Dangerous Thoughts

Chapter 2

In most aspects of his life, Charles was fairly neat. He kept his ties pressed, the banisters dust free, and he swapped the linens on his bed every other week. However, the desk in his study was an absolute mess.

No matter how much he tidied it, it always seemed to rebel against his efforts. It was piled high with papers and ledgers, clumps of spare coins that clattered to the floor as he worked, broken fountain pens leaking ink, cracked vials that he didn't know how to dispose of, a box with an enchanted dress that he didn't quite know what to do with, a dead plant that had initially been perky and alive, and, of course, his large scrying bowl where he did most of his work.

He liked to joke with his younger brother James that the clutter was by no fault of his own. Perhaps an evil faerie thousands of years ago had cursed the precise coordinates of the earth where his desk happened to lie? Or perhaps the memories he worked with were now fighting back, cursing him to a forever dirty desk?

Despite his jokes, he didn't mind having a bit of clutter around him as he worked. The chaos was calming. It mimicked the chaos in his mind as he sorted through memories and made the precise edits that would make each one even more valuable than the original.

As he was peering into the scrying bowl that evening, a knock startled him from his work. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his brother lingering in the doorway, holding a bowl of steaming something.

Charles inched upwards in his chair, craning his neck as he tried to catch a glimpse of the liquid in the bowl. "Is that a soup or a potion that will help me edit this thing faster? Because honestly, right now I'd prefer the latter."

James shook his mess of blond curls. "'Fraid it's just soup. But I reckon that's just as good for you. You can't edit on an empty stomach."

Charles rolled his eyes, but he knew his brother was right. "Bring it in."

James grinned widely as he walked into the study and sat down on a worn velvet armchair. "It's a mix of spring vegetables with a few herbs sprinkled here and there."

Charles inhaled the steam as he took the bowl. "Smells lovely." He meant that as a goodbye to get his brother out of the room, but instead James leaned over and stared down at the scrying bowl. Churning in its depths was a pale pink memory the color of clouds at sunset.

"What'chya editing?" he asked.

Charles pulled the scrying bowl away. "Stop looking at it."

"Why? Because you were at Madame's again and you think I won't like what I see?"

"No. Because it'll give you a pounding headache," Charles said wearily.

James gave a short laugh. "Oh, come on. It's not like I haven't dealt with that before."

Unlike Charles, James had not been born a mage, which meant that if he attempted to read a spell book or peer into a scrying bowl, he'd develop a horrific migraine. This he knew from experience. James had been a stubborn child, and when it was obvious his older brother had a gift, he too had tried to dabble in the magical arts.

While James had never managed to cast any spells, he did uncover a few potion manuals in the library. They were written in the ancient script, one that non-magical folks could hardly read, but he had gotten it into his head that if the text was translated into English, he too could brew potions. So he had spent hours transcribing the recipes, chewing willow bark all the while to ease his pounding headaches.

All his work paid off. Without a single magical bone in his body, James had learned how to brew a mean potion, better than many of the gifted in town.

And his soups weren't half bad either.