Secrets of the Starcrossed

by Clara O'Connor

  “Better that way,” she cut me off and ushered me out of the tent.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My mind was still trying to decipher the strange utterings the wisewoman Fidelma had made yesterday as I sat looking at myself in the mirror while the dresser fussed with the elaborate style my mother had inflicted on me.

  Devastated by Fidelma’s verdict that I was most definitely not the girl he sought, Devyn had been even less communicative than usual as we made our way discreetly back across the city from the forum. Predicting his insistence that we avoid public transport which could be tracked via our payment systems, I had worn a brand new pair of beautifully engineered running shoes that perfectly combined style and support.

  Which was just as well as Devyn in full brooding mode had sped across the city, his long legs eating up the miles between the forum and my parents’ home. It also meant he could avoid answering my questions as I trailed half a block behind him, unable to do more than seethe at his back.

  On reaching the villa levels of Chelsea, he had peeled away without a backward glance, by which point it was all I could do not to race after him and kick him until he spoke to me about what had happened at the fortune-teller’s.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream – or, if I understood correctly, the vision. A vision of a possible present that could have been but wasn’t. Had I really caught a glimpse of Marina? Would she be imprisoned in this alternative version of the world? It worried me that I might be starting to understand after all.

  In my vision, Devyn was the same age he was now, but his whole being had been lighter, his aura sparkling with a sense of mischief that I had never seen as he bantered with his friend. He was still recognisably Devyn: grounded by a fierce determination and purpose and a clear sense that he would be the right person to have around in times of trouble. The love and respect that had underlain his friendship with the other man told of the many shared scrapes that they had faced together.

  Had I seen where Devyn was from in my vision? It had been beautiful and green with wide open spaces. And a sense of family. Such a deep feeling of home. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, at the sadness and hurt that lurked at the backs of the blue eyes that stared back at me. Was that what it felt like to belong?

  The version of myself in the dream had felt complete and utter trust and faith in Devyn as he put his arms around me. I’d had no doubts that I was exactly where I belonged and that I was safe there, that Devyn would always be there for me. Had I been the girl he sought in that moment or had I been myself?

  It had felt like me, particularly when the city had made its presence known. I had braced for what I knew was coming, what I felt to be utterly inevitable – the sound of approaching boots and Devyn’s withdrawal. That other girl, the one who had been so secure, carefree, and at one with her world and the man in her arms, had frozen in wild shock. I knew he would abandon me as soon as they came to take me… her. She had turned to face them, alone. Always alone.

  I wished I could be that girl. Even that taste of her happiness had left me dizzy. What would it be like to belong in Devyn’s arms? Or, more than that, to feel wanted and accepted there? Would it be worth the devastation that had gutted me when I’d thought he was gone? It was an impossible question to answer, particularly as I was still reeling from the soul-deep feeling of grief that had hit me in waves after we left Fidelma’s. I felt adrift in the wake of the meeting. Bereft. The vision, the news that I was not a citizen – not even a Shadower – and witnessing Devyn’s hopes being crushed just all felt like too much.

  When I had arrived home to my family’s perfectly decorated apartment, I had sought refuge in my room. Curling into a ball, I had lain on my bed and sobbed. I had cried ceaselessly. I thought perhaps the door had opened at one point and maybe someone had sat with me as I lay there, wracked. Anna, our maid, the one who had mended my childhood hurts in place of my mother, sat with me now. I wasn’t sure why I had cried so much. It wasn’t really in my nature to take things so hard. When I had been a little girl, I’d had a toy doll that I took to bed with me every night. One day it had disappeared and my father often told the story with doting pride of his brave little girl who, when I found out that the doll I’d slept with every night since I was a baby had gone, had simply smiled and shrugged. But I hadn’t slept well for months afterwards, lying awake, fearful of every sound in the night without my baba there to protect me. But I hadn’t cried once.

  Yet I had sobbed yesterday. I couldn’t understand it. The shockwaves of that moment where I had realised he was going to step away as my dream turned to a nightmare had rippled through me like a physical thing. I didn’t even know how to begin to describe it. But I had recognised it. It was not new to me; the tang of it sat in the back of my throat every time I saw Devyn and it had since the first moment I had seen through his mask. Was this the reason I had largely ignored him all those years? Was this the reason I was drawn to him like a magnet? Or, more accurately, like a moth to a flame? Some part of me had always recognised that Devyn was no good for me, that for every moment of joy I experienced with him, I was paid back double in pain and doubt.

  My head was yanked back as the hairdresser tugged particularly hard on a lock of hair as she twisted it, snapping me out of the mire of my thoughts.

  Joy? Despair? Pain? Were these really the emotions I experienced with Devyn? I examined my life before and after that day in school when the sentinels had come looking for him. The days that preceded it had been happy… no, content was a better description. I had been content. Endless days lived with no major ups or downs, no knowledge of hunger or pain, my time filled with petty interests and meaningless fashions. The colour that had blazed into my life since then was startling in comparison to that beige contentment.

  Midnight eyes warmed as we nearly kissed that first time at my party. Purples and blues of sadness as my eyes opened to Marina’s plight and so many others like her in the city. Oranges and reds of adrenaline and danger at the escape through the city and my fear that the sentinels would catch us.

  I wasn’t quite sure what colours I associated with Devyn, but in his arms I had experienced greens and golds of calm and safety, a deep, deep sensation that had made me feel more grounded than I had ever known in my flighty, shallow life. I felt like I was cocooned while the storms swirled darkly outside. I remembered us chatting over one of his beloved coffees, sitting quietly while we watched the warehouse activity before Marina’s escape, the shared exhilaration after, our verbal dances as I tried to get more information than he was willing to give, and the moments when the chemistry between us ignited. Devyn’s presence made that dark shadow throb and yet I never felt more alive than when we were together.

  Was it because I was really a Briton? Because I didn’t belong here? Because I belonged with him?

  “Marcus will love your hair.” My mother’s voice was like being doused in cold water. I blinked, struggling to push my swirling thoughts away.

  I met my mother’s eyes in the mirror and smiled at her look of approval, pleased that she was pleased for once.

  “I hope so,” I murmured, putting a hand up to lightly touch it, the elaborate twists and twirls accentuating the lighter strands of hair which caught the light as I turned my head to admire it. Would Devyn notice the way they had done my eyes, accentuating their size and shape, the sparkly gold shadow highlighting their unusual turquoise colour?

  Probably not. He was too focused on our mission of getting Marcus discreetly to Fidelma. But that was his problem; mine was convincing Marcus that he should meet a Celt in private.

  After the emotional storm I had weathered yesterday, I hadn’t been fit to go out in public, much less meet Marcus, and I couldn’t speak to him of this over a comms device. He had been working at the hospital all day so I hadn’t had any chance to try to explain anything. Not that I necessarily understood it myself.

  Marcus had no idea he was accessing the magic that flowed through his
blood… or did he? He had to wonder why he had some success at curing people while his colleagues had none. He was sensitive about his Briton heritage but it was a well-known fact – how had nobody pieced it together?

  Unless they had. If Devyn was right and our match was engineered in order to try and strengthen the blood of any offspring Marcus might have, then they must have had some notion that the magic that ran through the veins of the Britons was stronger in some lines than in others.

  Perhaps they realised that marrying the Courtenays to citizens was weakening their magic.

  “…time.”

  I jumped.

  “Pardon?” I looked across the room at my mother. “What was that?”

  My mother sniffed her displeasure at having to repeat herself.

  “I said, you’d better put on your dress, or you’ll be late.”

  I took one last look at myself in the mirror, mentally bracing myself before jumping breezily up out of my chair and whirling across the room as excited at the anticipation of going to my first proper ball as the Cassandra of old would have been. Especially as tonight I would wear Oban’s dress. Was wearing it a sign of my acceptance of the journey I had been on? Or a wish to be at my best when I saw Devyn again now that he no longer looked at me in the hope of seeing some missing girl but just for me? Did I need the glamour to hide or reveal myself?

  I could sense immediately as I greeted Marcus with a peck on the cheek that he had reverted to his more customary façade of a confident, beautiful person. Presumably, the glimpse of careworn doctor he had shown me at the hospital was not here to stay. I used to be so in awe of his sophistication and the suave way he negotiated situations but I was coming to realise that, like Devyn, like me, this was a carefully maintained disguise that hid his secrets from the world.

  One which would make my task tonight all the harder. This Marcus was much less approachable than the more vulnerable, weary doctor of the other night had been. I watched him covertly as we crossed town in the hackney with my parents. He still showed noticeable signs of exhaustion, but the slick man-about-town was not someone with whom I could easily discuss magic. Trying to convince him in this mood to meet a magic-wielding wisewoman who could show him how to deal with his own not-so-latent abilities seemed imprudent.

  From our conversations over the summer, I knew three main things about Marcus: he loved science, he did not celebrate his connection to the indigenous people of these islands, and he loved and believed in our city and society.

  Suddenly I felt coldly apprehensive of our plan. I could be putting Devyn and Fidelma in grave danger. Devyn would be revealed as a spy – if that was even what he was since he was less interested in what the council was doing than in what Marcus was doing.

  There was also a strict edict about the use of magic within the city walls. Nobody had been caught using magic in generations – the savage punishments handed out in centuries gone by had seen to that. The arena hadn’t been lit up with the fires deemed appropriate to end the life of magic wielders in generations. Anyone who knew their blood held any kind of ability had presumably fled across the borders a long time ago.

  I had always assumed that there was sort of a reciprocal relationship between technology and magic. Just as advanced technology ceased to work well the further from the city you got, I had always thought that this was true of magic in the city, that behind the walls, where technology was at its strongest, magic didn’t work. Judging by my own recent experiences, this did not appear to be the case.

  Furthermore, technology became somewhat less reliable while the Britons were in town. Many of the delegates were important people in their society so did that also increase the likelihood that they wielded magic? There was speculation that the Prince of Mercia’s attendance this year was the reason it was worse than usual. How much of his mother’s power had he inherited? The city was uneasy at his presence – I couldn’t even imagine the reaction if the Lady of the Lake herself ever attended. Her magic was feared. All magic was feared. There was a reason Britons weren’t allowed behind the walls beyond this one week. Why traders from continents yet to stamp it out were forbidden from disembarking off their ships. Whenever magic appeared inside the Empire, it was stamped out. Swiftly and brutally.

  I felt increasingly nervous about discussing any of this with Marcus. He was a loyal citizen of the Empire as well as someone who believed fiercely in the Code. Would his sense of self-preservation be enough to prevent him from betraying us, because surely reporting us would mean revealing his own abilities? Which would mean an end to his ambitions as a doctor and who knew what impact it would have on his citizenship, and on his place on the council.

  For while his Briton heritage was a reasonably well-known fact – and even part of his attraction, for some, as the last living descendant of the York princess whose marriage had ended centuries of open war – he was also the last scion of House Courtenay, which far outweighed any possibility of his Wilder blood being seen as a dilution of his right to citizenship. Marcus was a veritable prince of the city who lived a charmed life which was recorded by the social bursts so beloved of the city’s housewives and teenage girls. It would be a great height from which to fall, and I doubted it was a future Marcus would willingly choose for himself.

  But Devyn and the wisewoman were willing to risk all to help him, and I was convinced that to continue as he was would undoubtedly kill him. Squaring my shoulders, I slipped on my mask and took Marcus’s hand as we stepped out of the car at the foot of the steps to the Governor’s Palace, where the masquerade ball to mark the last night of the Treaty Renewal was being held.

  The Governor’s Palace had at one time stood alone, its glittering lights reflected in the river below, its height looming over the entire city from the Southbank. Now it anchored the urban heights that had grown up around it. It remained the building most faithful to the Empire, not just in its architecture but also as the home of the power it represented here in the most westerly reaches of the Empire. My breath caught as I was reminded of the might of the system I was planning to defy. The palace, like the amphitheatre and the forum, was privileged in never having had towers or layers of city built above it. I looked higher up into the night sky and took solace from the stars above.

  I smiled at the slight lift of Marcus’s brow, the first indication he’d given that he had noticed my odd mood.

  The walk up the stairs was like being in the central ring at a circus. We were on display, the crowds there to catch a glimpse of the Britons in all their exotic finery, but a gratifying number of flashes greeted Marcus and me as we made our way up the stairs. I wondered if Oban would ever see the pictures of his magnificent gown – wherever he was.

  The ball was far more formal than anything I had ever attended before and the sense of calm and grandeur in the marble-floored entrance was immediate after the chaos outside. Straight-backed attendants accepted guests’ coats and wraps before indicating we should continue up either of the great curving stairs on each side.

  As we followed the elegant couples towards the Great Ballroom, the perfume and colours of the flowers that lined the hall were incredibly distracting. My senses came alive, like a dancer who on hearing the music start unconsciously begins to tap their foot to the tune.

  “Have you been well?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes, quite.”

  Apparently we had moved from a comfortable if distracted silence to a stilted opener.

  “And you? Did you meet with Otho’s family?”

  He nodded. “Have you been doing anything of interest this week?”

  Right, so that was a topic not open for discussion… which was going to make it difficult to bring up my belief that he needed to see someone about his somewhat unorthodox healing technique.

  “I met up with a friend earlier in the week,” I said as I looked about to see how close the nearest guests were. “And we went to see a fortune-teller.”

  Which was greeted with a classic male upper-
lip curl of disdain and no indication of any further interest.

  “It was fascinating and we talked about all kinds of things,” I pursued regardless. “I’d never spoken to a Briton before.”

  Still nothing.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know what she told me?” I asked, persisting.

  At this, Marcus deigned to look at me. “I suppose so, though as our match has gone public, I’m hoping that she didn’t fail to predict marriage to a gorgeous doctor.”

  Too easy.

  “Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t,” I teased, now that I had his attention, before continuing with the bait hastily concocted when Devyn had sketched out the plan earlier this morning. “She did know something about the illness though, and she says that cases have been found beyond the borders.”

  “You shouldn’t be discussing anything to do with the health or safety of imperial citizens with an outsider.”

  “But they’ve been having some success in treating it,” I said, dangling the bait under his nose.

  “What? How?”

  I shook my head, indicating with a sideways look around us that I couldn’t speak further in the presence of others. The procession had started to tighten up as we approached the entrance to what I assumed from the growing hum of the crowd was the Great Ballroom.

  We shuffled forward slowly, Marcus’s distraction swept aside by his frustration at not being able to discover if there was anything to the fortune-teller’s claims, something new he hadn’t thought of yet, something that might explain his own success where others had failed.

  He couldn’t hide his impatience at all the obsequious greeting, handshaking and air kissing that was required to make it past the senators lined up inside the door and over to the general crowd where we could speak more freely.

  As we made our way through the sparkling guests, he pulled me across to a window where we could turn our backs to the room to peer through the tall panes of glass at the crowd below.