Read Finn Featherstone free: the opening chapter
A free sample of Finn Featherstone: Mischief & Magic. About 12 minutes of reading.
The Paperclip Prophecy (Book 1)
Okay, here we go. Deep breath. (I do that a lot. Breathing is free, at least.)
The chipped Formica tabletop felt sticky under my elbows. Probably orange juice. Or maybe just general lunchroom grossness. Honestly, I try not to think about it. Thinking is exhausting. Especially when you're trying not to think about the fact that you're currently failing History of Ancient Runes. Again.
Mrs. Periwinkle kept saying I needed to "engage with the text." Which, as far as I can tell, means actually read the text. Problem is, the words won't sit still. They drift. They swap places when I'm not looking. I can get through a page, eventually, but it takes approximately seventeen years. And a lot of squinting.
My best friend, Esme, sat across from me, happily demolishing a sandwich that smelled suspiciously of pickles and potion ingredients. She's a whiz at potions. Terrifyingly good. Explosions are frequent. But she's also the only person who doesn't make me feel like a total screw-up.
"You look like you're wrestling with existential dread," she said, mouth full. "Bad runes again?"
"Worse," I mumbled, poking at a stray french fry. "I think Mrs. Periwinkle is starting to suspect I'm faking being able to read."
Esme snorted. "You're a terrible liar, Finn. It's a gift, really. And honestly, who likes Ancient Runes? It's just a bunch of squiggly lines pretending to be words."
"Squiggly lines that are on the test," I reminded her gloomily. "And if I fail this test, my parents will send me to summer school. And summer school at Aethelred Academy is basically extra runes. It's a vicious cycle, Esme. A vicious cycle."
The lunchroom doors burst open, and Barnaby Croft swaggered in, followed by a small crowd of admirers. Barnaby is everything I am not. Confident. Brilliant. Able to conjure fireballs before breakfast. He also happens to be the most irritatingly perfect student in the entire school.
He spotted me and gave a smirk that could curdle milk. "Featherstone. Still battling the alphabet, I see?"
I clenched my jaw. "Very funny, Croft. Some of us aren't naturally gifted at everything."
"Some of us actually try," he countered, then turned to Esme. "Bellweather. Still perfecting your unique aromas?"
Esme rolled her eyes but managed a cheerful grin. "Always! I'm working on a self-stirring soup potion. It's a work in progress."
Barnaby laughed, loud enough to rattle the windows. "I can imagine. I'd suggest a fireproof apron."
He and his crew swept past, leaving a trail of smugness behind them. I slumped lower in my chair. Being magically average in a school full of magic is challenging. My only real talent is kind of embarrassing. I can slightly levitate small, lightweight objects. Paperclips, mostly. I'm pretty good at paperclips. It's not exactly the stuff of legends.
The bell shrieked, mercifully ending lunch. As we walked toward Charms, a tiny, flustered owl landed on my shoulder. It carried a letter. A very official-looking letter, sealed with a crest I didn't recognize.
"What's that?" Esme asked, peering at the owl. "You don't usually get fan mail, Finn."
"I don't even get mail," I said, carefully taking the letter. The owl blinked at me with surprisingly intelligent eyes, then took off with a frustrated hoot.
The envelope was thick, made of strange parchment. The crest was silver: a coiled serpent wrapped around a single glowing feather. It looked important. And slightly ominous.
I ripped it open with trembling fingers. The handwriting was elegant and swirling, the ink a deep, shimmering purple.
To Mr. Finn Featherstone,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to receive a special summons to the Office of the Headmaster, Silas Thorne. Your presence is requested at your earliest convenience. Please be advised that this matter is of the utmost importance and concerns a long-forgotten prophecy.
Yours sincerely,
Professor Eldrin Blackwood
"A summons?" Esme breathed, grabbing the letter. "From Headmaster Thorne? And a prophecy? What's going on?"
A cold knot formed in my stomach. Headmaster Thorne was not known for his patience. Or his sense of humor. And "long-forgotten prophecy" sounded like trouble with a capital T.
"I have no idea," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "But I have a really bad feeling about this."
The Office of the Headmaster was exactly as intimidating as I imagined. Towering bookshelves. Dusty portraits of stern-looking wizards. An enormous oak desk that seemed to stretch on forever. Headmaster Thorne sat behind it, his face like a thundercloud. He didn't bother with a greeting.
"Featherstone," he said, his voice sharp and clipped. "You are, shall we say, a disappointment."
Ouch. Straight to the point. This was not going well.
"I'm trying my best, sir," I stammered.
"Your 'best' is consistently below average," he retorted. "You struggle with basic spellcasting. Your potion-making skills are non-existent. Your understanding of magical theory is limited."
"But I'm getting better at paperclips," I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Headmaster Thorne raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Paperclips?"
"I can levitate them," I mumbled, shrinking in my chair. "With concentration. It's a skill."
He sighed, long and exasperated. "A trivial skill, Featherstone. Utterly trivial. However," he continued, leaning forward, "it seems your unique ability may be more significant than I previously thought."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a very old, very brittle book. Dark leather binding. Yellowed, crumbling pages.
"This," he said, tapping the cover, "is a collection of ancient prophecies. Within its pages, there is a curious reference to a student with a peculiar talent for manipulating small objects."
He flipped through the book, his finger tracing the faded script.
"It speaks of a 'Featherstone,' blessed with a touch that can awaken a slumbering power. A power that will either save Aethelred Academy or doom it to destruction."
I stared at him, jaw hanging open. "You mean my paperclips could save the school?"
Headmaster Thorne actually scowled. "Don't be ridiculous. It simply means your insignificant talent is connected to something larger. Something we need to understand."
"But what does it mean?" Esme asked. She had bravely followed me to the office and now stood beside me, radiating supportive energy.
"The prophecy speaks of a hidden artifact," Headmaster Thorne explained. "An object of immense power, lost for centuries. It's called the Orb of Aethelred. It's said to be the key to the Academy's protection."
"And my paperclips..." I began, my mind reeling.
"May be the key to finding the Orb," Headmaster Thorne finished, his voice grudging. "Professor Blackwood believes your ability to manipulate small objects could allow you to detect its magical signature. It's a long shot, I admit. But we're out of options."
He fixed me with a piercing gaze. "I'm assigning you a task, Featherstone. You will locate the Orb of Aethelred. And if you fail, well, let's just say your future at this Academy will be very short indeed."
I left the Headmaster's office feeling completely overwhelmed. My palms were sweating. My knees were wobbling. Saving the school with paperclips? It sounded insane. Utterly, completely insane.
"Well," Esme said, squeezing my hand as we walked down the hallway, "that was intense."
"Intense is an understatement," I groaned. "I'm going to fail, aren't I? I'm going to fail and get expelled and end up working at a paperclip factory!"
Esme laughed. "Don't be silly. You won't fail. We won't let you. We'll figure this out. Together."
"But what if the Orb is hidden in some super-dangerous place?" I asked, my anxiety spiking. "What if there are traps? Or monsters?"
"Then we'll face them together," Esme said firmly. "We'll use our brains, our magic, and maybe even a few strategically placed paperclips."
Just then, a figure emerged from the shadows. Barnaby Croft, looking surprisingly concerned.
"Featherstone," he said, his voice less arrogant than usual. "I overheard what Headmaster Thorne said. About the Orb."
I braced myself for a sarcastic comment. It didn't come.
"Look," Barnaby continued, "I don't particularly like you. You're, well, you're you. But Aethelred is my home too. And if this prophecy is true, we're all in danger."
He paused, then added, reluctantly, "I might have some information that could help. About the Orb's last known location."
I stared at him, stunned. Barnaby Croft, offering help? This was definitely getting interesting.
"Where?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Barnaby hesitated, then said, "The Goblin Gardens. It's a dangerous place, full of tricky creatures and ancient magic. But if the Orb is anywhere, it's there."
He looked at me, a flicker of something that might have been respect in his eyes. "Are you in, Featherstone? Or are you going to let a few paperclips hold you back?"
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. I was terrified. Absolutely, positively terrified. But I wasn't going to back down. Not now. Not when the fate of the school, and possibly the world, rested on my paperclip potential.
"I'm in," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Let's go find an Orb."
Barnaby grunted, a sound that could have been agreement or disapproval. "Good. Meet me in the courtyard in ten minutes. And Featherstone?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to trip over your own feet." He turned and strode away, leaving Esme and me staring after him.
"Well," Esme said, a grin spreading across her face, "that was unexpected."
"You have no idea," I mumbled. "Barnaby Croft, offering help. It's like the world has turned upside down."
"Maybe it has," Esme said thoughtfully. "Maybe this whole thing is making everyone reassess. Or maybe he just doesn't want to be turned into a toad if the prophecy comes true."
I laughed, a shaky sound, but a laugh nonetheless. "Probably the toad thing."
"Come on," Esme said, tugging on my arm. "Ten minutes to prepare for the Goblin Gardens. Let's gather supplies."
My room felt even smaller and more cluttered than usual. Books lay everywhere, mostly abandoned around page thirty. Not because I didn't want to know how the stories ended. I did. But somewhere around chapter two, the letters always started playing tricks on me, and I'd end up reading the same line five times and remembering none of it. Give me a broken wand to fix or a puzzle box to crack and I was happy for hours. Ask me to sit still with a book? Forget it.
Esme, thankfully, was a whirlwind of efficiency. She organized my haphazard collection of magical ingredients, dried newt eyes, powdered moonstone, a suspiciously glowing feather, into a neat pouch.
"What about books?" I asked, gesturing at the piles.
Esme sighed. "Finn, we don't have time for research. Besides, you haven't cracked open 'Advanced Herbology' in a week."
"I was going to!" I protested weakly.
"You were going to rearrange your rock collection," she countered, raising an eyebrow.
I mumbled something about the geological significance of quartz and let her continue. She was right. She was always right about this stuff.
"Okay," Esme said, handing me a small, leather-bound journal. "Take this. It's a spell-scribe. You can write down anything we find, clues, observations, anything useful. It'll be like active research. No long passages required."
It was a good compromise. A way to be useful without having to wrestle a book. I gratefully accepted the journal.
"And," Esme added with a mischievous grin, "I packed your lucky paperclip."
I smiled. It was a silly habit, carrying a single, slightly bent paperclip in my pocket. But it always seemed to bring me luck. Or at least a small bit of calm.
We met Barnaby in the courtyard, where he was impatiently tapping his foot. He wore a dark cloak and carried a gleaming silver staff. He looked every inch the serious, powerful wizard. I, on the other hand, probably looked like I'd just been dragged out of bed.
"Took you long enough," he said, his voice clipped.
"We were preparing," Esme retorted, glaring at him.
Barnaby rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let's go. The Goblin Gardens aren't exactly known for their welcoming atmosphere."
He led us through a hidden passage behind the library, a narrow, winding tunnel that smelled of damp earth and old magic. The air grew colder as we descended, and the sounds of the Academy faded away.
Finally, we emerged into a clearing bathed in eerie green light. Towering trees with gnarled branches loomed overhead. Strange, glowing fungi dotted the forest floor, casting long, shifting shadows. This was the Goblin Gardens.
"Stay close," Barnaby warned, his staff glowing faintly. "And don't touch anything. The goblins have a fondness for traps."
We ventured in, senses on high alert. The air smelled of decay and something else, something sweet and cloying.
"What are goblins, exactly?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Small, mischievous creatures," Barnaby said dismissively. "Mostly harmless, but they love tricks. And they're fiercely protective of their territory."
"And the Orb?" Esme asked.
"Legend says it's hidden in the heart of the gardens, guarded by the Goblin King," Barnaby replied. "But getting to him won't be easy. The gardens are a labyrinth, full of illusions and hidden pathways."
We walked for what felt like hours, picking through tangled vines and treacherous bogs. Barnaby led the way, dispelling illusions and warding off minor goblin attacks. Esme and I followed close behind, trying to keep up.
I kept writing in my spell-scribe, documenting everything. The strange plants. The eerie sounds. The unsettling feeling of being watched. Funny thing: writing was fine. Writing, the words came out of me, so they behaved. It helped to focus my anxiety and keep my mind from spiraling.
Suddenly, Barnaby stopped dead in his tracks.
"We have a problem," he said, his voice grim.
Ahead of us, a group of goblins had materialized, blocking our path. Small and grotesque, with pointed ears, wrinkled skin, and sharp, gleaming teeth. They brandished crude weapons: sticks, stones, rusty daggers.
"Looks like someone doesn't appreciate visitors," Esme said, drawing her wand.
"Don't engage," Barnaby warned. "We can try to negotiate."
He stepped forward and addressed the goblins in their guttural language, a language he'd apparently learned during his travels. But the goblins didn't seem interested in negotiation. They let out a chorus of screeching cries and charged.
"Looks like negotiations failed," Esme said, grinning. "Time for some magic!"
The battle was chaotic and frantic. Barnaby unleashed a barrage of powerful spells, while Esme and I defended ourselves with weaker charms. I even managed to trip a goblin with a strategically placed paperclip, much to Esme's amusement.
But there were too many of them. They swarmed around us, relentless. I felt a sharp pain in my arm as a goblin's dagger grazed my skin.
"Finn!" Esme cried, casting a healing spell.
I winced, but the pain subsided. We were outnumbered and outmatched. We were going to lose.
Just when all hope seemed lost, a loud voice boomed through the gardens.
"ENOUGH!"
The goblins froze, eyes wide with fear. A towering figure emerged from the shadows, a goblin unlike any we'd seen before. Huge and imposing, with a crown of twisted branches and a staff made of polished bone. The Goblin King.
He fixed us with a piercing gaze. "What brings you to my domain?"
Barnaby stepped forward, his voice respectful. "We seek the Orb of Aethelred, your Majesty."
The Goblin King let out a chilling laugh. "The Orb? Many have sought the Orb. None have succeeded."
He paused, then added, "But perhaps I will make an exception. If you can answer a riddle."
He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with malice. "I have no voice, yet I speak to all. I have no body, yet I can build or destroy. I am born of darkness, yet I thrive in the light. What am I?"
I stared at the Goblin King, my mind racing. A riddle? Seriously? Yesterday I couldn't focus long enough to read the instructions on a simple potion, and now I had to solve a cryptic riddle with our lives on the line. My anxiety threatened to swallow me whole.
But then something clicked. I remembered a conversation I'd overheard between two professors, about how stories outlive their tellers. And I thought of all those books piled by my bed, the ones I'd started and never finished, and how their beginnings still rattled around in my head long after the letters stopped cooperating.
"A story," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "The answer is a story."
The Goblin King's eyes widened in surprise. "Correct," he said slowly. "Remarkable. A human who understands the power of stories."
He gestured toward a hidden cave. "The Orb lies within. Take it. But be warned: its power is immense. Use it wisely."
And with that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving us standing there, stunned and victorious. We had found the Orb. And I, the boy who couldn't get through a chapter without a nap, had solved the riddle that saved us.
Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as hopeless as I thought.
The sample ends here.