Small Magics by Erik Buchanan Page A

said John Flarety at last, “it is good to see that you can dress properly when the occasion calls for it.”
    Thomas had no reply.
    “This is how my son should look when he comes home.” John turned towards the doorway he had come through. “Do you not agree, your Grace?”
    All eyes followed John Flarety’s to the bishop. “Indeed I do,” said Bishop Malloy. “One can scarcely recognize you without the dirt, young Thomas.”
    Thomas managed to keep his tone civil. “I am glad your Grace approves.”
    The bishop turned to the others there. “Before yesterday, I was beginning to think John Flarety only imagined the existence of his second son.” A polite chuckle circled the room, dying before it reached Thomas’s father. The bishop smiled at Thomas, his tone remaining politely amused. “Shall we talk later, you and I? I understand that those at the Academy have some rather… interesting opinions of the Church of the High Father. I would love to hear yours.”
    And won’t that be fun. “I will look forward to it, your Grace.”
    “So will I.” The man stepped forward and held out his ring. Thomas looked at it a moment. No one else in the room was being asked to make formal obeisance and he had no doubt no one else was going to be. Just behind the bishop, Thomas could see his father watching him. His eyes flicked to the bishop’s face. There was something burning in the bishop’s eyes.
    What is with this man? Thomas wondered as he bowed and kissed the ring. What did I ever do to him?
    “Now,” said the bishop, as Thomas straightened, “I believe that you announced dinner, did you not, madam?”
    ***
    “There is a weakness,” said the bishop, as the final dishes were cleared from the table, “in the moral fabric of our youth.”
    Dinner had been five courses, and each had been excellent. Hot, fresh bread and butter followed by a clear, fragrant onion and beef soup served in cheese-covered bowls. Brook trout in a lemon sauce came next, then a slow-cooked venison in a rich pepper sauce that melted in one’s mouth. Dessert was a tart that was half berries, half alcohol and served with brandy-infused whipped cream. Wine had flowed freely, with a different vintage for each course.
    Thomas, while eating the last of his tart, had calculated the cost of the meal to be at least equal to two months’ rent on his apartment. Lemon and pepper both had to be imported. Venison was scarce and hunted only by commission. The wines alone represented a huge investment. His father was obviously out to impress his company and was sparing no expense to do so. Thomas wished the evening had not been so tense. He would have loved to eat the same meal without the feeling of impending doom.
    Thomas’s father had not said much to him during dinner, but had held court with the merchants and the bishop, keeping their conversation easy and free flowing. Those seated next to Thomas had been quite polite, and continued to ask Thomas about his time in the city and what life was like at the Academy. Thomas had the distinct feeling that several of them were looking for a new lawyer and were wondering if he would fit the bill. Thomas’s father would stop talking and listen on these occasions, and while a frown never actually crossed his face, Thomas could almost see it building up in his eyes. Bishop Malloy had listened to it all without comment until Thomas, at the request of Glen Tripoli, started listing his favourite pubs. Now, the bishop’s words were certainly having an effect, for the entire table fell silent and turned towards him.
    Glen Tripoli was the first to respond. “Well, I’m not certain about that—”
    “I am,” said Bishop Malloy. “The morals of our youth are not the morals of their parents. Where we have focused on the High Father who leads the Four, they have focused on the Rebel Son, who lives for this world, and the Blessed Daughter who gives us frivolity. Where we focus our eyes to the betterment of those