Oracle (Book I)

Master of (One's Own) Fate

Caprice had thought that Earithean's office was one of the most stately places she'd had the privilege of standing in without having to clean it or wait on people in it. Judging by his expression, Sorcerer Whitehare didn't feel the same. His nose was up and he eyed the elegant yet impersonal surroundings as if he was standing in a manure wagon and didn't want to get his shoes dirty or touch anything in general.

"What she did was hardly magic!" Whitehare argued. "The girl climbed a tree—any monkey can do that. Under what criteria are you admitting these children to the same school as my son and daughter who are of proud, proper, pureblood wizarding stock!"

Head bowed, hands clasped in front of her, Caprice frowned. He's standing there talking about us. Like we're not here. Like we can't hear. As usual. Something inside of her was cracking. Breaking quickly.

"As I have said, Sorcerer Whitehare: It is not my decision," Earithean said dryly.

"You offer them a choice as if they naturally have one. As if you are in the authority to give them such a choice."

The snakes fear what they can't make do what they want, Preece. Zyeer Bilberry, her grandmother, had said that more than once. Sad way to live, she'd say.

Earithean reached into her desk. She pulled out the enrollment contracts from yesterday.

"Consider what Oracle is. Consider what you have to return to." She cleared her throat and briefly closed her eyes. She pushed the contracts across the desk. When she looked at them again, her gaze was fixed and grave. "It is your choice."

"They can hardly perform magic. This is a farcical waste of time. They are simple and uncivilized. Can you not see that if you allow any of them to come here, you may aid in creating elements that are unfit for the magical world."

The thing inside of Caprice snapped. She spoke in a trembling voice.

"You mean the slaves will fight back and use our magic to undo your chains."

Whitehare jumped and looked around, startled.

Caprice marched over to the desk and pulled up her sleeves. She reached for the quill and ink well there.

"What are you doing, girl," Mr. Whitehare said warningly.

Mother, Thackery, and father. What will become of them? What will happen if I do this...?

A nagging whispering faintly inched into her ears. Resisting the desire to rub her ear, she tried to listen but the sudden urge to get back to what she was doing seemed more important. Her hand dipped, drawn down to that line on the face of the contract. The tip of the quill touched the parchment, a mere dot of ink. Shaking herself from the momentary daze her sudden thoughts and disparate urges had caused, Caprice lifted her hand. The contract shimmered and disappeared in a sizzling pop.

"It is done."

Caprice stood back from the desk. She stared at the place where the contract had lain. The whispering stopped abruptly and, now that it was done, so too did the compulsion to sign the contract. Caprice's next thought sounded strange to her: Oh god. What have I done?

"Stop, boy!" Whitehare snapped.

Before Caprice could tell him to wait or wonder why she should, her brother strode over to the desk.

Whitehare reached into his coat and withdrew his wand. With a savage expression, he raised it but Earithean stood up and took a stance which seemed to cow him.

Quickly, Thierry marked what was unmistakably the letter T and a wobbly B on the signature line of the remaining contract. The paper shimmered and vanished with sizzling pop.