Free Delusion by Laura L. Sullivan Page A

at the Headmaster. She would launch a preemptive attack, and he, their leader, would be the first to fall to her blade. She hoped that might throw the others into such disarray that she could make her escape.
    At least,
she thought with a brief melodramatic return of her usual stage theatrics,
I will take a few of them with me when I die!
    She took a step toward the Headmaster, over the prone fleshy form of her erstwhile guide, and pointed her sword tip at his chest.
    “We
ought
to kill you,” he said, without moving or seeming the least concerned. “But we cannot. One of our number has spoken for you. A prentice, it is true, but our laws are ancient and unequivocal. Any objection to a death sentence must be honored.”
    A small figure materialized from the flickering torch-shadows at the edge of the room.
    Phil dropped her sword with a clatter and had the boy in her arms in a heartbeat. She wasn’t afraid anymore. Madmen and murder—they couldn’t count for anything in a world that allowed miracles.
    Her little adopted brother Stan was alive.
    She hugged him fiercely, burying her face in his dark shaggy curls. She kept her eyes closed for the longest time, only feeling him, afraid to look at him directly in case she’d been wrong. But no, he smelled like her Stan, too. When he came to the Albion family, he had had nothing more than a spare shirt and a string of sandalwood beads, tied up in a handkerchief. The beads never lost their smell. He kept them between his folded clothes, and their sweet warm spice always hung about him. Phil took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
    “Stanislaus Bambula has joined our order in the College of Drycraeft as a junior prentice. He claims—he swears—that you are no threat to us, and so we must let you live. Against our better judgment, I might add. Against
my
better judgment.”
    She looked into Stan’s otter-brown eyes, eyes so dark they were almost black, but with an earthy depth, a softness, that black eyes never quite attain. Black eyes glitter—they reflect, like glass or obsidian. The darkest brown eyes draw you in.
    “Why did they take you?” she asked, kneeling and gazing up at her brother.
    “Don’t worry, Phil,” he said, and she felt her heart catch at that familiar voice, the strange mix of Shakespearean precision and Cockney and some vague central European accent he’d picked up in his short but varied life.
    “Don’t worry?” she asked, incredulous. “Come on, we’re leaving right now.” She glared over his shoulder at the gathering of men, daring them to stop her.
    “I can’t,” Stan said gently. “I won’t. This is where I belong.”
    “You’re confused. What happened? Were you hurt in the bombings? Did they bring you here?” Her fingers traced spider steps over his skull but found no injury.
    “I wasn’t hurt,” he said, enduring her fussing with a little squirm. “And yes, they brought me here. But as soon as I arrived I knew—oh, Phil, this is home. Or as close to home as I’ll ever have, without my own mum.”
    Phil frowned. He’d never said a word about his family, and she’d always assumed they’d died or abandoned him when he was too young to remember them.
    “Our home is at the Hall of Delusion,” she said firmly. “At least it was, and it will be again as soon as it’s safe, but in any case your home is with us.” She rose and took his hand, giving it a tug, but he stood firm, surprisingly stolid for his size.
    “This is where I belong,” he said. “I would have been here long ago, if only I’d known, but my mother always told me...well, that doesn’t matter now. Believe me, I’m safe here, and happy.”
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about. These men—lunatics or perverts or whatever they might be—have kidnapped you and...and tricked you! I’m not leaving without you.” She gave his hand another pull, but before it could dissolve into a battle, Head-master Rudyard stepped nearer.
    “As well to be