To be a Wizard

Second, third and fourth arrow, similarly satisfyingly slaying the swinging thingy. As she drew the fifth a door across the hall creaked.

‘Apricot?’ Apricot released the draw on her bow and looked over with a scowl.

‘What?’

‘We’re going to lunch, are you coming? You can practise to become the best archer in the world after a bowl of something and some delightful and witty company surely?’ Graham was wearing his artlessly frayed wizards’ robes, his hair was tousled, he had a boyish grin and muscly arms, he was excellent at rugby.

‘One more arrow Graham and I’m all yours.’ He grinned more, she unconsciously returned what in any lesser girl would certainly have been a simper. She breathed, drew, and Wham! Perfect.

Spike was spending his lunch time in the library again. None of the private reading rooms were available at the moment and the rooms with spellcasting facilities were booked out as always, so he sat with ‘A guide to ensorclement: Uses and techniques’ face down and spine to the world while ‘Tactical situations: An anecdotal guide’ was conspicuously open in front of him. Indeed he’d read the first chapter of this erudite tome so often now that should he ever be faced with archers protected by earthworks he wouldn’t be even a millimetre out of his depth. The Academy was very strict on the kind of shilly-shallying in which Spike was indulging. They made it clear that they expected the students to apply themselves whole heartedly to their courses, the general belief being, apparently, that you didn’t need to enjoy what you were being instructed in for it to do you good. It wasn’t even that Spike didn’t enjoy his studies. He was sensational with a sword, brilliant in a brawl, and he could hit a swinging target a hundred times from horseback. It was just that, truly his heart wasn’t in it. He dreamed of the long, dreary exacting preparations of spells. He exalted in the stolen hours he spent learning to light a candle with a word and a gesture. The boring practise and repetition were, well, magical to him. But he would never find a wizard to take him on, he should have begun his training at a much tenderer age. He couldn’t even find a ‘for beginners’ class he could sneak into the back of. As he tried to concentrate on the start of Chapter Two: ‘How to receive a cavalry charge with instructive examples from the author’s time in the hinterlands’ (with pointy steel to the front Spike was guessing) when Apricot Fallon came to sit at a neighbouring desk without even acknowledging his presence. Spike was crushed. He adored Apricot, and was indeed not alone in his admiration. He, along with others, saw a lithe shortish girl with a cute nose, full lips and a scowl that could drop even a determined man. She was wearing a flattering pair of greenish leggings and a tight shirt. She was beautiful. She saw Spike looking at her and scowled. Spike gulped. Spike was an earnest sort of fellow and Apricot, observing his near constant staring, lank awkward figure, peculiarly blond hair, and his invariable presence in the library, saw someone who should take the time to get out more and associate with people. Indeed she had taken the time to tell him so on the occasion when he’d approached her with an eye to wooing her. Besides, she was quite clearly falling for the ‘charms’ of that oaf Graham Graham, who was Spike reflected, the type of fellow any straight thinking man would gladly pay five pounds to stab repeatedly with a table knife.