by S. L. Prater
“It’s not because you’re a witch.” Bran’s face was placid, serious, very unlike him. Doyle
played with a loose stitch in his stole, staying out of it.
Marnie’s nose wrinkled. “Well then, what’s the problem?”
“You can’t, because you’re a woman, a Sophia no less.”
The priest coughed, staring uncomfortably at his shoes.
“Oh . . . Oh?” Her voice faltered. “Well, that’s worse somehow.”
“I mean only that this task is too dangerous. Demons are dangerous,” Bran stressed. “There are plenty of very safe things you could do to help Loreley with your mind, behind the secured comfort of our walls. Councilors aren’t warriors. They don’t throw themselves in harm’s way. They are problem solvers. That’s how I envisioned this. You’re brilliant with numbers and alchemy. Wouldn’t you rather mix potions and solve fractions or advise clerks on ratios?”
Brother Doyle stood quickly. When his eyes met Marnie’s, he tapped his nose conspiratorially. “Very true, young master, very true—Your Majesty, I mean. Demons are extremely dangerous, so I’ll leave it to you to select a task of the mind. Um, Marnie, are you familiar with the church parsonage? It’s the home of the unmarried Silk District priests.” He stared at her expectantly, eyes twice as wide as usual. “It’s not far from here . . . Yes? Good. Come and see me for tea this afternoon. I make a delicious blueberry crumpet, I’m told, and I would love to hear more about how you saved our emperor by riding your magic.”
“Every watchman will be made available to you by the bishop,” Bran offered. “Borrow as many guardsmen as you need, if it will help.”
Doyle thanked Bran generously, too generously, and then he started for the door. Halfway there, he realized he still had a borrowed book under his arm, and he stopped. He returned the book to its dusty counterparts and was careful not to meet Marnie’s eyes as he departed. Raif held the door for him.
“Marnie,” Bran groaned, “you have a heart-breaking frown. Did you know that? It crushes my spirits to mush. You should be more careful with it.”
She climbed to her feet, feeling shorter than normal beside Bran’s great height, even when he was seated. “I should get home. Madam Becker probably has a long list of things she’ll need me to do—”
“The ferry girl will be saved. Doyle will find a way without you. Do not worry about her a moment longer.”
“—cleaning and mopping and cooking. There are books to keep and fractions that need dividing. She’s an efficient one, my mother. I’ll probably stop by for a crumpet some other time.”
“Fine.” Bran rose off the settee, mussing his hair in frustration. “If you’re going to help the priest anyway, at least promise me you’ll be very careful. It is bad luck killing off the first of my apprentices before my coronation, but you are the most stubborn woman in all existence, so why do I bother? You’ve found yourself a challenge, so now you’ll never listen to reason. You’ll probably just hurt yourself even more trying to conceal it from me.”
Marnie fought to hide her smile, chewing on her lip. “Is it really bad luck?”
“Probably. But then I’ve never been the emperor before, so I wouldn’t know.”
She hugged him haphazardly around his middle. He patted her head, his back rigid, but his expression was slightly less forlorn.
“You’re not allowed to get hurt.” Bran wagged a finger at her, doing a great impression of a scolding schoolteacher. “I will feel extremely put out if you are harmed.”
“Right. Right. Very bad luck.” She waved him off, feeling lighter.
“Raif, have the clerk send a telegram to the bishop. I intend to set some very specific ground rules for using my apprentice from here on out.” Bran was pacing as Marnie exited the library.
Then, for the first time in a long while, Faceless squirmed in her shoe, and her smugness evaporated.
Chapter 7
Raif escorted Marnie to the gates. Before parting ways, he took her acorn. When she protested, he spoke over her, unmoved by her anger. “When the emperor wishes to see you next, you’ll be provided with another summons.”
“And what if I wish to see him?”
“Don’t bother. Oh, almost forgot . . .” he said, pulling a circular badge about the size of his palm from his pocket. He pinned it high on her blue jacket. It was round, heavy, and displayed a winged lion painted bright gold. “And now you’re officially a member of the council as an apprentice. Good luck.” Raif smiled for the first time since they had met. His grin was askew, but she appreciated the effort all the same.
Marnie stood there awkwardly, wondering if she should shake his hand or offer a kindlier farewell. Before she made up her mind, she was ushered out into the crowd, a crowd that pushed and shouted in her ears. A man wearing a derby hat offered money in exchange for entrance to the palace. Raif ignored him and the gold embossed notes in his hand. Annoyed, the man tried to shove by.
Raif checked him hard with his shoulder. The man stumbled back, his hat flopping off his head. The crowd quieted and made room.
“Anyone who crosses the gates without a summons has committed treason and will be promptly executed. No trial,” Raif shouted. “Just my sword.” He jerked his blade up so that the steel peeked out of its metal scabbard. The blade hissed when he dropped it back into place. The man offered no fight after that, scooping up his hat and falling away into the crowd.
Marnie went her own way, swallowed by the mass of people. The guards shut the gates with an ear-piercing grinding and clanking. She stumbled between feet, elbows, and floppy hat brims. With one hand, she clutched the badge to her dress. The other she used to guard her face. Miraculously, she made it to the road in one piece.
Doyle’s parsonage would not have been far by steam carriage if she had any currency notes on her. She had been too anxious that morning to remember to bring any money. She could hail one with her badge, she recalled, but she felt too wary to try out her newfound authority. She had little practice at being a Sophia. Would a cabbie even stop for her?
With no money and the trollies all full, she had to hoof it. She arrived well after lunchtime with her stomach growling. The parsonage was a plain, white-washed building full of windows, nestled across the street from the district’s church and a park with spitting stone fountains. An automaton, seated on the stone rim of the fountain, sang old hymns to God and his greatest seven spirits, a hymn about hospitality and family preservation. Its mechanical hand was extended for tips.
She knocked on the parsonage’s front door, fingering the badge on her breast with a pride that filled her chest near to bursting. She barely noticed when the demon blade began squirming in the heel of her boot.
The old door creaked open, and Doyle beamed at her from the archway. He guided her inside, talking excitedly. “Come and have a seat. You look peaky, Sophia, and I really do make an amazing blueberry crumpet.”
She followed him through a brightly lit foyer into a cozy sitting room. “I have to admit, I’m surprised a priest like you would dabble at all with a witch and her natural magic.”
“Like a good priest, I have a healthy fear of organic magics and will not use them, but I’m certainly not about to judge you too harshly for having the strength and discipline to dabble without disaster.” He smiled at her over his shoulder.
“Disaster?” She squinted at him, lips curling in amusement.
He directed her into an armchair. It was soft and well used. “Disaster. No one has ever accidentally turned their brother’s trousers into seaweed with a prayer or a rune, but with natural magic . . .”
Marnie burst out laughing. Coffee steamed beside a plate of crumpets on a cart in the corner. The rusted-through clockwork wheels ground to life, rolling the cart in beside her.
“Now, tell me more about this ability of yours.” He took the chair across from her, leaning in expectantly.
She accepted a hot mug of coffee but did not drink. Her stomach knotted and her appet
ite vanished at the mention of transportation. Talking about it always made her feel like a kid again. She recalled the barn fire and the nightmares that followed. Briefly, she could feel the flames singeing her skin.
She closed her eyes, willing away the memory. “Honestly, I’ve only ever done it successfully twice in my life, and I’m not certain this last instance could be deemed completely successful. We landed in a tree and nearly died thereafter.”
The priest stuffed a crumpet in her empty hand. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I can tell you’re strong in the faith, but peace certainly seems to be a problem for you.” He took a crumpet for himself and knifed butter onto the pastry, considering her over his glasses.
She juggled the coffee and crumpet. “Peace?”
“Oh yes. You’d know what I’m getting at if you thought on it hard enough. A lack of peace is what keeps you from controlling your God-given gift of riding magic. I’m certain of it.”
She couldn’t meet his knowing eyes, which felt like they were boring into her heart. She knew little about priests, certainly not enough to trust one. If rumors could be believed, they were gifted healers and staunch academics. They were useful for putting down demons and hosting lectures. She wasn’t prepared to have one dissect her emotionally.
“I suppose I do lack a certain contentedness.” She nibbled the crumpet and renewed her ravenous hunger. Marnie finished the rest in two big bites. “I just don’t know how exactly to explain it, Brother Doyle. I don’t intend to be reticent,” she said with her mouth full, hand extended for another.
Doyle wheeled the tray closer so she could help herself. “It’s best, in my opinion, to unburden on a full stomach. Perhaps I should begin . . . I seek your forgiveness, Sophia.”
At that, she missed her mouth with the pastry, smearing butter on her lip. “Whatever for, Brother?”
Doyle sat back and stared at the empty fireplace. “I knew your mother before her questioning at the constabulary. I knew of you. Five years ago, I was one of the many priests ordered to test her as a magic user. It shames me to admit, but I knew how useless the testing was. Each phase is designed to be more tiresome, more humiliating, to break down one’s resistance. I think we all knew. I suspect the Beckers believed she would feel so humiliated, she would simply confess to something that was not true to bring it all to an end, and so they insisted the Cloth press on.”
Marnie felt the heat of her temper building in her face and neck. “You’ve seen her naked, then.”
She wanted to embarrass him, but as color bloomed in his cheeks, she immediately regretted it. This priest had been nothing but kind to her and to her mother at a most threatening time, she admonished herself. She balanced a half-eaten crumpet on the arm of her chair and returned her coffee to the cart.
Rubbing her palms together, she met his eyes, angry words ready on her tongue until she tamed them. “Are we allowed to smoke in here?”
Grateful for the change in subject, Doyle showed her to his display of pipes. They discussed tobacco flavors and debated over quality. He recommended she try his personal brand, grown on his family farm. At the priest’s suggestion, she selected an ivory pipe with a decorative saddle and a curved stem, and they returned to their armchairs.
Doyle played with the match instead of lighting his. “I am sorry, Sophia Becker. Sorry for your mother. Things should not be this way. I wish they were not.” He twirled the match between his thumb and forefinger.
“I am grateful you came when Bran summoned you. Whatever you did to her in the past, you’ve certainly done better by my mother quite recently.”
He considered her for a moment, his kind eyes searching. “There’s an anger in you, Sophia. You try to keep it at bay mostly, but anger does nothing for us when we hold on to it.” He lit his match and fed his pipe.
She puffed on hers thoughtfully. “I see what you’re getting at, I just don’t know what to do about it. You are right. Things should not be this way, but they are in Loreley. They are, and it makes me feel . . .” She blew a smoke ring instead of finishing.
“It takes your peace. It makes you feel angry.”
“It makes me feel violent.” She crossed her arms and legs. Her foot bounced against her knee. “My mother was tormented for being born poor and falling in love. I am tormented for being born with magic. Jack is tormented. And no offense to you, but at least if Jack had been born to wealth, the orphanage could have given him to the Cloth instead of an estate and he’d be a powerful, well-respected priest by now.”
“No offense taken, Sophia. My family makes a fortune off their tobacco. When I showed signs of controlling magic, I was quickly given an education most cannot afford and granted the title of priest. I embody the stereotype fully.” He chuckled, but there was no mirth in it.
She blew another smoke ring. “It really is good tobacco.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He beamed.
“And the crumpets—you were not kidding; they are to die for.”
His chest puffed out proudly. “My aunt’s recipe.”
Sitting up straighter, Marnie emptied her pipe into the glass ring provided on the tray, and she met his eyes. “I thank you for your wisdom, Brother. On my new path to this peace you suggest, I forgive you. I forgive you for the small part you played in my mother’s humiliation. Being born wealthy and well connected is no more your fault than it is my mother’s fault she was born poor and with a beauty that makes others suspicious of her.”
They smoked in peaceful quiet for a time. He began chewing on the end of his pipe, and Marnie knew he wanted to ask something else, something he did not yet dare to speak aloud.
She smiled at him, trying to soothe his anxiety, but he fidgeted under her gaze.
“Go on,” she offered, her curiosity piqued. “Really. I promise to keep the reins tight on my temper. Ask me what you will.”
He crossed his arms protectively about himself, his expression resolved. “How many markings do you have on your skin? Witch ink markings? I’ve heard they too can be quite helpful to channel and focus your use of natural magics, though admittedly, as I am not a witch, I know very little about them.”
“Inking with needles?” She shifted in her seat and nearly refused to answer him, but her earlier confession left in its wake a feeling of . . . not quite contentedness, but something. She decided to try once more to unburden herself. “For one thing, my mother considers it barbaric, so I don’t practice the art of putting spirit runes and spells on my skin with ink and needle. I’ve never had much of a knack for spell magic anyway, so I’ve always—”
She froze, realizing she was lying to him and to herself. She knew the truth of why she never bothered with inking the way most witches did. Shame washed over her, burning her face.
“No, that’s not it.” She studied the floor, taking a moment to compose herself. Brother Doyle waited patiently for her to order her thoughts. “I like having the option of hiding in the crowd. So long as no one knows my name or reputation, I could be just another Mary. Not a witch at all. In the markets, I can trade fairly and no one treats me with fear or crosses the street to distance themselves from me, but with the right markings . . .”
“With ink on your skin, you invite more prejudice upon yourself. Thank you for sharing this with me. I can tell it was not easy for you.” He offered her a comforting crumpet.
She took it in her hands but did not eat it, crushing crumbs between her fingers. They changed the subject to gentler topics: the weather, his other hobbies, alchemy . . .
When it was nearly suppertime, Doyle sent her off with final instructions. To help her gain a deeper connection with the ability to ride magic, she was to spend the rest of the day in prayer and to fast from solid foods. He did not bring up inking again, but she sensed it was on his mind. He encouraged her to recruit others in her home to pray with her. Tomorrow, she was to meet Doyle at Loreley’s main gates in the market district during the breakfast hour.
* * *
Annette squawked at Marnie for coming home so close to supper without sending word. Her squawks turned to squeals of delight when she saw the badge on her chest. Annette touched the gold lion, grinning at her daughter. Her mother wanted to send her to the shop at the gardens, but Marnie informed her dutifully that she had work to do. Apprentice work. Annette beamed at her as she left to go find Jack.
Closed up in her bedroom, Marnie chanted prayers to God and his seven great spirits. Jack lay on his back on the floor and wrote or sang prayers to Arseno and to Diridge, requesting they aid her and offer guidance. Annette sent up chicken broth for their dinner.
The pangs of hunger were uncomfortable at first, but when they abated, Marnie felt sharper. Resisting food was a constant practice of self-control, and as a tradeoff, she gained new mastery over herself. She smelled magic more easily and at farther distances. It was in more places about her room than she’d ever realized before. It clung to book pages, wafted off her fingernails, and dripped from the spider webs in the corners.
Taking a break, Jack and Marnie sipped their broth from ceramic bowls, seated side by side on her bed. They perched on the edges of the mattress, worried what Madam Becker would do to them if they spilled on the sheets.
Jack hugged her suddenly. So suddenly, she slopped broth down her skirt. Grinning, he helped her mop it up with towelettes from the washbasin.
“What was that for?”
“I’m proud of you, is all. And excited for us and people like us. Change is coming. Don’t you feel it? It’s long overdue.”
She agreed wholeheartedly. He left her on the bed after that, complaining she smelled too strongly of tobacco. Distracted by her thoughts, she started and stopped the same chant three times.
“Jack?”
He finished his prayer hurriedly and then looked over at her, his eyebrows raised.
