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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Illusions of Love
by Charlie N. Holmberg
Dancing with the Moon
by Julie Wright
The Truest Treasure
by Annette Lyon
The Isle of Rose
by Jane Redd
Lady of Shadows
by Amber Argyle
Fire and Fountain
by Luisa Perkins
Even if Celtin Dereng were a magicless, talentless pauper, Aster would still be in love with him.
She hadn’t meant to fall in love with him, of course. When she’d arrived at the estate two years ago to take the assistant position, she’d been so nervous she barely saw the magician as a human being, let alone a man. Celtin—that is, Master Dereng—was one of the top magic wielders in the country. He’d worked for the regent himself, though his employ and residency was at Trundon House. Which was very nearly royalty, as Lord Trundon was eighth in line to the throne.
Drummond, who had gotten Aster the position in the first place, claimed the number would never be more than a number, but it was still impressive to the daughter of a small-town doctor. A very lucky daughter. Such job opportunities were uncommon for the lower classes, especially for women. But it just so happened that Aster’s childhood friend, Drummond, showed a spark for wizardcraft in his adolescence and caught the eye of Celtin—Master Dereng—some eight years ago. And so when the magician’s previous assistant decided he wanted to be a lawyer instead, Drummond had put in a good word for Aster. The rest was history.
Aster was very good at her job. She kept the library organized, the potions labeled, the powders sorted, and Celtin punctual to all his appointments. She booked carriages and made sure the famous magician ate three meals a day. She tidied the workspace and cleaned up every glass vial Drummond broke, if she didn’t catch them first. She always loomed close when Drummond worked with glass, unless he was mixing chemicals. Then she stayed as far away as the room would allow.
For now, their laboratory was in the basement of Trundon House and would be until construction on the detached one near the woods was complete. It was an overlarge cellar lit and warmed by magicked sconces. Tan cobblestone comprised the floor, walls, and ceiling. Shelves and cabinets took up nearly all free space, and old rugs—still worth a fortune—lined the floors to keep out the chill. A year ago Aster had taken up the work of rearranging those rugs so the largest sat beneath the long worktable near the entrance. Drummond had a habit of tripping over the smaller ones. Neither he nor Celtin had ever commented on the arrangement, but she knew Drummond was grateful.
Today, she organized powders, baubles, and fabric squares on a cloth-lined tray, checking her list on occasion to ensure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Tonight, Trundon House was hosting a ball. It was to be the party of the year, in celebration of the eldest son’s twenty-fifth birthday. However, those in the household knew it was also a means of introducing Garron Trundon to the local women as well. Twenty-five was getting old for a bachelor, if Lord Trundon had anything to say about it.
Master Dereng was thirty-one. Not that Aster ever pointed it out.
The door opened with a loud creak, and Celtin pushed his way into the laboratory as though summoned, his pace quick. The suddenness of it caused Drummond to jump and throw his pestle halfway across the room. He cursed under his breath, then glanced at Aster and mouthed an apology.
Aster simply rolled her eyes. She was quite used to Drummond’s foul language, even before she joined him at Trundon house. It was one of many things he often got in trouble for back home.
Her eyes moved to Celtin. She worked with him for hours every day, so his sudden appearance didn’t quite send her heart racing, just ... stretching. Like it could cross the room and curl up next to him. He was a man who didn’t appear remarkable at first, but further study proved otherwise. He was of an average height and trim, and he dressed well. Today his cravat was a pale lavender and his waistcoat a modest shade of blue, though its lapels were bold and embroidered. The silver chain to the watch he always carried hung from his pocket. He wore his hair unfashionably long, dusting his shoulders, and yet Aster could not imagine it ever being cut. She might cry, were he ever to shear it. The large, gentle waves—almost the color of graphite—were so sprightly they reminded her of fledgling feathers. So soft to the touch. At least, Aster imagined they were soft to the touch. She knew her place well enough not to cross that line. And she respected Master Dereng, however much she might pine after him.
“Drummond”—he slid his toe under the fallen pestle and kicked it upward, snatching it with his free hand—“I appreciate the focus, but don’t forget the world still exists around you, hm?”
Drummond took the pestle. “Sorry, sir.”
Waving away the apology, Celtin strode to the bookshelves at the back of the room. Grabbed a thick tome from one and began thumbing through it, then set it back and grabbed another. “Aster, where’s the Tolwick volume? On color manipulation?”
Abandoning her tray, Aster hurried to the shelf and grabbed a red-spined book level with Celtin’s elbow. “Right ... oh.” She crouched, scanning spines. Moved to the next shelf. “The red one?”
“I thought it was brown.” He pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket and sat them on his nose. “Leather.”
“Tolwick’s not leather,” Drummond called over his shoulder.
Celtin pulled out another book, then set it back. “Tolwick is one of the greats. Of course it’s leather.” He selected another book. “What is all this? Why is Abel next to Patrickson?”
Aster had a feeling this conversation would happen. She paused her search. “You wanted them rearranged by year published last week.” Though in truth, s
he liked Celtin’s subtle eccentricity. She liked that he didn’t think like everyone else.
“Did I?” He leaned back, tapping his chin. “Was I very tired?”
“Especially tired.” Aster hid a smile.
He sighed. “I think it was ... 1730?”
“He died in 1737, didn’t he?” Drummond called. “Didn’t write much in his old age.”
Celtin turned about. “You’re paying attention to your history lessons now? What’s next? Aster to tell us she’s joining the circus?”
“I have been working on my tightrope,” Aster chimed with utmost seriousness.
A single, dry laugh escaped the magician’s throat. “I would very much like to see that.” He glanced at her, his brown eyes sparkling. “But I would rather see the Tolwick volume. It has the clasp on it ... about three inches thick.”
“Three inches ...” Aster snapped her fingers, then crossed the room to the table where her tray sat. A book was wedged under its back leg; it had been wobbling a fortnight ago when Drummond was labeling his brews, and he’d grabbed the book and shoved it under there. Crawling under the table in the most ladylike fashion she could muster, Aster pushed up with her back and carefully slid the volume free.
“Red leather,” she said upon emerging, straightening her hair and skirt. “We were both right.”
Celtin blinked. “You’re using the work of one of the greats to prop up a table?”
Drummond glanced over, then furiously began grinding the tapis root.
Aster smirked. “Something like that.” She needn’t explain; Celtin had already shot a look toward his apprentice, though the exasperation was entirely feigned. He so rarely lost his temper—another quality Aster admired. When she’d first started, she’d given the magician plenty of reasons to shout at her. He never had.
As for the book ... Celtin was known for finding creative ways to fix problems. He might have done far worse to fix the table.
“The way you scrambled for it,” Celtin began, “I very much suspect the circus.” He smiled at her in a way that made her feel like a butterfly, and when he took the volume from her hand, his thumb just brushed hers. Aster clenched her jaw to keep her face from betraying her. Tucking the book under his arm, he headed for the door. “Aster, the tray to the drawing room, if you would.”
“Just a moment!” she called after him as he headed up the stairs into the main house, forgetting to close the door behind him.
Grabbing a rag, Aster went to the workstation and wiped up spilled powder from Drummond’s accident.
“Don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Drummond mumbled over his half-crushed tapis root.
“Are you?” Aster looked him over. Drummond was tall, taller than Celtin, and wide. The kind of man you’d hire to guard a cell or the like. Though he was of an age with Aster, twenty, and had the build of a soldier, his face was that of a fourteen-year-old boy. Pale as winter, without the slightest hint of stubble. His father hadn’t been able to grow a beard until he was nearly fifty.
Celtin shaved by choice.
Clearing her throat, Aster said, “I think the whole house is nervous. We’re not even attending the party, but we’re responsible for our share. Though Cook said if we come by an hour before, she’ll slip us some pastries.”
Drummond smiled at that, though his eyes didn’t leave his work. “She say how many?”
Aster grinned. “I suppose that depends on whether or not she’s looking.”
Drummond nodded. Slowed his crushing. “But I am going tonight. He asked me to.”
Aster wasn’t surprised. Celtin was, of course, the entertainment for the evening. There would be musicians and dancing and food, but Lord Trundon planned an intermission to showcase Celtin’s specialty, which was colorwork with illusions. That was what he’d just run off to do—final discussions for the event. Drummond likely wouldn’t do any of the show directly, but he’d be just off stage, ready to hand up needed supplies. Likely adding sound effects.
Celtin was a master of performance.
“You’ll do wonderfully.” She patted his large hand and offered him a smile.
Drummond rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ll do good enough. S’all I want, good enough.”
Returning to her work, Aster added a small vial of indigo to the tray before picking it up. “We can go over the show after I deliver this, if you’d like.”
The apprentice let out a long sigh. “I would. Thank you, Aster.”
Beaming, Aster took up the tray by its handles and carefully ascended the stairs into the house, careful not to knock anything over. She weaved between busy servants in the kitchen, then took the narrow servants’ stairs up to the first floor. The ballroom was located here. Liveried staff bounced back and forth, dusting alcoves, arranging chairs, hanging decorations. Aster was careful not to bump into them, and, fortunately, they watched out for her as well. Down the long corridor carpeted sky blue, around the corner, where the hustle and bustle died down. The drawing room was the last door on the right, just before the mahogany staircase that led to the family’s sleeping quarters. The door was cracked a finger’s width.
“—mention it,” Mr. Garron Trundon, the eldest son whom the ball was for, said as Aster turned to push the door open with her back, “because while the party’s thinly disguised purpose is for me, I think you might want to look at the wares yourself.”
Aster paused. She shouldn’t eavesdrop, she knew, but those words did make her heart quicken. She strained to listen.
She recognized Celtin’s scoff. “I’m perfectly capable of choosing a spouse.”
Aster’s grip tightened on the tray.
“Then why haven’t you?” Mr. Trundon asked. His footsteps moved closer, rather than farther, from the door.
Oh Lord, please tell me I’m mishearing. Celtin to find a wife at the ball? Her Celtin? Not that he was hers in any sense outside being her employer. But her fingers chilled around the tray’s handles, its weight doubling. She couldn’t bear it if Celtin got married. She’d never ... she didn’t think she could work under him if he did, however much she loved her position. Seeing him with another ... she’d rather go back home to work the farm.
Celtin didn’t answer.
A soft smoosh indicated one of the two men had dropped onto a sofa. “You have to mingle either way. As long as you let me pick first, there’s no harm in it.”
“I—” Celtin began.
The tray grew unbearably heavy. Aster pushed open the door, ending the conversation before Mr. Trundon could inspire Celtin to his plan. She hoped her face didn’t give her away. As expected, the chat stopped immediately. Celtin even glanced away and cleared his throat.
Mr. Trundon lounged on the settee, looking every bit relaxed.
Pasting a smile on her face, Aster said, “Here’s the tray. My apologies for not knocking.” She gestured to her full hands. Did her voice shake? She swallowed and set the tray on the closest end table, then straightened a few items to make it look pristine before curtsying to Mr. Trundon. Looking at Celtin, she asked, “Will there be anything else?”
The magician seemed uncomfortable. At the conversation, or at being interrupted? Aster tried not to wring her hands.
“That will be all.” He tugged on his cravat. “Thank you, Aster.”
Nodding, Aster excused herself. She thought, briefly, to leave the door cracked and wait outside, but thought better of it. Pulling until it latched, she quickened her step and hurried toward the laboratory. Servants bustled around her, pinning, hanging, and arranging the last preparations for the party, but Aster didn’t hear them. She barely saw them.
The stairs leading down to the laboratory stretched long. She stopped just outside the laboratory door. Leaned her forehead on the wood and closed her eyes. Her heart still hadn’t calmed.
Women from all over the county and beyond were coming to tonight’s ball. And Celtin was of a station for nearly all of them. And who wouldn’t be mesmerized by his countenance, hi
s stance, that graceful way he moved? Even if one didn’t like his long hair or, perhaps, the cut of his nose, they would easily be won over by his prestige and his talent. Everyone would see his display tonight. Aster had witnessed most of it herself—she’d helped with the story—and it was breathtaking. The ugliest, foulest man could win over the crowd with a show like that.
She didn’t want to lose him. Truly, even if he never looked at her twice, she’d be happy to remain his assistant until the day she died. To be around him, even if she was never close to him. That would be enough.
But it was foolish of her to hope the present would be the future. That they’d always stay this way, her, Celtin, and Drummond. Celtin would want a family soon enough and settle down. Drummond would finish his apprenticeship and get his own residency. And Aster ... well, maybe Drummond would take her in. There was that, at least.
Morose, she pushed open the door. It seemed heavier than usual. It took her whole body to close it again. At least the slowness of it all didn’t startle Drummond, who still ground that tapis root. His knuckles were red with it.
She studied him, thinking of the show tonight. She knew everything he needed to have prepared so it would go smoothly. Maybe he’d even keep an eye on Celtin for her. Take note of the ladies attending, and ...
And ...
An idea pushed its way into her head which was equally appealing and terrifying. As though sensing it, Drummond looked up. His brow furrowed. “What’s gotten into you?”
She met his eyes. Stepped away from the door. “Drummond—”
He dropped the bowl and pestle. “Oh no, Aster. You’ve got that look again. Last time you got that look, I was in the stocks half a day.”
She paused and planted her hands on her hips. “You were not.”
“You’re right.” He stepped around the worktable. “Last time I had to copy one hundred pages on alchemy. The time before that was the stocks.”
Midsummer Night Page 1
