Grape Expectations was the kind of literary wine bar that had once been prevalent in London but could now most easily be found in areas like Soho and Fitzrovia. It was in this moody little establishment that Alfie had taken on his first job and poured that calamitous first pint.

Tucked away in Artillery Passage as it was, Grape Expectations was the epitome of what tourists expected from a traditional English public house, with the added bonus of being completely off the tourists’ collective radar and so free of the blighters.

The atmosphere, when Alfie and Cornelius Sharpe stepped into the ill-illuminated interior, was as cozy and rustic as Alfie recalled. It might’ve been dimly lit, but combined with the warped wooden beams running across the ceiling and the ancient stone fireplace, it was one of the most comfortable pubs Alfie had ever stepped into. The walls were adorned with vintage advertisements, tarnished mirrors, and faded sepia photographs. The floor was made up of old, worn flagstones.

Alfie felt the stunned tension that had suffused his being start to drain away in dribs and drabs. The capricious weather outside, along with the weight of history and tradition that permeated the very brick, only made the place more warm and welcoming.

“Ah, yes,” Cornelius Sharpe said approvingly, taking off his deerstalker hat and stuffing it unceremoniously into his jacket pocket. “Yes. Here is the kind of establishment that Orwell described when he penned The Moon Under Water.”

The bar area was, as it always was, the focal point of the pub, with a long, scarred wooden bar, a selection of beers and ales on tap, and an uncommonly small selection of dusty bottles sitting on the shelves behind it. There were a few small tables and chairs scattered around the bar, but most of the tables, some with bench seating, were set in the common room.

The barman poured them two pints of good, creamy stout. Sharpe paid for their drinks, and they went and found a booth seat by one of the two grimy windows. Opposite them, the fire crackled in the hearth. A log shifted. Sparks rose in a flurry up the chimney—molten fireflies set against the night sky of the coal-black brick.

“For a guy who professes to be the head of some magical university, you sound like you’re pretty keen on normal literature,” Alfie said, after the two of them had taken reflective pulls on their pints.

Cornelius Sharpe raised a silver eyebrow, produced a silk handkerchief seemingly out of nowhere, and dabbed the froth from his mustache.

“The reference to Orwell’s The Moon Under Water essay,” Alfie elaborated. “I wouldn’t have expected a magical person to know about that sort of thing.”

“You wouldn’t expect a magic user to know about the ten key points George Orwell—one of the most notable literary voices in literary voices of the age—looked for in his ideal pub? Why ever not?”

Alfie shrugged. “I thought you’d go in for more esoteric knowledge.”

“Like how to pull a rabbit out of a hat?” Sharpe asked him, stretching out his long legs to one side of the table.

“That kind of thing, yeah.”

Sharpe chuckled. “Despite what you’ve been taught to believe, the magic and non-magical worlds—the extramundane and the mundane—are not as separate as all that. Magic, like most things, is a skill that must be learned and honed. Yes, a person must have a proclivity for it, a natural disposition for it, and some folk are more gifted than others, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anyone has to do anything with it.”

Sharpe took a sip of his stout and stared into the fire for a moment. When he looked back, Alfie once more got the impression that the man was harboring an inner excitement. His eyes shone with some knowledge or secret that he wanted to impart. There was certainly far more going on behind that angular face than Alfie could guess at.

“To be surprised that I am a thaumaturgist—a magical practitioner—and also have a keen interest in pub lore and English literature is like being surprised that a mechanic enjoys listening to Bach or that a Pilates instructor is practicing to speak Portuguese.”

Alfie shot the man a suspicious glance. His father was a mechanic, and his mother had been a Spanish and Portuguese teacher before she retired.

“The magic and non-magical domains constantly stray into one another’s orbits. They spend much of their time overlapping, in fact,” Sharpe finished.

“I’ve never seen anything magical,” Alfie said.

“You might be surprised. The greatest secrets aren’t always hidden in the most improbable places.”

“I just would’ve thought that, if magic did exist, word would’ve got around by now,” Alfie said, turning his glass slowly on the table so it made a soft rasping sound.

Sharpe let out another low chuckle at this. His curious amber eyes crinkled up at the corners. He stroked his beard and re-crossed his feet. “I think, Mr. Turner, that you are greatly underestimating the human race’s ability and proclivity for self-deception.”

Alfie thought about this. “There are a lot of people out there who spend most of their lives trying to convince themselves, and everyone else on their social media pages, that they’re happy.”

“Precisely!” Sharpe said, slapping his palm softly down on the table and staring at Alfie as if he was well-pleased with his deduction. He jerked his thumb at the grimy window they were sitting next to. “Now, if I went out there and told your everyday Londoner that I was a conjurer, what do you think they’d do?”

“They’d either cross the road, give you a juicy one on the chin, or ask you what you were drinking and what the occasion was,” Alfie said straightaway.

‘Quite so.” Sharpe took another deep draught of his beer and smacked his lips. “They—you—see magic every day and never recognize it for what it is.”

“Really? Like what?” Alfie asked dubiously.

Sharpe drummed his fingers on the table, the picture of a man trying to find an example for something he rarely gave any thought to.

“Errrrr… Ah! Have you ever been waiting at a traffic light for eternity only to have it stay green for a fleeting second before it changed again?” he asked abruptly.

“Yeah, but what has that got to do with—”

“That is a dead giveaway that there was a mage waiting for the opposite light.”

“But that’s not very exciting,” Alfie protested.

“Exciting? What’s exciting got to do with it?” Sharpe countered. “Magic isn’t all about blowing things up, magic carpet chases through the streets, or botched cyclops relocations. Sometimes, it can be as simple as changing a set of traffic lights so your everyday thaumaturgist isn’t late for a business meeting.”

“Wait, there are magic carpets?” Alfie asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Like, flying magic carpets?”

“Of course,” Sharpe said, taking another slurp from his pint and lowering it by about three inches. “One of the oldest means of magical transportation known to man. The Ethiopian enchanters were very good with that sort of thing back in the day—the best in the business. It was the best move the Queen of Sheba ever made, getting those fellows on board. How do you think the Solomonic Dynasty became the powerhouse that it was? War elephants, salt, and tortoise shells?” He snorted derisively.

Alfie just stared at him, his own pint stopped just in front of his lips.

Cornelius Sharpe caught him staring at him. Gently, he reached out and pushed the glass toward Alfie’s face.

“Drink up, Mr. Turner,” he said. “You’re looking a little like a stunned mullet.”

Alfie drank, sucking back the smooth, slightly bitter stout.

“May I just say that it’s commendable how openly you’re accepting the information I’m imparting to you?” Sharpe said. “Many potential students find it a hard thing to digest if they are not from a magical background. I suppose that new fandangle system is doing its job.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Alfie swallowed and sat back in his chair. The beer and the atmosphere were helping to calm him, helping him to relax and think.

“Speaking of being a student and whatnot,” he said, “it’d be a good thing for me to see some kind of identification or paperwork, don’t you think? Then you can explain how it is that you know who I am.”

Sharpe gave him an apologetic look. “Of course, old boy, of course. How remiss of me. It must be all the excitement, you know. I’m awfully sorry.”

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and fumbled about for a while.

“My card, dear boy,” he said.

Alfie looked down.

“Um, this is a receipt for three packets of chocolate Hobnobs and a box of Aunt Bessy’s Yorkshire puddings,” he said, holding it out to the man calling himself Provost Sharpe.

Sharpe peered at the receipt. “Yes, as skilled as the cooks at the Academy are, they just can’t seem to get the hang of Yorkshire puddings,” he said wistfully.

Alfie watched as Sharpe gave his head a little regretful shake as if recalling a long line of failed Yorkshire puds. Then, he casually reached out and tapped the paper with one finger.

The receipt transformed before Alfie’s eyes. It changed from a flimsy piece of thermal paper into a rigid, lightly textured, gold-embossed business card with what must have been Sharpe’s credentials written on it in a flowing script that looked like golden thread.

Cornelius Sharpe

Mco, WiD, Bin, CMMB, HPNS, DRWMco, Wco, MRCOG

Provost

Aetherbright Academy

In that moment, with that simple demonstration, Alfie accepted that magic was real. Perhaps it was because the display hadn’t been showy—there had been no flashing lights or puffs of smoke or whatever—it had seemed so much more real and visceral than anything he might have imagined.

“Wow,” he breathed, turning the card around in his fingers.

Sharpe waggled his hand from side to side. “Probably worth less than the receipt, all things considered.”

While Alfie continued to turn the card around in his fingers, Sharpe studied the last inch of stout in his glass. “You’re obviously well-read, to know about Orwell and to have a knowledge of something other than Animal Farm or Nineteen Eighty-Four.”

“I like books,” Alfie said with a shrug. “They help me to escape.”

“From what?”

“From not knowing what the hell I want to be, I suppose,” Alfie said, flicking Sharpe’s card with a fingernail.

Sharpe took a final sip of his drink, set the empty glass down, and said nothing.

“Everyone seems so hellbent on wanting to know what you want to be, what you want to do,” Alfie continued, staring into the velvety blackness of his drink as the stretching silence pulled the words from out of him. “It feels like just wanting to be me, while I figure out what comes next, is in some way bad, you know? It’s…” He shook his head. “It feels almost like I’m… I don’t know. That I’m—”

“—waiting for something,” Sharpe finished.

Alfie looked up.

“Yeah,” he said slowly.

Sharpe nodded. Absent-mindedly, he stroked his mustache with thumb and forefinger as he regarded Alfie through slightly narrowed eyes. The suggestion of a wry smile played on the corners of his lips, although it was hard to be sure, what with the fairly luxuriant facial topiary.

After a moment, and without saying a word, he got up and walked over to the bar. He returned with two more pints.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering you the plowman’s lunch,” he said. “It comes with an excellent chorizo that goes marvelously with this stout.”

“I know,” Alfie said, “that’s… my… favorite…” He finished his first pint and pointed a finger at Sharpe. “How did you know that?”

Sharpe gave him a benign smile and spread his hands.

“The same way that I knew your name, Alfie Turner. The same way I know so many other things; dark and light, helpful and useless, troubling and hopeful.”

“Sharpe by name, sharp by nature, huh?” Alfie said.

Sharpe laughed and slapped his thigh. “I should put that on my card.”

“Bloody magic,” Alfie said, shaking his head, but he grinned over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of his second pint.

“Bloody magic, indeed,” agreed Sharpe. His eyes became brighter and more intent as he leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Which brings us neatly to the point in this little tête-à-tête where I extend to you the invitation to join the Aetherbright Academy.”

Alfie let this wash over him. He felt a warm glow inside of himself that had nothing to do with the fire in the grate or the beer in his belly. Almost, he could see the crossroads opening out in front of him. To one side, the path back to his old life lay, and to the other stretched a path shrouded in the kind of mystery usually reserved for big-budget summer blockbusters and poorly written fanfiction.

“This place, this Aetherbright Academy,” he said, pushing the rapidly dwindling dregs of his cynicism aside, “it’s really like Hogw—”

“No. It’s real,” Sharpe cut in. “Blimey, you wouldn’t believe that one of our own would’ve had the temerity to just fictionalize her school life and sell it as a kids’ book, would you?’ he muttered.

Alfie blinked. “You mean that J.K.—” he started to say again.

“The best way to answer your questions is to board the Wyrmline and see the place for yourself,” the provost of the Aetherbright Academy said firmly. “I could tell you everything about it, but nothing will convince you, or answer the myriad questions you no doubt have, like clapping eyes on the place yourself.”

His steepled fingers dropped to the table. When he reached for his beer, a key was revealed. It might have been lying under his hand the whole time, but Alfie had a feeling that the chances of that were bordering on the anorexic side of slim.

With the hand not clasping his pint, Sharpe slid the key wordlessly across the table. Alfie picked it up and studied it. It was about as long as his forefinger, shiny as polished brass, and intricately carved.

Matriculation Key

Grants the user entrance into the Aetherbright Academy.

10% increased mana regeneration rate

10% increased chance of learning a rare spell upon level up

“From what this glowing text is saying, it looks interesting. But you couldn’t give it a glowing aura or something?” Alfie quipped.

“Budget constraints,” Sharpe replied.

Alfie snorted. “What’s it for? Or should I say, what does it open?”

“Keys are curious objects—deceiving,” Sharpe said, once more gazing into the fire on the other side of the common room. “A very small key might open a very large, very heavy door, for instance. Some keys of the most dangerous, metaphorical variety might open the doors inside of us that should forever stay closed. That key opens up many paths, doors, and, in some curious cases, hearts. In your immediate case, though, it will allow you to gain access to Down Street underground station in Mayfair. In two days’ time, at noon, you will catch a special train from there, which will take you to the Academy.”

Alfie’s brow wrinkled. “But that station is closed.” Then he smiled and tapped the key against his forehead. “Hence the key, right?”

“Right,” Provost Sharpe said. “You know what, I suppose I could give you quests for this. I am meant to be utilizing the system where I can, according to the powers-that-be. Wait just a moment…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little wooden stick that looked, to Alfie’s eye, like nothing more than a pencil. He waved it around a bit in front of Alfie’s face, then grunted before putting it back in his pocket. “I think that ought to do it.”

“Ought to do what?”

Sharpe shrugged. “Something. Maybe. This system is all new to me. Can’t say I’m a big proponent of updating the old ways, but the Grand Prism does what the Grand Prism wants, and that’s just the way it is.” In one fluid movement, he drained the rest of his almost full pint, flowed to his feet, pulled out his deerstalker, and squashed it onto his head.

“You’re off?” Alfie asked in surprise.

“I have many calls on my time, many red lights to turn to green,” Sharpe said airily. He looked down at Alfie, his eyes twinkling. “In the meantime, I think it would be beneficial for you to toddle out and see Ignotus Market.”

“Ignotus Market?” Alfie asked. There were a lot of markets in London, but he’d never heard of that one.

“Very famous, very cultural,” Sharpe told him. He bowed politely and dropped his voice as a couple of women walked past him toward a table in the far corner of the common room. “It is, essentially, a magical market, in the area of Hackney Wick. It might give you more of an idea of the world of magic that you have so happily been ignorant of for so long.”

Alfie was skeptical about that. He’d spent a lot of time in Hackney Wick, it being an eclectic area that was very suited to young people and full of diverse, artistic, and eccentric types. He mentioned this to Sharpe.

“Exactly,” Sharpe said delightedly. “What better place to hide a magical market than right out in the open where no one can see it?”

Alfie wasn’t quite sure about this logic, but then again, he hadn’t been sure about anything since walking into Furbelow’s Gimcrack Emporium.

Apparently sensing his dubiousness, Sharpe leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I assure you, Mr. Turner, that all you need to do is look for a particular narrowboat that spans one of the dead-end access canals that branches off the River Lee Navigation canal, just before the White Post Lane bridge. If you cross the canal via the Nightingale narrowboat, you will gain access to the market. All you have to do is make sure you keep that key safe.”

Sharpe removed his hand from Alfie’s shoulder and stepped away. Alfie found himself staring into the incandescent heart of the fire. His eyes blurred for a moment, and his vision became a great smear of orange and black as he chewed this over. The last of his pessimism couldn’t help but think that all of this was terribly unlikely, but after only a few seconds, he managed to beat it down and decided to give it a shot.

Besides, what else have I got on? And what is there to lose?

He blinked, cleared his throat, and looked up to tell Sharpe that he’d head to the market. If that turned out to be legit, then he’d turn up at Down Street station and see if what he said about the train was true also.

However, when he looked around, he found that the only person near him was the landlord holding a platter with his plowman’s lunch laid out on it.

Sharpe, the tweed-attired provost of the Aetherbright Academy, was gone.

In the next moment, more of the ethereal golden text that had floated into his field of vision back in the shop appeared in front of him.

New Quests Available!

Attend the Ignotus Market

Rewards:

100xp

Earth Shard x1

Catch the Wyrmline from Down Street Station

Rewards:

100xp

Earth Shard x1

Alfie gave a small start, then, being aware of the two ladies who were sitting behind him, surreptitiously tried to swipe at it with his hand. The text stayed resolutely in front of his eyes.

“You all right, mate?” the landlord queried, setting down Alfie’s lunch. “You looked like you were away with the fairies there.”

“Yeah,” Alfie replied. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“You after anythin’ else?” the landlord asked.

“No,” Alfie said, glancing quickly out of the window. “No, I think that’s enough to be going on with.”