Burn Mark by Laura Powell

shrug.
    ‘Have you done something wrong?’
    ‘Not on purpose. The trouble – the problem – is . . . personal.’
    ‘A problem with your friends? Or with a girl?’
    Lucas felt a wrench of comic bitterness. He almost laughed. He took a deep breath. ‘No, the problem’s me. There’s something I’ve discovered about myself, you see. A difference. It’s hard to admit to, but I need to tell you what kind . . . what kind of person I am.’
    His father looked down. For the first time, his hesitancy matched his son’s. ‘Is this about . . . boys, then?’
    ‘Boys?’ Lucas repeated blankly. Understanding dawned. ‘No! No . God –’
    ‘In that case,’ said Ashton Stearne with heavy patience, ‘what exactly are you trying to say?’
    Lucas waited. His father waited. The words still wouldn’t come. Dumbly, Lucas began to unbutton his shirt. He kept his head bowed, hatefully aware of the flush of shame flooding his skin. Once his shirt was loose, he turned around and tugged it down, exposing his bare shoulder blade. The small velvety blot.
    He heard Ashton get up, muttering, and lean over the desk towards him. He felt the nearness of his father’s warmth on his skin, sensed the lightness of his curiosity, followed by a sudden tightening of focus. The sharp indrawn breath.
    ‘Is that . . . is it . . . ?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Ashton did not touch the mark. His back was very straight and his face was very still. In the silence, Lucas straightened his shirt and redid the buttons, but awkwardly, because of the trembling of his hands.
    ‘How long have you known?’ his father asked eventually, as if from very far away.
    ‘Since last night.’
    ‘And have you told anyone else?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Soon you must. You must inform the Inquisition. Within twenty-four hours, that’s the rule.’
    ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
    More silence.
    ‘You’re very young.’
    ‘I know. It should be impossible. The whole thing should be impossible. It –’
    His father didn’t seem to be listening. ‘You are so very young,’ he said again, quietly. He closed his eyes, and his own face grew old.
    But when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was steady and his tone brisk. He put his hand on Lucas’s shoulder and gave a resolute smile.
    ‘I am sure you’ll deal with this very well. Admirably, in fact. There’s no point pretending this won’t change a great many things, but together we will stand firm and do whatever has to be done. Of course, you have my full support. You always will – I hope you know nothing can change that. No doubt Marisa and Philomena will be entirely supportive too.’
    He did not say that everything would be fine. He did not say, I’m sorry , and, I love you , and neither did Lucas. They both knew the other wanted to, though. For the moment that would have to be enough.
     
    The rest of the day was the loneliest of Lucas’s life. He stayed shut in his room, dazed by a bewilderment so heavy it was as if he’d been drugged. Occasionally he would be overcome by panic. His thoughts would hop and sputter manically. Then he would have to get to his feet, wrapping his arms around himself, and pace back and forth until the shaking stilled.
    The house was deathly quiet. Philomena was still in bed, nursing her hangover; Marisa was at the tennis club. Ashton had left to attend the memorial service as planned. Everything else, he said with uncharacteristic vagueness, would be settled on Monday, after the weekend. He would ‘drop by the office’ on his way home.
    By this, he meant that he was going to break the news to the Witchfinder General. Afterwards he would set up an appointment for Lucas to be registered.
    Lucas knew the registration included a test of his witchkind abilities, but not exactly what this would involve. Inquisitorial techniques were not publicised; he had learned about them in general, not specific, terms. He would have to exchange his ID card for a new version stamped with a ‘W’. Then there was