Zero's Guardian

Chapter 7 - Bittersweet Evening

"You can leave them until tomorrow if you'd like?" Louise offers.

"Nah, I'm good." Michael shakes his head. "Napped for God knows how long while you were out. So, I'm awake now. That, and I always slept late back home anyway."

Louise nods, quietly grateful for the familiar's willingness to do her laundry. "O-Okay."

"If you do need me, though, I'll be just out in the courtyard," Michael reminds her with a wink.

Louise smiles kindly. "Thank you."

"Mhm. G'night."

Michael heads for the door. He puts down the laundry, opens it up, steps out, then pulls the basket through before shutting it again.

"It seems the Young Sir cares for your wellbeing, Miss Louise," Toby observes from his windowsill perch.

"I think he's just being nice because he has to be," Louise assumes with a sigh. "I am his master, after all."

A white lie. To protect Louise from her deeper, more personal feelings.

"I am not so certain, young lady," the talking book counters.

"It doesn't matter either way. I-I'm his master and he's my familiar... that's it."

Toby's pages flicker and the grimoire turns towards the window.

"Your cheeks are most certainly flushed, Miss Louise," Toby notes. "He must be quite the familiar."

"T-Toby!"

"A mere observation and nothing more. I shall leave you be now, Miss."

"Right..."

With a flick of his pages, the sentient grimoire flops against one of the windowsill cushions.

Louise, too, lays down. Clutching a hand to her chest, she ponders what Toby said just now.

"He... cares about me?" Her face burns red-hot as she imagines Michael smiling at her. "...Idiot. I'm going to sleep."

Louise's eyes flutter closed.

She has a long day ahead of her tomorrow.

Osmond sits behind the desk and reads over the paper set out before him. Sighing, he takes a deep drag from his pipe and exhales a thick smoke ring. Miss Longueville stands beside him with folded arms and a stern expression.

"I suppose we have little choice but to cooperate," the headmaster comments with quiet displeasure. "This is a direct request from the palace, after all."

Osmond raises his eyes from the paper.

A tall man with fair skin, grey eyes, and black gelled hair parted on his left, stands over him. The gent sports a swirly mustache and curved sideburns on both of his sides.

"Unless you believe we at the Academy have any sway in the matter, Count Mott?" the elderly mage asks.

The tall man grins widely.

"I'm afraid not, Headmaster."

"Very well," Osmond relents.

The headmaster's familiar, a tiny mouse named Motsognir, scuttles onto the desk. Osmond pets it, then takes his quill from the inkpot and signs his signature.

"The royal family will have our full cooperation on this matter, as was requested."

"Very good," says Mott with a satisfied smile. He takes the signed paper, gives it a soft blow to dry the ink, and then folds it into a tube. "That simply leaves the personal matter I spoke with you about."