by Sara Holland
“No.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold on to the images. But they’ve already faded. “I was in this room—Thief’s Fort was burning, and Caro came inside to find me, but then the vision became just . . . black. Blank, except for the dagger. I knew I had to hide it somewhere, to remember where, but I don’t know. . . .”
The words bring a bitter taste to my throat. I fall quiet and let my eyes drop to my pale, bleeding hands. I am the Alchemist, I tell myself. But I don’t feel powerful, cowering here, in hiding, with predators circling practically outside our door. What I do feel is a sudden, welling frustration at everything I don’t know, don’t understand—
At the surging instinct to flee Sempera for good, just as Liam wanted me to do before I went to Crofton, as he urged when we fled Shorehaven.
I stare into the dark of his eyes, my gut tumbling and twisting with doubt. How many years have I lost? How many years did I spend scrabbling in Crofton while Liam Gerling studied the unknown parts of me in musty books? How many years was I condemned to remain a stranger to myself, to the Alchemist buried in shadow inside my mind? Even my ancient home won’t welcome me now, not wholly. My fingertips, blood-tipped and ragged where they enacted my vision, ache. My heart aches, too.
If the Alchemist stays sunken in me forever, revealing herself in shards of broken memories, never whole—who am I then? Not Jules Ember. Not anyone.
I stand, backing toward the door. Suddenly the need to be alone—and to get out of the deceptively beautiful Thief’s Fort—is overpowering.
Liam gets to his feet too, staring at me uncertainly.
“Don’t,” I say. “I need to think.”
“You can’t leave, Jules, it’s not safe—”
“Don’t!” My voice is louder now, a half shout.
Liam blinks, the hand he’d reached out for me falling to his side. I see the hurt that fills his eyes, but still, I turn around and practically run down the stairs.
Outside, I gulp down the cool spring air, though it does little to dispel the confusion. More than anything, it’s the smell of smoke that lingers in my nose, and the sound of screams in my ears.
How many hundreds of years ago was that night, that fire that burned down the Thief’s Fort and scattered the lesser alchemists to the wind? How many people died then, as now, because of me? Their loss—because they were lost, I know it in my bones—still tears at me. They followed me, whispers some conscience older than my body. They trusted me.
This was different from the other visions I’ve had, at Everless and on the road. I wasn’t running through the woods or chained in a dungeon, helpless, following a preordained path as surely as a wheel on a cart. I was there in the Thief’s Fort, there with the lesser alchemists, sharing their terror and adrenaline. I was alive in the memory, I could move and speak and feel. And after that . . . the weight of the strange jeweled dagger in my hand, as real as the pain of my torn fingernails or the heat of Liam’s touch on my arm.
I kneel on the ground and breathe in the cool grass, desperate to feel the huge, real press of the earth underneath me. The images and sensations of the memory fade a little, replaced by the pleasantly damp smell of the soil, along with the sound of the wind through the trees. The memories had been hanging in the air of that little room, coating my lungs, but now I’ve walked outside the range of the cloud.
I lift my head, turn to look back at the Thief’s Fort. I left Liam in there with lamps burning, but from the outside, as before, it appears only a lovely, empty ruin.
Suspicion creeps into my mind. This could all somehow be a cruel trick of Caro’s—another part of her twisted game. Like how she manipulated the former Queen, when slipping tendrils of her magic into her head . . .
Or is it not Caro at all but just my own weakness? Am I falling apart, going mad, without the strength to hold centuries of memory?
No. The shape of the glyph floats behind my eyes, written in burning gold with my own blood. The glyph and the Thief’s Fort—together they pulled me down into the memory, the shapes and lines weaving together over me like a net.
A message left behind—for me.
The dagger. It was in my hand; I can still feel its heat, its light, an inaudible scream of meaning from my past. Its handle was a snake—that can’t mean nothing. I flex and curl my fingers, as though by sheer will I might make it appear for me. Squeeze my eyes shut and try to see myself carving those strange shapes, to see more of what happened before, what I was trying so desperately to remember. I try to wash away the blackness of the final memory, to pull back the thick dark curtains in my head, to reveal any indication of where it took place.
But it’s no use. Memories dance tantalizingly around the edges of my mind, shades of meaning winking in and out like fireflies at dusk.
A commotion of voices in the distance snaps my eyes open. I realize with a lurch of my stomach that I’ve wandered far from the Thief’s Fort. There are pine trees all around me, blankets of needles under my feet. Faintly, I can hear the distant noise of the city. It’s not safe, Liam had warned.
Fear floods me. I shouldn’t have run from Liam, not when memories are clouding my senses like this.
Then up ahead, in the direction I think leads to the main gate, I spot a figure. It takes me a moment to recognize the silhouette as a person, because she—a girl in scholar’s robes—isn’t moving. She’s sitting on the grass, facing away from me, hunched over something on the ground. It’s clear from the stillness of her body that she’s utterly absorbed in whatever she’s doing. A patch of sunlight lingers behind her, the inverse of a shadow.
I know I should run, but instinct pulls me forward. It’s dark in the trees, and cold. Dark enough, I hope, that she couldn’t make out the details of my face.
I’m debating whether to call out when a twig snaps beneath my foot. Before I can think, the girl jumps up and whirls around, scattering the things laid out on the ground around her—I see the shine of metal, the white of bone.
A hedge witch’s trappings.
“Who’s there?” the girl calls out. I recognize her as one of the drunken passersby from before—the girl, Stef, who Liam said was from a family of hedge witches, who shouted mockingly, Long live the Queen. In any case, she’s far from drunk now. Her dark eyes scan the woods, and her posture is tense, as if she’s ready to run or fight.
I could stay still, or try to slip away. But the memory still has its claws in me, snarling in my ear. An idea blooms in my mind—a dangerous, desperate one.
Before I knew that I was the Alchemist and Caro the Sorceress, Caro, Ina, and I visited a hedge witch in Laista. That was the night before everything changed forever: Ina was seeking a blood regression, the countryside ritual where you can fall back through your own time and let lost memories float to the surface, moments to be thumbed through like pages in a book. Like so many dotting Sempera’s isolated towns, Laista’s hedge witch was a fraud—but her smoky shop brought forth memories in me, vivid details that had been buried. Those recovered moments led me to Briarsmoor, where I discovered the truth of my birth.
If Stef is really a witch, maybe she can help me where Liam can’t. Where I can’t even help myself.
So I step forward, into the puddle of light between us and call out to her.
13
“Stef.”
I hold my breath as Stef whips her head around to stare at me, the recklessness of what I’ve just done sinking in. Too late to take it back. Her sharp, unblinking gaze sparks fear in me like a flint stone striking rock. Maybe her flippant talk about the Queen earlier was just a show. If that’s the case, and she recognizes me as Jules Ember of Crofton, wanted for the Queen’s murder, I may have just doomed myself for desperate want of help.
But thankfully, she doesn’t recognize me, or at least if she does she doesn’t show it. Her eyes travel slowly over my face, her mouth flattening into a suspicious frown.
“I heard that you’re a hedge witch.” An attempt to be conversational. I make
my voice bold and bright, the way I imagine a student’s would be if this were only a diversion.
She glares at me. “Who did you hear that from?”
“From Liam Gerling,” I say, remembering the lesson Papa taught me and Everless drove home: to tell the truth as much as you can, so the lies will be harder to see. As I speak, I try to surreptitiously peer down at the things scattered around her feet, my heart quickening at the sight. Bits of metal twisted into strange shapes, carved trinkets that could be pale wood or animal bones, a small brass bowl of powder.
Her eyes widen in surprise, then narrow again. “High company. I’ve never seen you before.”
I shrug. “So are the rumors true?”
With an air of brisk efficiency, Stef gathers up her items in the piece of burgundy velvet they’re sitting on. Plucking a string of leather from the grass, she ties the fabric into a pouch and secures it to her belt. “Which rumors?” she shoots back, never taking her eyes off me. “There are a few. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“That you know about lesser alchemy. And that you have no love for the Queen.” I add the second statement impulsively, then stop, my heart racing. Can she tell I’m trying to feel out her loyalties?
Stef regards me levelly, looking just as wary as I feel. But I detect a glint of mirth in her eyes. At my boldness, I hope. “I had no love for the old Queen. I haven’t made up my mind yet about the little orphan Queen. But I doubt my life will change anyhow.”
My stomach clenches at the jab at Ina. I push down the anger. “What about the alchemy?” I ask. “I’m in need of a service, and I can pay.”
She gives me a flat stare. “If I did have whatever it is that you’re looking for, why would I tell you, stranger?”
My heart picks up. “Because I need a witch’s help. It’s—important.”
“What is it, then?” she says evenly, rising to her feet.
I brush my sweating hands on Danna’s dress. I see Stef’s eyes flicker as she notices.
“Remembering things I’ve forgotten,” I say. “I want to do a blood regression.”
Stef takes a step toward me. She’s tall, dark-skinned, with long braids falling over her shoulders. Her green robes look perfect despite the fact that she’s been sitting on the forest floor. “Blood regressions are for bored noblewomen or desperate fools.” Her eyes race down my body, then back up to meet my gaze, assessing me unflinchingly. “You’re no noblewoman. It must be important if you’re coming to me for help. But if that’s the case, how could you have forgotten the memory in the first place?”
My heart beats faster. She seems to be studying my expression, and I desperately hope that she’s been cooped up on campus studying for the past weeks, that she hasn’t seen the flyers with the sketch of my face plastered all over the city. “They’re the stories of someone who’s gone.” Not a lie.
“We’ve all lost people. Remembering their stories won’t bring them back.” Stef’s face remains stony. Then, in a quieter voice, she adds, “People forget in order to survive.”
In spite of her words, there’s a cautious note in her voice that ignites hope in me, a curiosity shadowed in her face. Now I’m the one to step forward. “Please. I’ll pay you for your time, but I really need the help.”
“You’ll have to find it somewhere else.” Her voice cools. She turns her back to me—apparently having concluded that I’m no threat to her—to finish gathering her things. A small bowl, a short knife shining in a bed of flowers. “Did Liam Gerling also tell you that the old Queen executed half my family for practicing magic?”
I swallow. “No.”
She turns back to me, a sad smirk brushed across her face. “Well, I’m not looking to go the same way.”
“Yet you’re here, in the woods, practicing magic,” I respond quickly.
She whirls on me, her eyebrows arching high, but says nothing. The silence emboldens me.
“I’m sorry to hear that about your family,” I say quietly. I move two fingers in a circle over my torso, making the sign of the clock, a traditional sign of respect when mourning the dead. “All I need is a single blood regression. Like I said, I can pay.”
Stef’s mouth twitches. “If you’ve heard rumors about me, I’m sure you’ve also heard rumors about my parentage. I’ll admit that being the daughter of a Chamberlayne allows me certain discrepancies”—her hand unconsciously travels to the pouch on her belt—“but I’m not going to risk myself doing blood regressions for strange girls who follow me into the woods. Now—good-bye.” She turns and walks away, green silk cloak flaring behind her.
“It’s Jules!” My voice cracks on the shouted word.
The echoed shout—Jules, Jules, Jules—seems to fill the trees. Immediately, I wish I could take it back. I stand there frozen as Stef slowly turns around again to face me. My name hovers in the air between us, a venomous snake that’s expanded its hood, ready to strike. A sign of warning. Of danger.
“Jules,” Stef echoes slowly, thoughtfully. She takes in my face again and I think I see her eyes widen slightly, almost imperceptibly. I remain still. “Jules Ember, I don’t suppose?”
My silence is answer enough.
Stef’s breath hisses out through her teeth. She moves forward, her feet silent on the ground, but I don’t miss the way one hand drifts to her waist. I tense, preparing to use my magic if she draws a knife from her cloak. But she just comes to a stop an arm’s length away from me.
Stef’s smile curls across her face slowly, like a ribbon over heat. “Did you really kill the Queen?”
Sweat trickles down my back. I shake my head. “No.”
Her face falls. “Oh. That’s a shame. If you had, maybe I’d consider helping you.”
“I was going to,” I blurt out. Enough of the truth has already spilled out of me—what does it matter if I let the rest out too? “But she was just a puppet. Someone else was pulling the strings.” I clear my throat, swallow down my fear. “That’s who I want to kill.”
“You?” she asks. Eyebrows lift again. Confusion and curiosity even a hint of fear war across Stef’s face—but the reasonable side of her must win out, or she must not believe me, because she turns on her heel. “Good luck with that,” she calls over her shoulder.
Frustration twists my gut. Yes, me, I want to yell. Who else? Who else but the Alchemist?
There’s one way to show her. My body moves faster than I can change my mind.
I raise my hands, throwing my mind out into the air. Before I think too hard about what I’m doing, I find the trees in the air and stop time around them, so that the branches around her go still, despite the breeze. The world quiets around us, the song snatched from birds’ throats. Stef stops walking.
One hand floats up to tug on one of the tight braids framing her cheeks. The seconds thicken around her, like honey. I can’t read her expression. Emotion twists her face, equal parts awe and fury and—
Recognition.
With a shudder, I let the magic go. The wind whispers around us again, the birdsong bursts back into the air. The sounds are frenzied for a moment, hurried, as if they’re catching up.
Eventually, she says, “My mother told me you’d come one day . . .” She trails off and takes another step toward me, her voice dropping into almost a whisper when she finally speaks the name, “Alchemist.”
The undercurrents are still there, awe and anger both.
My heart drops into my stomach. To hear that word from a stranger makes a thrill race up and down my spine, alongside terror.
“Your mother?” I respond, immediately wishing I could take the words back, they sound so young and foolish.
Stef ignores my question. She doesn’t seem to notice or care. “It’s true, isn’t it?” She looks at me hard, then takes my still-open hands into hers, flipping them over as if they’ll reveal some great secret—or trick. Then, in the span of a breath, her face changes from surprise to fury. She shoves my hands away, hard. I clasp them to my chest.
“If you’re the Alchemist, that’s all the more reason for me to stay far away.” Her voice rises above the birdsong and whisper of the breeze. I remember how close we must be to Bellwood. Stef, though, doesn’t seem to care. “You’ve been a plague on my family. Hasn’t there been enough collateral damage in your fight with the Sorceress?”
My heart twists as her words sink in. I recall the Alchemist’s followers who I saw less than an hour ago, in my vision in the Thief’s Fort. Were Stef’s ancestors among the dead? But I still need help—and I’ve already committed, I remind myself bitterly, remembering Amma’s words—so I take a deep breath.
“It’s true. I’m not asking you to be a part of anything now,” I say. “I just need one blood regression. Like I said, I’ll pay you.”
Stef studies my face for a moment, her own brow creased in concentration. Then she crosses her arms across her chest. “Five years.”
I inhale sharply. The amount makes me wince. How many people in Crofton died for less? But though I haven’t seen it firsthand, I know that Liam has enough blood-irons in his satchel. With a lurch of my stomach, I agree. “Fine. Five years.”
“These are real rites, practices dated back centuries, practiced for centuries by my family. No magic as powerful as yours, but,” Stef says shortly, eyes flicking to my hands again, “not a hoax or a party trick. You might see nothing, or you might see something that you don’t want to see.”
I nod my understanding. “Let’s get started.”
Hood drawn over my head, I follow Stef into the student dormitories so that she can collect the items required for the blood regression. A sense of triumph rings through me, drowning out fear. I’m delaying my return to the Thief’s Fort, in no rush to face Liam. I swear that, even at a distance, I feel the air growing warm with his anger at me—for running into danger, for rashly betraying my identity to Stef. But didn’t he say himself, on a wintry night in Laista, that I race openhearted into danger? Liam knows that the answer is yes. Always.
I’m surprised to find that the dark, sunken hallways of the dormitories that lead to Stef’s room don’t appear much different than the airless servants’ corridors at Everless. But, devoid of the servants who rush through the hallways of the Gerling estate, carrying laundry or nursing aching limbs, the dim tunnels of Bellwood feel lighter. History hangs in the air, saturated with a muted sense of joy.
