She looked over at Madison, studying her as if she were an especially interesting specimen. “What’s your girl’s name?” she asked, toying with a large emerald that hung from a chain around her neck.
Seph didn’t honor that question with an answer.
Longbranch tch’ed. “Are you going to waste your life as a nursemaid to the servant guilds or learn to navigate the world of wizards, where the real power lies? Think about it.”
“I don’t have to think about it,” Seph said, but Longbranch had already turned away.
Jack and Ellen were looking curiously at Jason. With the death of Gregory Leicester, some of Jason’s intensity and spirit seemed to have drained away. He leaned against a stone pillar, looking tired and thin, almost ill. It reminded Seph of his first day in Trinity, when he was the outsider.
“Jack Swift and Ellen Stephenson, this is Jason Haley,” Seph said. “He’s a friend from the Havens. He saved my life.”
Leicester still lay on the floor where he had fallen. Seph felt no joy at the way he had died, only intense relief and the conviction that the death of the wizard was a matter of survival for him and the people he cared about.
Up in the gallery, the newly freed Warren Barber looked down on the survivors of the battle in the conference room. He felt an incredible joy. He was on his own again, no longer answerable to any authority. Up until a short while ago, Leicester had seemed like the horse to back. But he’d died like anyone else. The rest of the alumni lay on the floor like so many carcasses. They deserved to be ruled, he thought. But not Warren Barber. He would not let that happen, ever again.
He thought of McCauley’s girl, and his breath came quicker. First, there was the episode at the river, when she’d put King down on his back. Then Warren had tried to spell her in the garden, and had gone down like a rock. Leicester and the alumni had done no better. Was she a wizard with a powerful stone, or was she carrying an amulet of some kind? Warren was no scholar, but he figured he could find out.
He couldn’t resist sliding his hand inside his shirt, feeling the parchment that lay next to his skin. It had been easy enough to nick it from the desk where Hays had hidden it. He knew all the hiding places at Second Sister.
He hadn’t decided what he would do with it, but he knew it represented power. D’Orsay would give anything to get his hands on it. So would anyone on the council. Then again, why shouldn’t Warren Barber be king?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Trinity and Cumbria
“As you can see, we have a large family in Britain, Seph.” Hastings gestured, taking in the tumbled gravestones that broke through the wind-blasted heather. “Unfortunately, they’re all underground.”
Seph stooped and picked up a broken piece of granite. He scraped away at the moss that obscured the inscription on the nearest marker until it was revealed. HASTYNGS. He traced the letters with his fingers and looked back toward the great stone house. It brooded in boreal grandeur amid the frowning fells, set in a valley stitched over with stone walls. The light was decaying, although it was only late afternoon. Dusk came early this far north. Cumbria. Home of his ancestors. Hastings—his father—said the house had been in the family for generations.
As he watched, Jason emerged from the house, waved to get their attention, and disappeared back inside. “I guess dinner is ready,” Seph said. He stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets.
“I feel like I’ve found a family and a home, and Jason lost his,” he said.
Hastings stared off toward Scotland, his face bleak and still as the weathered hills. “I promised Jason that if he stayed in Trinity and finished school, I would get him involved in wizard politics.” Without shifting his gaze, he answered Seph’s unspoken objection. “Believe me, I know all about the cost of holding on to anger, yet I can’t talk him out of it. He still wants to go after D’Orsay.”
The political future of the Weirguilds was still cloudy. The council that had met at Second Sister had signed off on the Hastings-Downey constitution before they disbanded, but it was unclear how to get the document consecrated. The whereabouts of the Leicester-D’Orsay constitution was unknown. And, for the first time in more than five hundred years, the wizards were officially at war.
Linda and Hastings often held strategy sessions at the house that lasted late into the night. Sometimes Hastings was still there in the morning.
The role of family man did not come easily to Hastings. Much of Hastings and Seph’s time together was spent in training: reviews of charms and countercharms, tutorials on the Old Magic. Seph realized his father was doing his best to hone his skills in wizardry for his own protection. That was love, delivered in Hastings’s relentless fashion.
Madison was still working at the Legends and attending classes at Trinity. Despite her apprehension, she melded well with the upscale, grunge, art-student culture.
Her work was even featured by one of the galleries close to campus.
She’d been wary of Seph since the episode at Second Sister. She held back, kept secrets as if she saw a new risk in their relationship that hadn’t been there before. She was friendly enough, but he almost had the sense she was avoiding being alone with him. Linda had offered to fly her to Britain for Christmas, but she’d gone home to Coalton County instead.
Seph had chosen a present for her, four framed sketches of cathedrals he’d found in a gallery in London.
Hastings broke into his reverie. “We’d better go back. It won’t do to be late to dinner on Christmas Eve.”
Dinner was served by candlelight in the great hall, roast beef and vegetables and Yorkshire puddings: a feast for four people, and they’d all had a hand in it. Afterward, they ate Stilton and pears and drank wine by the fire while the snow came down outside. Later, they would brave the weather to attend midnight mass at the Catholic church down in the village. Seph hoped it would keep snowing. Hastings had promised to bring out the sleigh.
Brightly wrapped packages of intriguing possibility waited under the towering Douglas fir in the hearth corner.
Hastings went first. For Seph, there were two books of spellcraft from Hastings’s private collection. For Jason, a pair of English climbing boots, suitable for winter hikes in the fells. For Linda, a pendant with the flat-gray color of a sorcerer’s piece, set with garnet.
Linda had a barn coat for Hastings, a heavy Scots-wool sweater for Jason. And a mysterious package for Seph. When she put it into his hands and he felt the weight of it, he knew what it was before he tore the paper away. It was his Weirbook, his history between his hands.
When Seph looked back at the events of the summer and fall, he realized his personal philosophy had changed. “Don’t expect much, and you won’t be disappointed,” he’d always said, a kind of charm of self-protection.
He had never planned on or expected parents, let alone a complicated pair like Linda Downey and Leander Hastings. As a family, they were still just a collection of strangers. Who knows what will happen? But he couldn’t help but be optimistic.
Madison was still a mystery to him, but a mystery he hoped to solve. He would find a way to make it work, because he finally understood that sometimes you have to raise your expectations. And sometimes you need to make a claim on the world and the people you love to get what you most desire.
For Eric and Keith—who believe in dragons
Acknowledgments
A book is like a ship. It requires a host of people to launch one. Some help with the structure and design, others provide the financing, some cheer from the shoreline, while others put their shoulders to the keel and push it free from its moorings.
I’m grateful to all the talented people at Hyperion, especially my editor, Arianne Lewin, who made me rewrite the whole thing and make it a better book. Thanks to Elizabeth Clark, who, along with artist Larry Rostant, is responsible for those gorgeous covers. Thanks to Angus Killick and his team, who put my books into the hands of teachers and librarians. (And thanks also to those teachers and l
ibrarians who put my books into the hands of readers.)
Bless you, Christopher Schelling. In addition to being a stellar agent, he regularly convinces me, rightly or wrongly, that I’m not crazy.
Thanks to the genius Pam Daum, for the gorgeous photographs. Writer, artist, forever friends. I miss you.
Thanks to my generous colleagues in Hudson Writers and Twinsburg Writers for providing the gift of loving, specific critique. Thanks especially to Marsha McGregor, who endured some rather incoherent phone calls and talked me down.
I owe a heartfelt thanks to Rod, who provided moral, emotional and technical support (Website, photography, layout and design, printer diagnosis and treatment) while enduring the occasional rant and doing more than his share of housework and relationship maintenance. (Those birthday cards that went out—wasn’t me.)
Finally, thanks to my early readers, Eric and Keith, who started it all.
Prologue
Seven Years Prior
Fog clung to Booker Mountain like an old ragged coat. The pickup’s chancy headlights poked frail tunnels through the mist. Although the road was narrow and treacherous, Madison didn’t worry. Her grandmother Min could find her way blindfolded and sound asleep.
Min rammed the truck into low gear as the grade steepened. Her face was set in hard, angry lines, but Madison knew Min wasn’t mad at her. She felt rescued, cocooned in the pickup with John Robert on her lap and Grace jammed between her and the door. Grace was sleeping, her head braced against the window, her hair hanging in knots around her face. Min hadn’t taken the time to comb it.
“Won’t Mama worry when she comes home and finds us gone?” Madison asked, speaking softly so as not to startle John Robert, who was sucking his thumb with that drunk-baby look on his face.
“Carlene could do with a little worrying, if you ask me,” Min said. “The idea, leaving a ten-year-old in charge of a baby and a toddler for two days.”
“Somebody probably called off,” Madison suggested. “Or maybe Harold Duane asked her to work late.”
“The tavern’s only open till two. She had no business staying out all night.”
“I’m real grown up for my age, Mama says.”
Min snorted and rolled her eyes. “I know you are, honey. You’re more grown up than your mama. You were born wise.”
They swept past the brick-and-stone wall and lighted gateposts that marked the Roper place. Min made a sign with her hand as they passed the broad driveway.
“What’s that for?” Madison asked, knowing it was a hex.
Min didn’t answer. Min always said good Christians didn’t hex people.
“Why do you want to hex the Ropers?” Madison persisted. Brice Roper lived there. He was in her class at school. He had this glow around him like light through rain-smeared glass— the kind of glow rich people had, maybe. Brice had four Arabian horses, and he’d let you ride them if he liked you.
Madison had never been riding at the Ropers.
“The Ropers want our mountain,” Min said.
Madison blinked. Booker Mountain? What would they want with that? “But their place is much nicer,” she blurted out.
If you liked fancy stone houses with pillars and grassy lawns and miles of white fence. And Arabian horses.
“Coal,” Min said bluntly. “Bryson Roper can’t get the rest of his coal out of the ground without going through Booker Mountain. And that belongs to me.”
They rounded the last curve, past the mailbox that said M. BOOKER, READER AND ADVISER. The pickup rattled to a stop at the foot of the porch steps.
Madison carried John Robert and Min carried Grace. Madison walked flat-footed across the weathered planks of the porch, so she wouldn’t get splinters in her bare feet. By the time they’d climbed the steps and crossed the porch and carried the kids to the back bedrooms, Min was breathing hard, her face a funny gray color.
Madison felt the cold kiss of fear on the back of her neck. “Gramma? You all right?”
Min only waved her hand, too breathless to speak. She clawed open the neck of her blouse, revealing the opal necklace she always wore. The one she sometimes let Madison try on.
Once they had the young ones settled in bed, Madison built a fire in the stove and made coffee for both of them. Min didn’t even complain about how she made it, which was worrisome.
“It’s going to be a cold winter,” Min predicted, settling into the only chair with arms, and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. Some of her color had come back. “More snow than we’ve had in a long time. A dying time.”
When Min predicted anything, it was best to listen. Still, Madison was old enough to wonder how a person who could foretell the future could run into so much bad luck.
Madison liked sitting at the table in the front room, drinking sweet coffee with Min. The stripey cat lay purring in front of the fire. Only one thing would make it better, if Min would only say yes.
“Read the cards for me, Gramma!” Madison begged. Reading the cards was a serious business, her grandmother always said, and not done for the entertainment of young girls.
But Min studied Madison a moment, her pale blue eyes glittering like moonstones, her capable hands wrapped around her mug of coffee, then nodded. “All right. It’s time. Fetch the cards from on top of the mantel.”
“You mean it?” Madison scrambled down from her chair before Min could change her mind.
Min kept two decks of cards in a battered wooden box with a cross carved into the top. She called them “gypsy cards,” but they looked like regular playing cards to Madison, with a few extras. The box also held a leather pouch full of pebbles and little bones, but Madison had never seen Min use those.
Min handed her the thicker deck. Madison shuffled the cards awkwardly, cut them three times, and shuffled again.
“Lay them out in three rows of three,” Min said, and Madison did.
Her grandmother flipped them over, the cards slapping softly on the weathered wood of the table.
“Madison Moss.” Now her voice was a stranger’s, the voice of the reader. “Would you hear the truth?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Madison answered, swallowing hard, hoping there wouldn’t be anything scary.
Min studied the cards, pushed her glasses down on her nose, and studied them some more. Madison leaned forward, squinting down at them. The center card in each row was a dragon with snaky eyes and a long, twisting tail, brilliant with color, glittering with gilt.
Abruptly, Min scooped them up and handed them back to Madison. “Shuffle again.”
Mystified, Madison shuffled and spread them. Dragons again. Min frowned at them. Moved them about with the tips of her fingers. Pulling the leather pouch from the box, she emptied it into her palm. Tossed the pebbles and bones down onto the table. Raked them up and threw them down, muttering to herself.
“What’s the matter?” Madison asked, disappointed. “Aren’t they working?”
“Oh, child,” Min said, shaking her head. The color had left her face again. She extended her trembly hand toward Madison, then drew it back as if afraid to touch her. “Never mind. Let’s try something else.” Min handed her the smaller, thirty-two-card deck, sevens and up.
Madison shuffled the cards again and set them out in the familiar gypsy spread, three rows of seven cards in pairs. Past, present, and future.
No dragons.
Personally, Madison wasn’t all that interested in the past or the present. But she had hopes for the future. She leaned forward eagerly as Min flipped the cards over one by one. Min whispered her reading, as if unsure of herself.
“A squabble over money,” she said, turning over the seven of diamonds. In the next pair, the nine of spades lay over the queen of clubs. “The death of a wise woman.” A three of diamonds placed over the other two. “A legal letter and a bequest.”
Madison was bored by the notion of squabbles about money and legal letters. “Will I ever have a boyfriend?” she demanded. She was already old enough to know
she didn’t care much for the boys of Coal Grove.
Min turned the face cards up. Two kings. King of clubs and king of spades. Jack of diamonds. She flipped up the modifiers, stared at them a moment. Seemed like she didn’t like what she was seeing. Min gripped both of Madison’s hands, leaning in close, her blue eyes like windows to a younger Min enclosed in wrinkly skin.
“Maddie, honey, listen. Beware the magical guilds,” she whispered. “Especially wizards.”
“Gramma, I don’t know any magical gills,” Madison said, floundering for understanding.
“Brice Roper,” Min said. “He’s a bad one. Ain’t nothing good about him.”
Madison blinked at her. “Old Brice or young Brice?” she asked.
“Young Brice,” Min said, which surprised her, because old Brice was scary and mean, and everybody said young Brice had a way about him. People buzzed around young Brice like yellow jackets around lemonade.
“Do not mingle with the gifted, Madison. Do not mess with magic. It’s meant nothing but trouble for our family. Swear you won’t truck with them.”
Min sounded almost like the preacher in the Quonset hut church Madison went to once, who talked about those who trafficked with the devil. “But, Gramma. Aren’t the cards magic?” Madison ventured.
“Swear it!” Min squeezed her hands so hard that tears sprang to Madison’s eyes.
“All right, I swear!” she said, blinking fast to keep the tears from escaping her eyes and running down her face. She didn’t think the Ropers wanted to truck with her, anyway.
Min released Madison’s hands. “My wisdom is wasted on you, child.” She looked more sad than mad.
Her gramma looked back at the cards. “I see four pretty witch boys coming. Two will claim your heart in different ways. Two are deceivers who’ll come to your door, one dark, one fair. All of them have magic ...”
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