The dirt roads became cobbled, the forests surrendered to chains of houses, the quiet fragrance of the country gave way to the sounds and smoke and smells of habitation. I could see the haze of the capital in the distance, the sprawling and overwhelming city of Endellion, the seat of the duke’s sovereignty, and I suddenly knew exactly where my father was taking us.
I turned to look at him, and his profile was set like granite, his eyes carefully avoiding mine.
He was taking us to my mother.
9
My mother’s town house was in the northern quadrant of the city, in sight of the river that flowed through the capital like a silver vein. The last time I had been here to visit her was three years ago, when I was fourteen, and I had longed for Hereswith the entire summer I had spent with her. Longed for the mountains and the meadows and the slower pace of a country town. My mother had sensed the homesickness within me, and I think that was why she failed to invite me the following summer, or the following. We had gradually grown apart when I had chosen to study my father’s way of magic instead of hers.
I felt a twinge of apprehension when I approached her door, and I could only imagine how my father was feeling as he waited in the wagon with Imonie, the afternoon beginning to melt into dusk. I rang the bell, cleared my throat, and smoothed the tangles from my hair, to no avail; I looked like a weary, dust-ridden, and windblown vagabond when my mother opened the door.
Her shock was tangible. Her eyes widened when she realized it was me standing at the threshold, and her expression softened.
“Clementine?”
“Hello, Mama,” I greeted her with a hesitant smile. I was surprised by how much silver now laced her black hair.
“Where’s your father?” she asked, her voice sharp with displeasure. But she gave me no time to reply; she glanced over my shoulder to see Papa sitting like a defeated warrior on the wagon bench. “Ambrose? Ambrose, come inside. You look weary. And Imonie. Come, the two of you.”
My father eased down from the wagon, assisting Imonie. They began to gather boxes, which my mother rushed to assist with her magic, charming our possessions to glide themselves in through the front door to the parlor of her town house. After that, Papa insisted on taking the horse to the closest public stable, a block away.
I think he was avoiding the inevitable, which was having to tell my mother we had lost the town and currently had nowhere to go.
And so I did. While he was tending to the horse, I sat in my mother’s opulent den that smelled of gardenias and patchouli. Dwindle rubbed up against my legs as I took the cup of tea Mama offered me, and I told her everything. Imonie sat beside me, adding a snort here and there in agreement, particularly when I relayed the arrival of the two magicians.
“The Countess of Amarys’s sons?” Mama echoed, and her eyes slid to Imonie’s. The two women seemed to hold a private conversation, which irked me.
I paused, uncertain. “You know of them?”
“Doesn’t everyone in Endellion,” she replied carefully. I couldn’t judge her opinion of them, not like I could with Papa. “Her lands lie south of here, but the countess primarily resides in the city, where she has great influence. Her husband, the count, passed away years ago, but since then she has become a close confidant of the duke, in fact.”
That only made my indignation flare. Why, then, would Lennox need to uproot my father and me? Why Hereswith, when he could have chosen any town, any village, any slice of the city to be warden of?
“So the sons challenged you and your father,” my mother prompted.
I nodded and continued with the doomed tale, and my mother listened, her gaze resting on me and the scars that gleamed at my neck. She was quiet when I was done, and her silence made me feel uncomfortable. As if she was weighing what she wanted to do with us and our predicament.
“Will you let me and Papa and Imonie stay here for a little while? Just until we can find new work in the city,” I asked, because I didn’t know if she lived alone. If she had a lover or a companion, even though her house felt empty and quiet, full of golden trim that glittered in the shadows.
“Of course, Clementine,” she replied, a lilt of offense in her tone, as if I were being absurd to assume otherwise. “It’ll be like old times.”
It would not be like old times, and we all knew it.
Papa arrived, letting himself in the front door. His footsteps were heavy as he approached, and he stood awkwardly on the threshold of the den, trying not to look at my mother. She rose from her settee, elegant in her lavender gown, her black hair swept back in a loose chignon.
“You haven’t aged a day, Ambrose,” she said to him.
Papa at last looked at her, unguarded, and I thought I saw regret in his eyes. They had parted ways seven years ago. I remembered how they had reached a point when all they did was bicker and argue. They held different ideologies about magic and the intent behind spells. My mother studied metamara and used its whimsy on the stage, captivating audiences as she transformed one thing into another. She believed magic should be fun and entertaining, and my father, with his rigid avertana opinions, believed magic should only be used in logical, practical ways. As a means to guard and defend others.
“Same to you, Sigourney,” he said. “If Clem and Imonie can reside with you, I’ll find lodgings elsewhere.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother replied. “I live here alone, and this house has far too many empty rooms. Stay here for now.”
He nodded but still seemed frozen on the threshold.
I suddenly felt exhausted by the weight of everything—worry as to where we would go, what we would do now, and the sheer amount of homesickness that pinched my lungs every time I drew a deep breath.
That first night in my mother’s town house, I lay in bed and relived my new moon battle with Lennox and Phelan, over and over in the dark.
And I finally let myself cry.
Imonie merged into city life with ease, tending to the house and cooking for us. But my father and I were stricken and lost, perusing the classified column of the daily paper for possible work. There were no openings for a dream warden in the city, which seemed unbelievable to me, given how vast Endellion was. So many people, so many nightmares, so many streets. But I swiftly learned that territory was divided into small segments, and there were far too many magicians and not enough positions. A dream warden was a highly contested profession, my mother said when she saw both Papa and I were helplessly searching the ads.
“We could challenge someone this upcoming new moon,” I said to him after dinner one night, when he and I sat alone by the fire. “We could win new territory here in the city.”
My father studied the dance of the flames. “No, Clem. I won’t do what the Vespers did to us.”
And I understood why, yet I wanted to regain my position. I needed to be doing something here, for fear I might dissolve into dust.
“Then why don’t we return to Hereswith and challenge Lennox? We would still have the advantage, Papa. We know the nightmares.” But even as I said it, the words sounded unfeasible, desperate. Dishonorable. I couldn’t envision my father lowering himself like that, even if I could—somewhat—see it of myself.
“I think it’s time to put away nightmares and dreams and new moons,” he said, to my dismay. When he looked at me, I saw that he had fully accepted defeat, that he was done as warden. “We’re here now. There are many new avenues to take in the city. Let’s put the past behind us and start a new life.”