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"You talk," he said. "You’re... funny looking. Nonhuman, right? A spirit." He flicked his hand like he was shooting smoke. "It’s my room too. I was with my cousin—second year—playing cards. I co back and you make stand outside. This is a sha. We nobles shouldn’t share rooms with unknown people anyway, but here we are."
He jerked his chin at John. "That poor-looking one, your master? Hey, you—peasant—your spirit is decent. I’ll buy it. Na your price. I’ll teach it so manners."
Fizz’s ears went flat. His face lit like a stove. "Buy? Buy? You overcooked carrot in a wig, I am NOT for sale. ’Teach manners’? The last ti I took a class it was Advanced Pancake Philosophy and I got full marks for style!"
John held up a hand. "Quiet."
Ray tipped his chin up. "Do you know who I—"
Fizz didn’t let him finish. "Yes. You are Ray Fla, Count of Banging Doors, Earl of Rude, Duke of Too Much Hair Wax. Your fla must be from your face because your brain is all smoke. Also, the stairs hate you."
Ray’s mouth hardened. "Watch it, fluff. You’re in the Fla’s house now."
Fizz put a paw to his chest and looked around the neat little dorm room. "I see no house. I see a bed I was sleeping in before a walking trumpet barged in. Also, your boots sll like boiled onions. Was your cousin a soup?"
Ray’s temper finally snapped. A flare jumped off his fingers—hot, fast, sloppy from drink—and snapped across the room at Fizz like a thrown match.
John’s hand was already up.
The air bent. A small dark sphere blossod over his palm and drank the fla like a dry stone drinks a drop of rain. No noise. No show. Gone.
Ray staggered, blinking. "What—"
Fizz had moved too. He flicked his own tiny gout of fire up, not to burn, but to make a line of heat in the air that wrote one rude word Ray would never forget. In the sa motion, Fizz reached into the desk drawer and pulled the "thunder stick" he liked to brag about—the compact, strange, forbidden thing John had made once and then told Fizz to stop talking about. Fizz snapped the barrel up and pointed it between Ray’s eyes. His face was serious now, all jokes burned off.
"I will show you what it ans to anger ," Fizz said, calm as ice. "Lord Fizz does not like midnight door drums."
Ray went from bull to housecat in one breath. His pupils shrank. His hands lifted. His voice found politeness like a lost child finds a warm coat. "Hey. Whoa. Easy. Easy. That’s... what is that? That’s a magic item?" He licked his lips. "That’s— I want that."
John’s voice was level but iron. "Lower your hands and step back from the beds."
Ray obeyed, the new sense in him finally catching up to the old pride. He swallowed. His eyes stayed glued to the thing in Fizz’s paws. "How much," he whispered. "Na a number."
Fizz smiled in a way that made Ray sweat. "Say sorry first."
Ray flinched like the word was heavier than steel. He looked at John, then at the black thing in the spirit’s grip, then back at Fizz. "Sorry," he said. It hurt him. That made Fizz smile wider.
"Full sentence," Fizz said sweetly. "With subject and feeling."
Ray ground his teeth. "I am... sorry... Lord Fizz... for banging the door and for insults." The title tasted like vinegar, but he said it.
"Better," Fizz said. He did not lower the tool.
Ray tried again at charm, because charm was the only other spell he had. "So. The item," he said, soft, hungry. "I can pay. Ten gold coins. Three up front. Seven in installnts. Clean coin. House coin. I’ll even add a favor later. You want a tutor? A pass to a Fla lecture? Done."
Fizz’s whiskers quivered. "Ten gold," he repeated, eyes large. Then he glanced at John, already knowing the answer and dreading it.
"It’s not for sale," John said. His voice did not rise. "Not today. Not tomorrow."
Ray’s face twisted. Greed and rage wrestled behind his eyes. Greed won. He tried to smile. "Think on it," he said, a little too fast. "You can co to later. I—"
"Sleep," John said. "You reek of wine. And noise."
Ray bristled. The arrogance crept back in. "You think I fear you. I am a circle two mage. My family’s blood runs with fire like a river. You are nothing but—"
John stepped in and put a simple, clean punch on the bridge of Ray’s nose.
It was not a showy punch. It was the kind of punch a boy who had hamred iron learns by accident: straight, efficient, honest. Ray’s words turned into a surprised grunt. His eyes rolled. The back of his head found the door gently because John’s hand was already behind it. Then Ray slid down and went to sleep on the rug, limp as laundry.
Fizz lowered the "magic item" and covered a yawn with the back of his paw. "Dream tax paid," he said, smug. He waggled the tool once like a schoolteacher wagging a stick, then tucked it back into the drawer and shut it with his foot. "We did not fire it," he told the universe, as if to please a rule.
John bent, hooked Ray under the arms, and hefted him onto Bed A. He did it without bitterness, the way you move a sack of grain you did not order. He took off Ray’s boots because he had manners even when other people did not. He set the boots neatly by the bed. He pulled the blanket up. He did not punch a second ti even though the first had felt very useful.
Fizz fluttered down to the foot of Bed B again, still muttering. "Susan had star-cakes. Susan had a ribbon that slled like rain. Susan said my na like it was a good word. That walking trumpet owes three dreams."
John blew out the lamp to half. The room fell back into the soft, safe dark of a dorm that knew boys would be boys and stairs would be stairs. "Susan... your crush from your world?" he asked, because his voice had room for one small question.
Fizz put his chin on the blanket and looked at the ceiling with solemn eyes. "Yes," he said. "From where the sky sits lower. From a bridge made of steam. That is all you get." He paused, then added, very quiet, "She made brave when I was small."
John nodded in the dark. "Good," he said. "Keep her."
Fizz smiled into the cloth. "I will."
From Bed A ca a loud, awful snore. Fizz sat up, offended. "No. No, no. If he snores, I will burn another hole in his face."
"Do not," John said. "This house has rules."
Fizz sighed. "I will roast him with thoughts, then."
"Do that," John said.
The stairs humd. The painting’s river turned slow again. Outside, the tenth bell’s ghost passed like a mory.
Fizz yawned, small and squeaky now that the fire had gone out of him. "Say it," he ordered sleep, bossy as ever. "Say ’good night, Lord Fizz.’ It helps."
John’s mouth bent. "Good night, Lord Fizz."
Fizz curled. "Good night, My hero," he whispered, already half gone. "Do not let the fla boy wake and distribute again."
John lay back, eyes on the faint line of moonlight across the ceiling. He felt the day fold one more ti. He felt the line inside him settle. He listened to Ray’s ugly snore and Fizz’s tiny one. He let the quiet have him.
Sleep ca back like a friend who forgives.
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