You look at the weird little envelope in your hand. It smells weird. Like it’s from somewhere far away. And it is weird—you never receive mail. No one in the slums does. But you slowly open it and even more slowly read it. You’ve never been the strongest reader but still, you can get it done.
Is this a mistake?
A letter inviting a hyena to magic school?
Sure, you do have magic. And for a hyena it’s pretty strong magic even. It’s sure strong enough to catch the eye of plenty of cops who want to give you a hard time. And a few criminals too who think it’d be pretty handy to have on their side. All the attention from both sides had been enough to keep you, for the most part, on the straight and narrow. Draw less attention to yourself, use magic only when it’s needed. Besides—you didn’t have a mage stone and Gran said you’d make yourself sick without one. You’ve been saving money to get one.
You sit on the battered couch that dominates the main room of your home. It’s a mess, covered with a patchwork blanket made of scraps. Years ago it had been dragged by you and a few friends from out of the front of some money’ed man’s home to your own home. It’s lumpy but it’s yours. Grounding right now while the letter makes you feel out of sorts.
There would be no tuition fee for you due to well. Your Circumstance. A charity case—a tax write off probably. Maybe they take a few like you every year to look good. But that charity only extends so far you realize as you look at the supply list. They’ll give you ceremonial robes and textbooks and a magic pen—a pen with a mage stone. The thing you NEED. But the other stuff…
Dorm uniform. School uniform. P.E. Uniform. Lab safety equipment and supplies. Notebooks. Pens. You’ll have to pay for your own food too—bought from the school cafeteria of course.
Of course it’s like that. Of course. Of course of course of course.
Your gran finds you still on that couch when she gets home an hour later when she finally gets home from work. She stinks of a kitchen that isn’t hers and she’s tired—she’s always tired. But when she sits next to you, takes the letter that’s still clutched in your hand, she smiles as she reads it.
“Cubby, I’m so proud of ya.”
Before you can protest, you’re tugged close into her side, her head nuzzling the top of yours like you’re still a baby. To her you are. Even at sixteen she’s still bigger than you. You kind of like that but you’ll never say it aloud.
“Yer goin’ to school. We’ll figure it out.”
And you know you both will. It won’t be perfect like everyone else has. But you’ll figure it out.
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Invite
Is this a mistake?
A letter inviting a hyena to magic school?
Sure, you do have magic. And for a hyena it’s pretty strong magic even. It’s sure strong enough to catch the eye of plenty of cops who want to give you a hard time. And a few criminals too who think it’d be pretty handy to have on their side. All the attention from both sides had been enough to keep you, for the most part, on the straight and narrow. Draw less attention to yourself, use magic only when it’s needed. Besides—you didn’t have a mage stone and Gran said you’d make yourself sick without one. You’ve been saving money to get one.
You sit on the battered couch that dominates the main room of your home. It’s a mess, covered with a patchwork blanket made of scraps. Years ago it had been dragged by you and a few friends from out of the front of some money’ed man’s home to your own home. It’s lumpy but it’s yours. Grounding right now while the letter makes you feel out of sorts.
There would be no tuition fee for you due to well. Your Circumstance. A charity case—a tax write off probably. Maybe they take a few like you every year to look good. But that charity only extends so far you realize as you look at the supply list. They’ll give you ceremonial robes and textbooks and a magic pen—a pen with a mage stone. The thing you NEED. But the other stuff…
Dorm uniform. School uniform. P.E. Uniform. Lab safety equipment and supplies. Notebooks. Pens. You’ll have to pay for your own food too—bought from the school cafeteria of course.
Of course it’s like that. Of course. Of course of course of course.
Your gran finds you still on that couch when she gets home an hour later when she finally gets home from work. She stinks of a kitchen that isn’t hers and she’s tired—she’s always tired. But when she sits next to you, takes the letter that’s still clutched in your hand, she smiles as she reads it.
“Cubby, I’m so proud of ya.”
Before you can protest, you’re tugged close into her side, her head nuzzling the top of yours like you’re still a baby. To her you are. Even at sixteen she’s still bigger than you. You kind of like that but you’ll never say it aloud.
“Yer goin’ to school. We’ll figure it out.”
And you know you both will. It won’t be perfect like everyone else has. But you’ll figure it out.