“Forget about making someone a laughingstock,” Squirrel said, staring at Toren. “you split into three, and made yourself look like a hedge.” Squirrels mind was awash with possibilities. “Can you change your clothes at will?” Toren nodded. “Can you do it to other people? Can you make monsters? If so, how big? Can you make sounds, too? can you copy other people, or make them vanish?”

Toren leaned back from the onslaught of questions. “I’m able to make an illusion about as big as myself with little to no effort,” he said, nearly flinching away from Squirrel’s intense gaze. After Neil had put her hackles up, she had become impervious to all but the subtlest enchantments, much to Toren’s amazement. “But bigger ones are draining. I could make a monster for a short while, but you’d have to provide its sound, I can’t do both yet. And yes, I can make other people look different or change their clothes for them, if you need, should be doable. I can’t make people vanish, but I could hide them behind an illusion the same color as the backdrop, and I can make two copies of another person, more if they all do the exact same thing.”

Reginald sat at the table across from them, the greying man resting his feet up on a stool while he drank. “That’s certainly different, but what makes you think these tricks are going to win you the prize?” he asked, tilting his mug back toward his mouth. Squirrel nodded and stepped away from the table.

“Toren, clad me in armor.” Squirrel said, holding her arms out. Toren waved his hand from where he sat on the bench, and Squirrel was suddenly encased in a dazzling suit of armor, gleaming from an indescernable light that reflected off of it, sparkling in the night.

Reginald choked on his drink, coughing beer out into the dust. Squirrel bent down and retrieved a stick, which became a flawless longsword in her hand. “What do you think, Reginald?” she said, grinning as she brandished the fake sword at him.

“I think you’ll save a fortune on constumes, and a shitload of time changing, but how does this put us above a large, well-funded troupe?” Reginald said, wiping beer from his beard as he set down his mug.

“You know the sea monster the prince fights in the second act, after he is cast away?” Squirrel asked, and Reginald nodded. Toren, without having to be prompted, summoned an illusion of a great serpent, breaching through the ground as if it were water, it looked down at Squirrel from a height of ten feet, the fins along the side of its head flaring threateningly as it loomed over her.

“Gods!” Reginald shouted, flinging himself backward, stumbling against the bench, and falling onto his backside, before scrambling further away. Reginald stopped when his shoulder hit a tent pole, and he leaned against it, placing his hand over his chest and trying to slow his breathing down.

Squirrel smiled and levelled her sword at the monster and offered a few playful jabs, which the monster flinched away from, hissing silently, before the illusions covering her flickered for a moment, then both her armor and the monster blinked out of existence. Squirrel glanced over at Toren, and saw him holding his head and taking deep breaths, while her father, much the same, sat against his tent, his face pale.

“What’s wrong, Toren?” Squirrel asked, sitting beside him. Toren rubbed his temples and eyes a moment longer before returning her gaze.

“An illusion that big takes a lot out of me,” Toren said, taking a deep breath. “If the serpent was the only thing I had to do, I could hold it maybe, three to five minutes, but with the armor…” He rubbed his head.

Squirrel pursed her lips, thinking. “Forget the armor,” she said. “Who survives a shipwreck in full plate anyway? What we need to do is sell the serpent fight.”

“She’s right,” Reginald said, retaking his place at the table. “Dress Finn in rags after the shipwreck, have the narrator explain that he abandoned his armor as it was drowning him. Or you could even show it, with the boys magic and Finn suspended on a wire, desperately struggling to swim to the surface. Then you set the stage for an even more tense showdown with the sea serpent without the armor. Trust me, the audience will respond much the same as I did.”

“As for the serpent fight,” Toren said, enjoying the creative atmosphere. “Could it be during a lightning storm?”

Cook shrieked with terror as Finn battled against the enormous serpent, only visible when Toren gave Phantom the signal and he simulated the crash of thunder, while Toren brightened the stage for an instant, creating a short lived illusion each time. Squirrel turned the massive rain stick and clanged metal together while Finn hurled princely invectives at the monster on stage. Leyland used a long, thin sheet of steel to make the shrieking cry of the sea monster.

For all the world, it appeared as though the prince were fighting a real sea serpent to the death on a moonless night, in the rain, lit only by the flashes of a thunderstorm. Toren grinned, watching the reaction of their test audience, the other members of the troupe.

Reginald, since it was his job, was outwardly unimpressed. “Finn, I spotted you slipping through the serpent when it was squeezing you, You’ve got to work on your routine with Toren, down to the number of times you thrash in the monster’s grip!” he barked. “Toren, your timing with Phantom needs work. Signal him at the same time that you brighten the stage, then the delay will be believable. As it is, the audience might think they’re miles away from the action. Try to get the two as close as possible, but never let the thunder go first.”

The rest of the test audience, on the other hand, had retreated to the edge of the of the practice tent, watching with bated breath as Finn struggled against the illusion. Squirrel’s brother had a body sculpted by long hours of acrobatic practice, and the form the prince cut fighting with nothing but a sharpened stick was breathtaking.

Finn let out a shout, signaling Leyland and Toren that he was in position. Leyland struck the metal sheet, bending it in such a way that the wailing cry took on a plaintive note, and Toren signaled Phantom, who raised the lamps, signaling the approach of dawn, and Toren manifested the serpent transfixed by the makeshift spear of the castaway prince.

Fin stood there, panting, bloody scratches drawn on his body, staring down at the monster he had slain. Toren held the illusion for as long as he could, then signaled Squirrel, who beat a man-sized drum. Toren unleashed a flash of light, and released the illusion, while Phantom covered the lamps again.

The result was a flash of light and noise to deaden the senses while the performers prepared for the next scene in relative darkness.

The rest of the troupe stood slackjawed as Squirrel ran out onto the stage, sitting down in front of Reginald, who stood at the front. “So, what do you think?” she asked Reginald.

Reginald grunted. “It’s better than the wooden one,” he said, sourly.

“It’s going to change the game and you know it,” Squirrel said, smirking as she dangled her legs off the stage.

“Maybe so,” Reginald grudgingly admitted. “But don’t get carried away ‘cuz you were the first to think of it, people are going to catch on quick. Probably won’t be long before you’ll see a troupe entirely made of wizards putting anything we could ever do to shame.”

“Pssh,” Squirrel said, waving her hand dismissively. “You couldn’t get two wizards in a single troupe, let alone an entire one, I’ve seen them,” she said, glancing over at Toren. “ They’re nobles. They can’t stand working together.”

“I don’t know about that,” Toren said, holding a cup of water as he approached. “Illusion wizards need steady jobs, most of them are second or third sons, like me. I think you have something here, with the performing arts.”

“Performing arts, he says,” Reginald said, affecting a haughty look. “And what about you, would you take the job?”

Toren pondered the water in his cup for a moment before downing it, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “I might, actually,” he said. “This job is more wholesome than any other I could get with my skillset, and I’ve been temporarily banned from learning the deeper mysteries of magic until my twenty fifth birthday.

“What for?” Squirrel asked. she needed to know in case it was something that could be disruptive to the troupe.

“Being too good,” Toren said with a smile and a wink.

“Boy, I think you’re going to fit in here just fine,” Reginald said, clapping Toren on the shoulder.

Toren deliberately brushed imaginary grime off his shoulder, and the men surrounding them broke out in raucous laughter. Squirrel rolled her eyes and went to check on the condition of Finn and the other members, checking for injuries or other problems that would make them unable to perform.

Squirrel found Finn relaxing the cloth that bound and reinforced his wrists. “So?” she said, crossing her arms.

Finn glanced up at her, “So what?” he asked. Finn was sharp, and was waiting for her to broach the subject, not revealing anything she didn’t already know.

“What do you think of the show, of the wizard?” she asked.

Finn stood and dropped the wrappings on the bed behind him. “The wizard,” he said, mulling it over. “I don’t know, maybe he’ll show his colors in the future. As for the show,” Finn grinned widely. “I think we’re gonna make some grown men shit their noble britches.”

Finn changed out of his sweat soaked shirt, and poured some of the water cook fetched every morning over his head. “I did have a thought about the fight with the serpent, though.”

“Go ahead,” Squirrel said, nodding.

“I hear Toren can only show the whole serpent a half minute or so at most,” he said. Squirrel nodded. “I was thinking that if the serpent is introduced in full light before the storm begins, just for a few seconds, people would have a better grasp of what’s happening.”

“Makes sense,” Squirrel said, nodding. “By that way, any sprains, strains, or broken bones I should know about?”

Finn rolled his wrists, shoulders, and flexed his knees and ankles before shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he said. Squirrel waved, letting Finn relax as she went back to the stage. The stage had become empty, and Squirrel found the bars unused, the actors having presumably gone off to dinner.

Squirrel looked at the bars that she had many I time fallen from, spun around, and flown from, and realized she hadn’t practiced all day. As she took more of Reginald’s duties on, her time for being an acrobat had gradually faded away. In fact, she could only recall practicing three days in the last week.

Squirrel stood in front of the bars, jumped up and grabbed them, doing pull ups alternating between in front of her head and behind, working different muscles until she was warmed up. Squirrel swung her legs up, and flipped her entire world, so she was now doing a hand-stand on top of the bar.

Squirrel let her legs relax forward and back, and once she had a stable base, she began doing her pushups, her shoulders burning from the familiar exercise. Squirrel kept at her exercises for hours, even as troupe members filed back in from dinner. Squirrel lost herself in the nostalgic feeling of being alone on the bars. Something about the thin branch supporting her from beneath hearkened back to dim memories.

According to Reginald, she had been a camp robber he had stumbled across when the old man was passing by a war-torn village. She had been naked but for the dirt, and had escaped pursuit by climbing trees like a squirrel. Many bands had considered her to be too much trouble to catch, but the old man was as stubborn as he was kind, so he had set a trap for the wild child who bounded from branch to branch with almost unnatural swiftness.

After an entire evening, Reginald had chased her to a lone oak tree, and had been forced to climb up and retrieve her while Cook and the late Simon prevented her from running away.

She had bitten and scratched, nearly taking Reginald’s eyes, to hear the old man tell it. Squirrel couldn’t remember much from that far back, just knew she enjoyed the feel of being up high. Finn had come a year or two later, after Squirrel had begun to speak again, and Reginald had sworn off taking in children ever again, although everyone knew the old man was intensely proud of them.

Squirrel had asked Reginald why he never had his own children, and he’d spun her a tale of the love of his life, lost in a flood. Reginald said to Squirrel that the only children he would ever have would be hers, but every time he saw a child orphaned by tragedy or some natural disaster, he saw a little bit of her in them.

Squirrel did a quick spin around the bar and flung herself to the higher one, her entire body pleasantly warm. Squirrel had taken to the high-flying, gravity defying stunts of the acrobat like a fish to water, cementing her nickname permanently. As squirrel did another spin around the bar, she spotted Toren watching her practice.

The wizard’s jaw was open, and his eyes wide, as if he was watching some epic battle or the birth of a god. Squirrel smiled and flipped herself up onto the bar, balancing on the thin pole with her toes wrapped around it, looking down at him.

“How long would I have to practice to do that?” Toren said, looking up at Squirrel balancing on a slender bar above him.

Squirrel shrugged. “Ten years. less if you’ve got talent,” she said, walking toward Toren, before jumping off the bar, executing a forward flip, and landing in front of him. “How long would I have to practice to do what you do?” she asked, genuinely interested.

“Ah, well…” Toren said, glancing around “This is assuming you were a noble with peerage, and the aptitude for it?” Squirrel nodded. Toren’s gaze went up as he recalled. “… about ten years, less if you’ve got talent.”

“What was that about aptitude?” Squirrel asked.

“Well,” Toren said, shifting his stance to lean against the bars. “when a noble is found to have magic in their blood, they are given the option to go to the Royal Academy of Magic, where they are tested to see what school of magic they are most compatible with. While it’s not impossible to use spells from another School, it’s hard enough that no one bothers to try until they dry up the well of what their own school can teach them.”

“So what is this test?” Squirrel said, leaning forward.

“It’s pretty simple,” Toren said pantomiming with his hands. “You just ask a master of Divination, of which there are maybe three in the world, to read your aura.” Squirrel’s shoulder’s slumped, and Toren backtracked. “It’s not too hard to figure it out on your own. I hear in other countries, they have students study all the schools of magic until they ‘choose’ one, which basically means, when the one they had aptitude in shows significantly more results than everything else. Still, a waste of a year or two.”

“I have noticed,” Toren said, continuing, “that people who have talent for certain kinds of magic seem to be cut from the same cloth. Transmuters are paragons of virility, with lantern jaws and chiseled physiques, while Abjurers are steely eyed, humorless folk. I wouldn’t be surprised if these ‘Master Diviners’ had simply noticed that pattern and were just scamming everyone with something so obvious.”

***

The Headmaster coughed his tea across the desk showing the two teenagers.

***

“If I had to guess,” you’d be one of those two,” Toren said.

“I look like a humorless paragon of virility?” Squirrel asked, her brow raised.

“Yep,” Toren said, nodding.

Squirrel shrugged, “Thank you, I guess. What can you tell me about the other schools?”

“Evocationists are an excitable bunch, very enthusiastic, and tend to get carried away,” Toren said, counting off on his fingers. “Necromancers love harder than anyone else, which is why they’re always going crazy and trying to resurrect dead lovers.”

“Then there are the two worst schools,” Toren said, holding up his fingers. “Enchantment, and illusion. Enchanters are womanizing, backbiting, slimy, overconfident, sleazy pieces of human garbage who would say or do anything to get what they want. Illusionists are sly pranksters who think they’re smarter than everyone else, they tend to keep small emergency stashes on their person, in the form of money or escape devices, like blinding powder, small tools and twine, anything useful for pranks.” Toren nodded to himself a moment before reaching into his vest and producing a piece of jerky.

“Sometimes food,” he admitted as he chewed the dried meat.

“I see,” Squirrel said, running through schools in her mind, and she could see that none of the other ones applied to her. “So how would I go about testing to see if I have magic?” she asked, rubbing her hands together.

“Fat chance,” Toren said, chewing his jerky. “Noble lines have bred magic power for generations, leading to a roughly one in five chance that any individual noble will be born with the power. But peasants like you? very slim odds, unless you’re a bastard.”

“I have no idea what I am,” Squirrel said. “They found me in the woods.”

Toren grunted and spat, having already adopted the mannerisms of the troupe. The way he blended in so seamlessly sent a small shiver down Squirrel’s spine. “Might be worth a look after the show then, I can ask my father to foot the bill,” he said, meeting her eyes.

“What made you change your mind?” Squirrel asked.

“In the history books, an overwhelming number of the world’s greatest magicians had a similarly great story, many surviving plagues, wars or natural disasters at a young age,” Toren said. “My history professor said that if you engineered the destruction of an entire race, the ones who were destined for greatness would escape the noose, this would allow a ruler to sift through the populace and quickly find the next Castavelle De’Noir, Ethics aside.”

“That’s terrible, you can’t just treat people like chaff!” Squirrel said, her brows lowering.

Toren threw his hands up, warding her off. “I’m not, nobody is stupid enough to try it again,” he said. “The last one that did it got his soul locked in a jewel after he was forced to kill his entire family by a vengeful wizard. The modern understanding is that the resentment garnered by genocide outweighs the benefits of identifying powerful wizards. Nowadays, they test sole survivors of villages swept away by floods or some such, so I thought you might be worth taking a risk on. Besides, I’ve got nothing but time for the next nine years.”

“Why would your father agree to foot the bill on a slim chance?” Squirrel asked, her posture relaxing.

“He humors me,” Toren said.

“But why?” Squirrel asked, leaning forward.

“I’m a stud.” Toren said, throwing his head back with arrogance. Squirrel burst out laughing, watching the gangly young man inhale and push out his chest, his thin arms resting on his hips. Squirrel laughed until she sank to her knees, her hands folded over her aching stomach.

“I’m serious,” Toren said, dropping to a squat in front of her. “Minor families all over the kingdom are lining up to have me put my magical baby batter inside their pristine noble daughters.” Squirrel doubled over, banging her fist against the floor.

“Magical… Baby… Batter?” Squirrel said, before her convulsing stomach forced the air out of her lungs again. “I can’t breathe,” she said, desperately trying regain control of her lungs as she giggled.

“This is serious business,” Toren said, frowning down at her. “My father gets valuable contracts for me to boink, in the hopes that my incredible magical talent is inseminated into the bloodline of the minor family.”

Toren shrugged, looking away from the girl convulsing on the floor. “Of course, I haven’t started that part of my life yet, my father has to weigh and measure all the offers before he decides. I can’t just run around spreading legs willy nilly, He’s told me he’ll prioritize families that are geographically distant from each other, to offset the danger of inbreeding over the next two generations.”

Squirrel flopped onto her back, her face red, panting. “Real tough life you’ve got there,” she said between breaths.

Toren frowned down at her. “Look at this from my perspective, I’m going to be sent from rural town to rural town to-“

“Go balls deep,” Squirrel interrupted.

“In a stranger, while her entire family sucks up to me, trying to pressure me into marrying her and staying with them, and when the child is finally born, I’m forced by my family to move on to the next one. And love, what about love? You think I wouldn’t have some sentiment for a woman who I spent at least nine months with? You think it would be easy to see my child born, and then pack up and move on to the next one, never to be a part of their life?”

Squirrel sobered. “Still a pretty easy life, though.”

“Let’s look at it from your perspective, then,” he said, shaking his head. “Lets say you get tested, and demonstrate anywhere near the same level of talent for magic as I have. What happens? Well, you’re too poor and too old to attend the Academy and learn the basics, but just the right age to get knocked up. In the end, you’d find yourself, through means foul or fair, with your womb sold to the highest bidder.”

Squirrel’s expression soured. “Maybe I don’t want to be tested for magic.”

Toren sat beside her and sighed. “Yeah, It’s not all glory, cheering crowds, and valiant heros,” he said. “Sometimes it’s making babies with strangers for money and power. In fact, there’s more of the latter.”

Squirrel scoffed. “We get cheering crowds and valiant heros every night, two hours after sundown. It’s all acting though, none of it’s real. We keep the lights dim so that the audience can’t see the paint flaking off the sea dragon’s scales.”

“Huh,” Toren said, folding his hands and leaning back. “Maybe it’s just a matter of grass being greener on the other side.” Squirrel nodded in agreement.

“Toren, Squirrel!” Reginald’s shout came from the far side of the tent. “Rehearsal! If you want to add the wizard at the last minute, we’ve got to drill the act into him until he’s dreaming about it! We’re on a deadline, here!” Squirrel and Toren scrambled to their feet and hustled to the Ringmaster, who gave them a severe look.

“Squirrel, round up the rest of the team, then get Leyland to take over your part backstage, some matters need your attention while the Wizard is rehearsing.” Reginald said. Squirrel nodded and set out, calling for the rest of the troupe.

“And you,” Reginald said, pointing at Toren. “Go through the act with Finn again, and familiarize yourself with the thunder sheet. You can be Phantom’s understudy. You magic doesn’t need hands, yeah?” Toren nodded and set off to find Finn, while Reginald scowled after him.

“Nothing good ever came of associatin’ with nobles,” Reginald muttered to himself as he watched Toren’s back disappear behind a corner. Once the two were safely separated, Reginald took command of the stage and threw his energy into directing the dress rehearsal of The Castaway Prince, Squirrel’s original work.