speak. The old man would be easy to overpower. The Grue wished for the soul jar, so that he could trap the Saint’s soul, but they would have to do without it. Charles felt the Grue summoning the magic through him, the magic that would subdue Darwin and bring him under their control. The Saint wouldn’t feel anything.
And afterward? Charles couldn’t think about that. The Grue wouldn’t allow it.
He summoned the magic, but nothing came. When he reached for it, in fact, there was a stunning jolt, as if an arc of myth fire had swept through his body. The Grue growled. Charles stumbled back against the tree, and it was only the splinters of bark under his nails that kept him from fainting.
“Are you quite all right?” Darwin said.
Charles realized Darwin must have asked him several questions that he hadn’t caught. Charles managed to shake his head before the Grue could take possession of his tongue.
“Let’s get you inside,” Darwin said, a bit too gently.
Charles was chilled to the bone. It was as if whatever magic he’d touched had not only shocked him but frozen him to the quick.
The magic is different here. You must channel it and work with it differently.
And then it felt as if the Grue fainted away from the shock himself, because Charles could no longer hear his thoughts.
Such a thing had never happened in the year that Charles had hosted him. There was always a response to his thoughts—a sneer, a smirk, and very rarely, praise. He had gotten so used to that voice that he’d almost thought it his. Being alone was odd, and yet he longed to know the stillness of his own thoughts again.
Darwin led him inside. Charles wasn’t sure how he managed to walk into the house; his legs were like jelly.
A little girl ran up to them as they entered, and Darwin divested himself of coat and hat. “There you are, Granpapa!” she said. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
She looked at Charles. “Who is that?”
Darwin glanced at Charles. His brows were like white clouds in the gloomy house. “I found him under the apple tree. There hasn’t been time for introductions.”
“I’m Charles Waddingly. Charles Darwin Waddingly. I was named after you.”
A servant bustled in and unnecessarily tidied the coat and hat Darwin had already hung. “Sir, if you’d come through the other door . . . ,” he began, then stopped when he saw Charles.
“Turnbull, that’s precisely why I didn’t. I don’t need all your fussing,” Darwin said. “Bring tea to my study, will you?”
Turnbull tried to tear his stare from Charles without much success. “Of course, sir.”
The little girl tugged on Charles’s sleeve. “I’m Gwen.”
Darwin whispered something aside to Turnbull that Charles couldn’t catch.
Charles nodded at her. Even in the gloomy afternoon, her little cheeks were red as the apples on the tree.
His mouth watered. The Grue was waking
The rain had obscured the sound of the man’s approach. Charles turned.
Charles Darwin, the Saint for whom he was named, peered in at him under the laden apple branches. He was ancient. His white beard flowed over his collar. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat and matching coat that glistened with rain. He clutched the head of a cane with a hand as gnarled as the roots of his apple tree. None of his mythical Apes could be seen dancing around him.
Charles stared at him, openmouthed.
Don’t be such a git, the Grue said. He’s a man, nothing more.
The Grue’s hunger beat at him. After all the magical energy expended to get here, they were both completely drained. The Grue needed food, and the most obvious source was right in front of them. Charles pushed himself to his feet. He clenched his fists and then shoved them in his pockets. He didn’t want to do this—not so soon anyway—but the Grue didn’t care what he wanted.
Darwin watched him with a knowing look, far too knowing.
There was no reason to speak. The old man would be easy to overpower. The Grue wished for the soul jar, so that he could trap the Saint’s soul, but they would have to do without it. Charles felt the Grue summoning the magic through him, the magic that would subdue Darwin and bring him under their control. The Saint wouldn’t feel anything.
And afterward? Charles couldn’t think about that. The Grue wouldn’t allow it.
He summoned the magic, but nothing came. When he reached for it, in fact, there was a stunning jolt, as if an arc of myth fire had swept through his body. The Grue growled. Charles stumbled back against the tree, and it was only the splinters of bark under his nails that kept him from fainting.
“Are you quite all right?” Darwin said.
Charles realized Darwin must have asked him several questions that he hadn’t caught. Charles managed to shake his head before the Grue could take possession of his tongue.
“Let’s get you inside,” Darwin said, a bit too gently.
Charles was chilled to the bone. It was as if whatever magic he’d touched had not only shocked him but frozen him to the quick.
The magic is different here. You must channel it and work with it differently.
And then it felt as if the Grue fainted away from the shock himself, because Charles could no longer hear his thoughts.
Such a thing had never happened in the year that Charles had hosted him. There was always a response to his thoughts—a sneer, a smirk, and very rarely, praise. He had gotten so used to that voice that he’d almost thought it his. Being alone was odd, and yet he longed to know the stillness of his own thoughts again.
Darwin led him inside. Charles wasn’t sure how he managed to walk into the house; his legs were like jelly.
A little girl ran up to them as they entered, and Darwin divested himself of coat and hat. “There you are, Granpapa!” she said. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
She looked at Charles. “Who is that?”
Darwin glanced at Charles. His brows were like white clouds in the gloomy house. “I found him under the apple tree. There hasn’t been time for introductions.”
“I’m Charles Waddingly. Charles Darwin Waddingly. I was named after you.”
A servant bustled in and unnecessarily tidied the coat and hat Darwin had already hung. “Sir, if you’d come through the other door . . . ,” he began, then stopped when he saw Charles.
“Turnbull, that’s precisely why I didn’t. I don’t need all your fussing,” Darwin said. “Bring tea to my study, will you?”
Turnbull tried to tear his stare from Charles without much success. “Of course, sir.”
The little girl tugged on Charles’s sleeve. “I’m Gwen.”
Darwin whispered something aside to Turnbull that Charles couldn’t catch.
Charles nodded at her. Even in the gloomy afternoon, her little cheeks were red as the apples on the tree.
His mouth watered. The Grue was waking
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