“A life without magic?” I asked, and I could scarcely comprehend it. That he would want to let all his skill and diligence go to waste, until his spells sank into the darkest place of memory, rusted from disuse.
“Perhaps it would be best, Clem.”
I buried my opinions, but I was angry. At him, at the Vespers. At myself for losing a challenge I should have easily triumphed.
And the anger smoldered in me like a star.
“Come, you need a walk,” Imonie said to me a week later. “I’m heading to the bakery and could use the company.”
I hadn’t left my mother’s house in days, so I set aside my book and laced my boots, following her out the front door.
It was a cloudy, somber day. There was no wind, and the air sat heavy in the streets, stale and warm, even with October’s approach. I was still adjusting to the noise, for it seemed like the city never slept, and I tried to find comfort in the bustle of carriages, buggies, and people hurrying on errands, but I only felt more isolated and out of place.
Imonie and I took a side street. We had been walking for nearly half an hour and had already passed two bakeries.
“Are you trying to weary me with a long walk?” I drawled.
“You know I’m picky about bakers,” she replied tersely, and it only made me think of Lilac Westin in Hereswith and her renowned cinnamon rolls.
The street spilled us out into a wide thoroughfare. Thin rays of sunlight had pierced the overcast sky by the time Imonie found a bakery to her liking. I had spotted an artist’s supply shop across the street, and I planned to meet back up with her after a moment of my own perusing.
A silver bell rang when I entered. At once, I was transported by the shelves of paper, sketchbooks, and canvases, by row after row of paint tins and brushes and bottles of linseed oil. Overwhelmed, I took my time admiring everything until a girl my age with curly brown hair appeared behind the sales counter.
“Can I help you find anything?”
“No, no I’m just browsing,” I replied.
“Do you paint?”
“I draw.”
“Ah, lovely! You can find those supplies in the next aisle over.”
I thanked her and decided I should keep to what I knew best, and that was charcoal and pastels. But perhaps one day I would be brave enough to buy some paint, and a brush or two.
Eventually, I settled on a new sketchbook, and I made my way to the sales counter, where the girl was perched on a stool, reading a poetry book. I was reaching for my coin purse when the doorbell chimed and the girl’s attention shifted.
“Lady Raven,” she said, sliding off her stool to curtsy. “I have your order ready.”
I turned to see a woman of the court, dressed in a dark silk gown. She looked to be my mother’s age, with a few wrinkles catching the corners of her eyes, and her blond hair was swept up in a chignon, a net of diamonds holding it in place. Her lips were painted bloodred, and they were pursed, as if she did not smile often.
She approached the counter, her heels clicking on the floor as she rudely cut in front of me. She waited, tapping her fingers as the shopgirl set out a bundle of burlap. Lady Raven proceeded to untie it, her hands hidden beneath two lacy gloves, and she closely examined each item. Every brush tip, every tin of paint.
I glanced at the shopgirl, who had gone pale.
“It’s everything you asked for, Lady Raven. Just as you prefer.”
The lady finished her examinations and knotted the burlap. “Yes, everything looks acceptable. Thank you, Blythe.” Lady Raven turned to depart with her order, and that was when she finally took note of me.
I stood, stark and silent, as her cold gaze swept over me. She studied my wild hair, the features of my face. And then she frowned and said, “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
“No, lady,” I said, but my palms had become slick.
“Mm.” She lost interest in me and departed the shop.
When I turned to the girl once more, setting my sketchbook on the counter to purchase, Blythe released a tremulous breath.
“I apologize for that. She’s one of our loyal customers, and my father told me to always give her precedence when she steps into the shop.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m Clem, by the way.”
“Blythe. Will I see you again here soon, Clem?” She handed me the sketchbook as I paid her for it.
“Most likely.” I smiled and started to leave, but I smelled a trace of Lady Raven’s perfume in the shop, roses and lavender, and it reminded me . . . “By the way, who was she?”
Blythe’s eyes widened, as if I should have known. “Why, that was Lady Raven Vesper. The Countess of Amarys.”
10
“Perhaps you could take a few art classes,” Imonie suggested as she poured me a cup of tea the following morning.
“Where?” I asked, sitting at the table. An art class was enticing, albeit scary to contemplate, as I had never been instructed before.
“The university, perhaps?”
The thought of attending a school full of strangers made my stomach knot. “Maybe.”
“Well, you need to find something to keep you occupied, Clem. Perhaps taking a class here or there might help you adjust, make some new friends.”
I sighed, knowing she was right. Papa had already left for his new employment, working in the mines. A laborious task as far from magic as he could find. And my mother was still asleep, but I felt restless, aching for something. The mountains, I thought, and home. I longed for my life before the Vespers had stepped within it, and I wearily reached for the honey jar. I was about to melt a spoonful of it in my tea when the newspaper caught my eye.
Papa had been reading it, and there was a smudge of jam on the headline.
I reached across the table to take it and began leafing through the classified column.
Wanted—a caretaker for an elderly solicitor.
Wanted—a tutor in science and literature, for a young noblewoman.
Wanted—a dancer for the Disillusioned Tavern.
I turned the page, my heart heavy with discouragement until I saw the warden notices. Suddenly my hands were trembling, and my eyes raced across the entries.
Wanted—a warden partner for Lidia M. Lirrey, with the territory of 19 South Elm Street to 25 Reverie West. Experienced magicians only. Contact Ms. Lirrey at the Society as soon as possible.
Wanted—a warden partner for Phelan Vesper, with the territory of 1 Auberon Street to 36 Yewborne Street. All magicians are welcome to audition, and interviews will be held from eight o’clock in the morning until noontide at the Luminous Society Museum in Old Village, on Wednesday next. Contact Mr. Vesper for more details.
I felt heat rise in my face and I read it again, just to be certain it was the right Phelan. The pompous, impolite, selfish, tragically handsome Phelan. The aristocrat who had stolen my home and disgraced me. Bumping into his haughty mother the day before at the art shop had only roused the worst of my feelings. Toward him, toward Lennox. Toward a family that felt as if they could take whatever they desired and suffer no consequences for it.
My anger burned away to cold guilt for losing Hereswith. And then an idea came to mind.
I dropped the newspaper into the plate of eggs and cheese that Imonie had just set on the table. She was already staring at me with a cocked brow.