I would particularly appreciate any feedback regarding the pacing within this particular scene. Just so you’re a bit caught up–the main character is suffering from an affliction in which the various associations we take for granted in everyday life have been damaged. This is the first dialogue between him and the character that will become a mentor of sorts later on in the story.
* * *
The Magister turned from the window. “Yes, well. We had hoped working on the sorting floor would dull any emerging memories as your mind healed, but—“
“Healed from what?” I interrupted.
The Magister said nothing.
You have been mistreated, my friend. The voice in my head filled the silence, soft as silk.
How?
The Magister tapped the glass where it had cracked, traced the thin line with one finger. “When you came to us, it was as you are now. I do not know who damaged your mind and shredded your memory. Nor do I know what means they used. There are several magics that obscure or damage the mind—a miasma, or a consumption. Once the damage is done, it is difficult to determine what myriad was involved.”
I shook my head. I was frustrated and confused, but mostly I felt hopelessly lost—lost within myself. My life was an infinite void and my sense of self as insubstantial as a cloud. Who was I? And why had I never wondered until now?
“So it was magic, then. Someone did this to me.” I tried to hold on to what was real, what I could control. “And you have no idea how?” There was another question I wanted to ask, but I was too afraid.
The Magister tapped the glass again. “How was this window broken? All we see here is a crack in the glass. Was it a rock? Did someone try to break my window? Or was it a natural phenomenon, the result of an extreme temperature differential between the cold air out there and the heat in here? I can’t tell from looking at the window. Or, still another possibility exists. Perhaps this is the mark of a sudden accident.”
He put his face close to the glass and looked down, and I saw that a short ledge rimmed the greenhouse, several feet of yellow stone on every side. I leaned in and looked at the ledge by the bottom of our window. The body of a pigeon lay there. It had broken its neck.
“I cannot tell by looking at the cracks,” said the Magister, sighing. “But perhaps we will find the answers to your questions if we look close at hand.”
On a Lark 
I think the pacing is pretty good, but for some reason I can’t really define I’m just not feeling it. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a lot of connection to the main character. Maybe it’s the magister: He feels a little pretentious and… wise but uninterested. Like it’s more of an intellectual pursuit than actual concern for the young man. BUT… I have only this small piece to go on. A little building up would easily correct these things.
Brandon, thanks for the feedback. Interestingly enough, the Magister is meant to remain a little detached from the character. Your feedback, though, echoes with others’ who have commented in other venues… and I’m completely rewriting this scene with a whole new tack on the main character. I’ve even returned to third person.
I think the most useful feedback in particular was regards the main character. You’re right–the pacing was fine, I was looking in the wrong place. The character is suffering from a mental malady that has essentially “wiped his harddrive,” so to speak. But that makes for a strong lack of any empathy for the character. I’ve taken a new tack with him, as well. Thanks for the help!
So glad to have you chiming in. So cool to have this blog functioning as I intended. I really appreciate it. Again, thanks! :)