A moan escaped me.
The pain was too great, too bright.
I could not withstand it, and I surrendered to the embrace of darkness.
11
I woke to something tickling my face. It felt like cold dirt was on my skin, on my chest, weighing me down.
Annoyed, I began to lift my hand and brush it away, but my limbs were heavy, prickling with pins and needles.
My eyes fluttered open, but there was a film over them, a transparent material that moved when I breathed. I should be panicking, I thought. I should be alarmed. But my heart seemed unmoved, beating a steady pulse, and I calmly lifted my hands from the dirt and began to tear away the gossamer that was layered around my face.
I was lying in the forest. Moss, dirt, pine straw, and twigs clung to my half-buried body. I rose from the earth and stood shakily on my feet, brushing my clothes clean.
It took me a moment to remember what had happened. To recognize where I was.
I could see a glimpse of Mazarine’s mansion through the pines. My leather art satchel was at my feet. I lifted my hands, studying them.
They trembled, but looked no different.
I noticed my hair. Long, sleek, and brown, flowing down my shoulders. I wrapped a tendril around my fingers, marveling at the sheen of gold that lurked within the threads when the sun touched it.
I rushed my hands over my face, felt the slope of it, the thick brows I had created, the thin lips. Then my neck, where the gill scars were gone.
I laughed, a raspy sound, and I wondered . . . how long had I been lying here? Sleeping, transforming in the shadows of the pines?
I quickly knelt by my satchel and opened the buckles. I sifted through the leaves of paper and found the sketch of my disguise. I would keep it, to remember what I now looked like, since a mirror would be of no help to me. I rolled up the drawing and tucked it into the pocket of my skirt, and then I buried my satchel. The art supplies were worthless to me now.
I walked through the quiet light of the forest, searching for Imonie.
She was where I had left her, although she was pacing, frantic. I stood between two trees and watched her for a moment, her distress so keen that she had not heard my approach. She was muttering a prayer, wringing her apron in her hands.
“I will kill that child,” she said. “I will kill her whenever she returns to me.”
“Imonie,” I said, my voice deep and scratchy and yet still my own. I would have to remember to disguise it later, when I saw Phelan again.
Imonie startled and whirled, yanking a slender dagger from her belt. I didn’t know she even owned a weapon, and the steel glinted in the light as she glared at me.
“Who are you?” she snarled, and I was briefly taken aback by her tone.
“Imonie,” I said, and took a step closer to her. “Imonie, it’s me.”
She recognized my voice. Her mouth fell open. The knife tumbled from her grip. She suddenly looked grieved, like she wanted to weep.
“Clementine?”
I didn’t respond, but I was satisfied. If the woman who had raised me had failed to identify me, then no one would.
The mountain wind rushed through the pines, tangling my hair.
And I smiled.
Part 2
Heart of Stone
12
I stood on the marble steps of the Luminous Society Museum, staring at the elegant colonnade. It was a quarter till noontide, and the sun was high in the cloudless sky above me. I had just returned to Endellion, and I was wearing my black-and-white striped skirt, my white chemise, my velvet bodice. The traditional clothes I once wore on new moon nights, when I had fought beside my father in the streets. It felt right to wear my old armor in this moment, even if the fit was slightly off now and the style was five years out of fashion by city standards.
I ascended the stairs to the heavy wooden doors, knowing I was almost out of time.
I had sent Imonie on to my mother’s town house. She was still upset by my disguise, and I made her swear not to say a word to my parents. The confrontation would soon come, but I would think about it later.
The museum greeted me with a wash of cool, musty air. My boots clicked on the floor as I walked to the receptionist, a young magician decked out in a top hat and a brown jacket with a daisy tucked into one of the buttonholes.
“I’m here to be interviewed by Phelan Vesper,” I said.
“You just missed him,” the receptionist replied, frowning down at the schedule spread before him. “He finished early for the day.”
“Did Mr. Vesper find a suitable partner, then?”
“On the contrary. He was woefully unimpressed.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear this. I remembered the way Phelan had first regarded me in the street of Hereswith, when he had narrowly avoided becoming Mazarine’s dinner. He had been underwhelmed by me, or so he had appeared to be. I had spent many hours thinking about how I would snare his attention in this interview, hours I had spent jostled in the stagecoach, suffering Imonie’s glares. And I knew his respect for me had not sparked until I had sunk his boat during the new moon challenge.
“Will you call him back?” I asked the receptionist. “The ad said he would be conducting interviews until noontide. And I’m here with minutes to spare. I think he will want to see me.”
“Well . . . I suppose I can send word to him. Can you pay for a runner?”
I procured a silver half coin from my purse. The receptionist wrote a hasty message on a slip of parchment and hailed a messenger boy from the streets.
“It might be a while,” he said, motioning for me to follow. “You can wait in the gallery.” He led me down a corridor into a spacious room with a sad echo.
The gallery was empty save for a table and a chair set in the center of the chamber. The floors were checkered, and the walls were crowded with framed artwork. I stood in awe, craning my neck to study the paintings on the highest row. An unexpected pain shook me. I fell prey to longing for what I had surrendered.
I reached out to trace a gilded frame. My talent was gone, and I felt the aching pit of its absence. I gave myself a moment to experience the pang of regret, to study the beautiful muses of the paintings that surrounded me, whispering their stories in rich oil and sweetened shadows and careful brushstrokes. Paintings of monsters and magicians of old, of creatures and places and landscapes that appeared so vibrant I longed to step within them.
This regret would consume me if I wasn’t mindful of its sharp edge. It would chip at the stone within my chest, and so I buried the feeling beneath the ice of my intention and stood in a patch of sunlight, waiting for Phelan to arrive.
It seemed like I waited an hour for him.
At last, I could hear sounds in the corridor, just beyond the gallery. Two sets of boots approached, and one belonged to him. I reached out with my magic, to catch the low conversation in the hallway.
“Who is this person?” Phelan was asking. “Do I know her?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Vesper,” the receptionist stammered. “I’ve never seen her before. Forgive me, I didn’t think to ask for her name.”
“But you’re certain she’s a magician?”
“Yes, sir. She cast no shadow. I did make sure to check that.”
“Well, I hope she proves me wrong. I fear my expectations are rather low after this morning.”