by S. L. Prater
“I knew it. You’re ashamed of me,” Bran teased. “You read the paper this morning, I take it?”
“I did,” she said cautiously.
He lifted his chin. “And? How furious with me are you . . . ? I’m ready for your lecture. I’ve been prepping for it all morning. Let me have it.”
When she did not answer, Bran’s brow furrowed. “You have to tell me what you’re thinking. Don’t leave me in angst. It’s cruel.”
“I’m thinking . . .” Her thoughts were too jumbled to articulate. She looked him over, enraptured by the affection in his eyes, the impatient way he sat on the edge of his seat. Warm blood coursed through her veins, thudding in her pulse and throat. It roared in her ears. Her fingers tightened around the cushion beneath her. “Why are you so far away from me?”
He abandoned his seat, sliding in beside her. Marnie climbed into his lap. His arms welcomed her, engulfing her. She kissed him. He deepened it, hands in her hair, holding her to him. He brushed his lips along her jaw until her breaths came in gasps. He teased her ear. She plucked at those intricate buttons, helping him remove his jacket. Then she slid hers off her shoulders.
“You are so beautiful.” His breath warmed the skin of her throat. “So beautiful, you make me stupid. I’m practically illiterate right now.”
Marnie laughed. She ran her fingers through his hair, reveling in the feel of the silky strands.
“Truly,” he said, voice husky. “I was sitting in a meeting with the council this morning, and as soon as they started talking about goats, I thought about you, and I had no idea what anyone was saying anymore. It was like they were speaking a foreign language. I was probably drooling.”
“They really need to stop talking about goats.” The stubble on his jaw tickled her neck.
He buried his nose in her hair and breathed deep. “Your effect on me will wear off eventually, I keep telling myself, but I’ve known you for years and still, every time I see you, it’s just like this, like a punch in the mouth. You are that beautiful.” His knuckles followed the bones of her jaw, lingering around her lips.
Her cheeks warmed. Marnie kissed the pads of his fingers, then playfully bit his thumb. He gasped when she sucked his finger into her mouth.
“We have a lot to talk about,” he whispered.
“Talk later.” She placed his hand on her knee, encouraging it to move up her thigh, under her skirt.
His fingers stroked sensitive skin higher and higher, spreading her legs wider. “This wasn’t what I had planned. Not yet . . .” His throat bobbed.
Her eyes slid shut. The pads of his fingers traced the hem of her underwear, following the curve as it dipped between her legs. She trembled.
“Bran . . .” Marnie breathed.
“Later,” he promised, fingers retreating down her thigh. He took his time: roving and caressing.
Marnie sat back, pleased at the sight of his swollen lips and hooded eyes, his heaving chest. “And I thought we were just going for a friendly ride?”
He swallowed. “Sit over there. You’re too close and warm and beautiful—it jumbles my thoughts. I can’t form proper sentences, and arguing with you will require all of my faculties.”
Chuckling, she glided off his lap, onto the cushions beside him. He took her hand in his, squeezing it tight like one might the reins of a wild horse that startled easily.
“Go on.”
“You’re not going to like it.” He turned her hand over in his, trailing the lines of her palm.
“I assumed as much.” She wrestled her hand back, distracting herself with a piece of thread that had come loose in the fabric of the cushion. She pulled at it roughly.
“After you yell at me for turning you into an heiress with a target on her back”—The newspaper had rolled onto the floor. He crunched it under his rich shoes—“I’m going to convince you to marry me . . . You look surprised. You shouldn’t. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve tried to talk you into marrying me.”
“I remember,” Marnie muttered. “You asked, I suggested a quiet affair for the safety of both of us, you made several rude comments about the kind of people who have quiet affairs . . . and I broke something.”
“Then you hid away at the academy for most of a year. It was a lamp, by the way. You threw a lamp at the wall. It was one of your more memorable temper tantrums.”
She crossed her legs. Her foot bounced in agitation. “It was, but I was younger then. More impulsive . . . If I could do it all over again, I’d break something much larger.”
His smirk was unrestrained. “And now?”
“And now I can’t decide between kissing you again or pulling your bottom lip over your head, so I’m just going to sit on my hands for a moment.” She slipped her fingers under her thighs and took several deep breaths.
Bran coughed into his fist, failing to conceal a chortle.
“This is not funny!” Marnie said. “I never can quite explain it to you, and it frustrates me so! You keep throwing everything I want at me, over and over, as though I could just accept it and take you openly without consequences! I wish I could help you see the danger—”
Her mouth fell open.
“What is it? Are you having a fit?” Bran quipped. When she didn’t respond, he waved a hand in front of her face. He snapped his fingers to capture her attention, but she stared through him.
Marnie’s lips came together with a snap. Leaning out of her seat, she pulled aside the curtain and opened the window.
“Driver?” she yelled, knocking on the carriage roof. “The emperor wishes to visit Hood Road.”
“Straight away,” the driver said.
“What are you up to, Marnie?”
“I’m going to help you see.”
* * *
Marnie allowed the emperor to escort her down the uneven cobblestones of Hood Road. As they neared the end of the street, shadows blanketed them and her skin began to prickle. She stared up at the towering gallows, needing the comfort of her arm tangled through his. Built of dark metals, the gallows scraped up from the ground, full of jagged edges and whirring pistons. The crossbeam was a monstrous twist of alloys, hoisting two claw-like limbs plated in copper. They were open, ready to clamp around the neck of the damned. It hissed steam as they drew in nearer.
A lump formed in her throat.
Airships floated overhead, transporting heavy ores from nearby mines. They appeared tiny in a cloudless tropical sky. A motorcar rumbled by, scaring a group of frogs into the nearest water garden. Guardsmen dressed in black tunics and matching peaked hats followed on horseback but kept their distance at the emperor’s instruction.
Marnie felt a chill despite the island’s heat and humidity. With a trembling hand, she pointed to a grouping of hastily scrawled paper notes tacked to the gallows’ iron base. Some of the squares were yellowed with age. Others were fresh and white. They rustled like dead leaves in the wind.
Bran smoothed out the nearest paper, holding it in place as the breeze picked up. “I don’t recognize this symbol. Is it a spirit rune?”
She shook her head. “It’s a witch symbol, created to honor our dead. It’s a play on common spirit runes: the skull of a ram with the tail of a fox.” She leaned into him, studying his reaction.
His eyes skimmed the words, growing larger at each note, taking in their multitudes.
There were hundreds of them.
“Their stories will never make it into the newspaper.” Her throat was dry. “Not even a tabloid would touch such a thing. There is no obituary for these dead. No funeral. So their loved ones—the bravest of them—post prayers for those lost.” She lowered her voice. “We are not permitted to speak out against the injustice of the watchmen or the church . . . so we don’t. We write prayers instead.”
Bran tapped the witch symbols as he spotted them. “Many of these prayers are for witches.”
She blinked at him. How could he not know? “All of them are for witches.”
He
shook his head in disbelief. “The crown does not use the gallows anymore. It stands as a reminder of the dangers of making deals with demons.”
“That hasn’t stopped the church from using it.”
“Magic is not a crime, and public executions are no longer permissible—”
“So they have them in the dead of night, out of sight from the public. Don’t be dense.” She plucked one of the notes at random. She read it aloud, quietly. The prayer was in rhyme. Its meaning was clear to her, so she interpreted for him. “This one was brought from outside Loreley’s walls to be sentenced here. She was only fourteen.”
“What was her crime?” His teeth were clenched.
“Hunger. She used magic to steal food.”
He glowered at the note. “Theft of food is not punishable by death.”
“It is if you use magic to commit a crime. Generations ago, your crown gave the Cloth power over magical things, so witches are sentenced by priests and their watchmen without your say.” She pulled loose another note. Reading it, her lip curled in a grimace. “This one is vile. A master killed his wife in a drunken rage. He claimed his house magician bewitched him, made him do it. The magician was hung here.”
She grabbed another.
Bran stopped her, his hand on her wrist. “Don’t read anymore.”
“Because you see the danger now?” When he would not take the note from her, she stuffed it into his pocket. “I hope you do. You’re making me insane, not seeing what could happen to us, what it would be like for me. You need to read it. You need to read all of them. You need to see. You feel bad about these witches, but they don’t.”
She gestured to the vegetable stall at the end of the road, at the merchant counting his wares. Marnie pointed to a watchman patrolling nearby and the guardsmen settling their horses. “They feel safer because of these gallows.”
His brown eyes were distant, trapped in thought.
Marnie tore free more notes, stuffing them into his hands. “Read them because, if a hungry young witch is so frightening she deserves death, then the thought of their emperor falling in love with one would be—”
He loomed over her, his gaze glowing with an intensity that stole her breath.
Then his shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. “Their emperor is already in love with a witch.”
“Then marrying that witch would be madness incarnate. The streets would fill with rioters.”
Bran stuffed his hands in his pockets, crunching the prayers. He stared at his boots. “I hear you, Marnie.” His smile returned, but it lacked its usual enthusiasm. “You can turn down my proposal three, maybe four . . . hundred more times before it’s seriously going to wear on my self-esteem.”
Marnie laughed at the sky. He offered her his arm, and they turned toward the carriage.
She hesitated before climbing in. “Technically, I’ve never rejected you . . .”
“Right. You just fled across the ocean from me.”
“But I’ve never said no! I just can’t say yes either, you madman.”
He softened. “I know . . . I see.”
Chapter 12
Just after sunrise, the first telegram from the watchmen offices in Terra District arrived. Marnie accepted the wire at the door, read the name, and ignored the message, folding it in half.
“Your constable is as much an apprentice councilor as I; leave me be,” Marnie muttered to herself as she slid the telegram under the impressive pile of requests growing taller on the bureau in the foyer.
The second one came the following morning while Marnie helped Cook make enough loaves for the day. Fingers covered in flour, she tore the telegram into three pieces, stuffing each heatedly into the kitchen trash bin. She took her frustrations out on the dough with her fists.
The third request arrived that same afternoon on a card attached to a bright bouquet of wildflowers. We look forward to working with you soon, it read. She gave the flowers to her mother and told the postman to return the card to the sender.
The fourth attempt came as a handwritten note two days thereafter, signed in tight, neat handwriting by Constable Alec himself. It was delivered in person by an attendant with plump cheeks and a wide-brimmed hat. Marnie returned the note to the attendant without reading it.
The stout man removed his hat, holding it politely over his barrel chest. “I was instructed not to leave without your company, Sophia.”
“Suit yourself.” Marnie put her fingers in her mouth and whistled sharply. Encouraged, the gardener’s hounds chased the attendant off manor property.
He moved quickly for a heavy man.
“You can’t ignore him forever,” Jack said ominously from the foyer. The hounds howled in the attendant’s wake, jumping and pawing at the bars of the gates.
“There’s a knife full of demons in my shoe,” Marnie said. “I’ll ignore him for as long as it takes.”
* * *
Constable Alec arrived in the flesh the next day, in a steam carriage driven by a fellow watchman. He brought a guest, a female, judging by the little of her profile that Marnie could see from her balcony. The woman remained in the cab as the constable crossed the stone drive to the front doors.
“Turn back now,” Marnie called to him through cupped hands. “We have nothing to talk about.”
Alec stopped and looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the late morning sun. Fresh gloss shined on his knee-high boots. His dark hair was neatly oiled and parted to the left, black peaked hat tucked under his arm and red stole knotted loosely below his neck. His shoulder holster sat empty, a peaceful gesture Marnie appreciated, but not enough that she’d chance a meeting with him.
“I assure you, Sophia Becker, we have a great deal to talk about,” he called.
“Who’s that with you?” Marnie pointed at the steam carriage.
Alec smiled broadly, showcasing a mouth full of pearly teeth. He waved a hand at the driver. The watchman jumped down to open the door for his guest. A tall, slender Achean unfolded from the stagecoach and joined the constable on the drive.
Marnie instantly recognized her midnight skin and the long black braids which fell to her waist from her oil painting hung in an honorary place at the academy. She was known to all witches because, if magic users had a royalty of their own, she would be amongst them.
Marnie tempered a delighted squeal. “Alchemist Shar Zerba,” she said under her breath.
The constable had her attention now.
Marnie rushed to meet them in the foyer, shouting for Jack to follow her. Staff bustled to make refreshments. Madam Becker advised her that the drawing room was ready to receive guests. She hovered in the archway, wringing her apron in her hands, eyeing the constable as he entered.
After making quick introductions, Alec kept to himself by the heavy entrance doors. He clapped his hat over his neat hair and hugged his arms to his chest.
Shar was middle-aged, with lines that crinkled around her bronze eyes. She wore a brightly-colored floral button-up shirt under a pocketed vest and tan rider’s trousers. Her cotton headscarf was yellow and orange, like a sunrise.
“Such a lovely home,” she purred in a voice like smoke. Her penetrating gaze dropped from the vaulted ceilings to land and widen on Marnie. “The ‘hero witch.’ You brought me to her, Alec, just like you said you would. I admit I was beginning to doubt you could. Come here, child. Come here.”
She opened her arms, and to Marnie’s great surprise, the alchemist embraced her tightly.
“Oh,” Marnie gasped as Shar’s slender arms crushed her with deceptive strength. The alchemist squeezed giggles out of her before releasing her.
Marnie cleared her throat, stepping free. “Thank you?”
Jack closed the distance between himself and Shar quickly, gifting her with a crushing hug of his own. He lifted her off the ground. Her booming laughter was infectious.
Back on her feet, the alchemist looked them over, her bronze gaze bouncing between Marnie and Jack. “Amigtas de
magus,” she cooed in Achean. “I can see your magics. They are friendly with each other. Your great bond is clear in your shared auras. It’s the same color right now: a bright yellow, like sunflower petals.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “Amigtas de magus? I’ve never heard the phrase before.”
“Ha. You would not have,” Shar said. “You are from the island, and Loreley City is closed to so many things. Join the academy. We will teach you far more than the church-run schools. A witch’s education is never complete here.”
“I’ve never heard that phrase either,” Marnie said.
Shar studied them, staring at something hovering around their faces, something Marnie could not see. She tried to, squinting until her eyes crossed.
“Your magical bond is very strong,” Shar said. “It must be uncomfortable being far from one another.”
Marnie and Jack glanced at each other.
“It is,” Jack said. “Marnie is like family to me. Or a little more than family, but I’ve never had the right word for it.”
“Amigtas! Now you have the word.” Shar clapped her hands together. “Yes. That is the bond. When you work magic together, it will be very strong. Only powerful witches bond in this way. Your magics are amiable, so now you are pulled to one another, like magnets, companions for life.”
“You all talk like magic has feelings.” Alec dared a step closer to Marnie, dropping his hands to his sides, like a rancher approaching an unbroken mount.
“Magic has feelings.” Marnie’s words were clipped. She guided her guests into the drawing room. Jack took a seat on the sofa alongside Shar. They chatted like old friends. The house magician rolled up his shirtsleeves, unabashedly displaying his work in temporary ink that allowed for the changing of the spells on his skin as he liked. Shar cooed over him. Marnie and Alec remained standing, gazes locked in an unofficial staring contest.
Staffers served refreshments, offering tea, coffee, chopped fruits, and cucumber water from a cart. The metal cart puttered in front of Alec on clockwork wheels. Annette did not come into the room, hovering in the hall instead. Marnie could hear her dolling out directions to the staff as they came and went.
