The Ruin of Snow

by Lacy Sheridan

  Tulia smiled, sly. “Will Altair attend as well, Sarafine?”

  “I’m sure he will.” She didn’t let the comment ruffle her, as polished as usual.

  Mother ended their conversation with a look, studying each of us. I kept motionless and silent and waited. “Neyva,” she turned to me. “I’d like to speak with you after supper.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And you as well, Sarafine.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  And it was done. We’d hear no more from her right now; that conversation was reserved for Sarafine and I, in private. When the plates were cleared, Tulia bid us a soft goodnight and then set off to her studio to paint whatever breathtaking scene was in her head. Sarafine and I waited as Mother finished giving instructions to a maid before following her upstairs. I caught the expression my sister shot in my direction, the irritation, and fought a victorious smile.

  I saw other sisters chattering away like little birds, passing on stories and gossip and laughter. I knew of girls who could name every fact about their sisters at a moment’s notice and would do it with a smile on their faces. I could do the same for mine—I knew everything there was to know about them—but Mother made the relationship she expected of us clear. We were not friends. We were competitors, vying for the honor of one day taking her place. And every step we took put one of us above the others. I hoped I was right in my belief that I’d taken the lead, for the time being.

  The old clock at the heart of the house rang seven as we stopped. Like every door in the house, Mother’s was dark, rich wood, simple and elegant. Locked and solid. Mother slid her keys free and pushed the door open. She didn’t hold it for us.

  Sarafine swept through ahead of me, and I closed the door. Mother’s rooms were larger and finer than any of ours: a spacious bedroom with a large bed, wardrobe, dressing table, and padded chairs set aside for meetings, a balcony, and a private washroom. Sarafine’s eyes burned with envy. Mother draped herself across one of the chairs and unfolded the message from the Meadowrains. She raised her gaze to us—the same icy green eyes I’d inherited—and made us stand in terrible silence.

  “Emilia Meadowrain,” she mused, gesturing for us both to sit. We did. “What a dreadful thing she was. Forever prancing around in tulle and baubles, going on about her position.” Her gaze slid to Sarafine, who didn’t flinch, though she shifted her weight. “Have you been so unappealing to Altair that he was drawn to someone so inferior to you?”

  “Altair has a wandering eye,” Sarafine said. “And Emilia was desperate to climb the social ladder. No doubt she took advantage of it.”

  “So you cannot guarantee his loyalty.”

  She lowered her gaze. “I can, Mother. I won’t allow him to wander again.”

  “See that you don’t. I chose him for you for a reason. His name and position will suit you well.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Mother took her chin in one hand, tilting her face up. In front of Mother, she seemed like a child. “You are beautiful, Sarafine. Beautiful and clever. I expect you to keep a man loyal, at least prior to you giving him an heir and passing on your power. Then throw him away if you like.”

  “Yes, Mother. I will.”

  “Good.” She released her. “Your sister did well to save you—and all of us—from shame.”

  Sarafine faced me, every inch of her rigid as she said sweetly, “Thank you for your so generous help, Neyva. I do hope I can repay the favor one day.”

  “I was glad to help,” I said with the same smile I’d given Emilia.

  Mother smiled as well. “You may go, Sarafine.”

  “Yes, Mother. Goodnight.” I watched her stand and leave.

  Mother’s voice pulled my attention from the closed door. “You did well, Neyva.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How did you find her?”

  I crossed one leg over the other and smoothed my skirt. “A simple truth curse. I used the hair ribbon Sarafine found in Altair’s things.”

  “And the death? Nearly two days later.”

  “The cursed ashes, sprinkled over a pastry.”

  Her eyes lit up with interest. “An untraceable poison. Very clever. She wouldn’t have shown any sign of illness for hours.”

  One of the first things Mother had taught us all was to never allow the possibility of a death being traced to us. Witchcraft was forbidden in Selliira, said to be an afront to the Lady and her gods, but we couldn’t help that we were born with it singing in our blood. The Morningspell name and fortune were built on magic. It would be a waste to ignore it.

  “Thank you,” I said again, but Mother was watching me with the face that meant she had more to say. I waited, something in the pit of my stomach stirring. What critique could she give? Her standards were high, but this had been a simple job: find who was taking Altair’s attention and eliminate her before she could cause trouble. I’d executed it flawlessly. “Is there anything else, Mother?”

  She stood and crossed to her vanity, and I watched her lift the lid of an engraved jewelry box. I couldn’t help the little spark of interest but refrained from craning my neck to see what she pulled out of it. She held something long and thin, gleaming silver and blue in the light. She stood in front of me and extended her cupped hands.

  It was a hair stick—a silver point set with a gleaming white end I recognized as polished bone, studded with sapphires. I couldn’t help a tiny gasp as I took it from her, every touch careful. It was stunning, and more than it seemed. My family held more than a few priceless heirlooms, but Mother kept them close and guarded. This was one.

  I traced the edge of it and angled the point against the pad of my finger; it drew a drop of blood. “A weapon,” I observed. Not only a fine piece of jewelry, but a lethal tool.

  Mother smiled and took it from me, moving behind me. I held still as she twisted my hair up and secured it. “One of the prized Morningspell gems,” she said with a soft brush of her fingers along the back of my neck. “You are a talented witch, Neyva. I’ve always known you were, and you never cease to prove me right.”

  I kept my gaze forward, frozen solid as she worked. “I do my best, Mother.”

  “It’s yours now. You’re skilled and clever with your magic, but remember what we are. Who you are. They would burn you if they knew.”

  I nodded. I knew that, but the reminder struck through me. Nothing could stop what I was, and this gift was a symbol of that. Nothing would make me anything but a witch, anything but a Morningspell—and there were those who would kill me and worse for it. The tiny blade woven through my hair was my insurance against them.

  “Thank you, Mother,” I said as she returned to her seat. “I’ll keep it close to me.”

  “I’m sure you will.” She put a hand beneath my chin, a gentler and more motherly touch than how she’d treated Sarafine. It was the most motherly gesture she’d given me in years. “You’ve done so well, Neyva. Now go on, enjoy your evening.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I stood, resisting the urge to touch the knot she’d worked my hair into, and inclined my head before I started for the door. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Neyva.”

  When the door was closed behind me, I paused and lifted one hand to my hair. Gathered expertly, the glassy smoothness of the hair stick through the middle. I traced the line of the bone handle once and then started for my bedroom.

  A door opened down the hall, and I turned to see Tulia leaving her studio, a spotted apron covering her gown to save it from her paints. “Neyva,” she greeted as she passed, a cup of brushes in one hand. The finest money could buy.

  “Tulia.”

  She made it a step past me and then paused, head tilted. Her green eyes were as sharp as ever, going straight to the ornament in my hair. “Your hair.”

  We didn’t brag about gifts from Mother. They were few and far between and difficult to earn, but bringing them to each other’s attention never ended well. When we’d been younger we’d
been a far different kind of competitive, vocal about every accomplishment, but we’d learned quickly that it led to strife in the house.

  Besides, I didn’t need my sisters to validate my pride, or knowing what Mother thought of my skills.

  I watched her. “Yes?”

  A flicker of a smile passed her lips and she continued. I walked with her. “It looks nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did Mother give you that hair stick?”

  I would have lied had Sarafine asked the question. But Tulia had something to her that pulled the truth from me. A warmth, like candlelight late at night. “Yes, she did.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  We walked in comfortable silence to the washrooms where servants scrubbed the laundry and gathered what was needed to clean the house as evening crawled into night. Once Tulia had passed off her brushes and apron with orders to clean and return them to her studio, she linked an arm with mine. “Would you like to see what I’ve been working on?”

  “I’d love to, Tulia.”

  We went to her studio arm-in-arm, and she left me to browse her pieces as she fussed over the organization of her paints and pencils. Landscapes and portraits painted with an enviable accuracy. Perched on an easel was a stunning painting of wintry woods, gleaming with snow and frost while dark trees rose into a pale sky. Chilling and eerie. “What made you paint this one?” I asked.

  She glanced up to see which I was meant, then returned to her work. “I’ve painted so many summer and spring landscapes. We always travel in the summer. I felt like painting something different.”

  “It’s beautiful.” It was. Exotic to my eyes, eyes that had only seen the outside world in summer. When winter set in we stayed in the noble squares of Acalta, the capital city.

  “Thank you, Neyva.” She straightened a tube of paint, and I wandered away from the easel to the canvases propped against the walls. Summer woods and spring gardens. Pretty and cheerful, what the sweet, kindhearted daughter of a noblewoman should paint. Tulia was a killer as much as I was, but Acalta saw only the pretty young woman who favored white lace.

  My attention travelled from the paintings to the window that looked out across the gardens, now quiet and dead, blanketed with a thin layer of frost. The stars were bright in the winter-dark sky, like jewels scattered across velvet. “Have you ever thought, Tulia, of what it will be like to live somewhere else?”

  “Somewhere else?”

  I knew she understood; she was gauging my direction with the question, searching for another motive. There was none. I was simply curious. “Sarafine is, of course, the logical choice to inherit the estate, with Alaric dead. The rest of us will move to our husbands’.”

  She made a quiet little humming sound as she thought. “Yes, but Altair is the eldest of his family. He’ll inherit the Perrymoore estate, as well. And Mother will leave our fortune to whoever she wishes.” And none of us would know who that would be before the time came. “Though I have thought about it. It’ll be strange to leave.” She crossed to the window as well, but watched me rather than the frozen gardens. “Do you worry about living with Desmond, Neyva?”

  “No,” I told her truthfully.

  “What about other things to come?”

  We both knew what she meant. It was a stabbing reminder of the snow on the ground, of what it meant. My eighteenth nameday. I kept my fingers from curling into my skirt as I stepped away. “No, not worry. I’ll leave you to your work. Goodnight, Tulia.”

  I felt her eyes on me all the way to the door but didn’t break my pace. “Goodnight, Neyva.”

  Three

  “You look lovely today, Miss,” Katherine said as she brushed my hair.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you to meet Mr. Fiere today?”

  “Yes, I am.” It was routine, the same time each week for almost two years: Desmond and I met for a proper, public outing, as was expected. Until we were officially engaged, we were to meet publicly or with a chaperone, lest we subject our respective families to some scandal—though few truly followed the rule, and we were no exception. Mother and my sisters turned the other way, as I did for them, and if Desmond’s family cared, I suspected they were unwilling to confront a Morningspell about it.

  But the public outings were nice. Easy and relaxing. A play, but a simple one. We walked, we chatted. Nothing more.

  Katherine twisted and braided my hair up, securing it with the sharpened hair stick—I’d found it was not only a versatile and beautiful accessory, but a comfort to have with me in public—and met my eyes in the mirror. “Beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Katherine.” I stood and checked my reflection one last time, studying the dark blue dress I’d chosen. It hugged the curves of my waist but remained modest and simple enough for a walk through the noble squares. Satisfied, I smoothed the flowing skirt before I stepped from the room.

  The house was silent, in its usual mid-afternoon fashion. Sarafine was likely with Altair, or perhaps barking orders and critiques at anybody unfortunate enough to be working on wedding preparations. Tulia would be in her studio or the library. It was a familiar kind of quiet, peaceful, as cool as the frosty air outside. I glided through the halls toward the door but stopped halfway to the grand staircase.

  Something stirred in the house, a whisper against the usual silence. The faint taste of magic appeared at the back of my tongue, like metal or blood. One of my sisters practicing?

  It seemed possible. I made it only another step before there was a tug in the pit of my stomach, a thread wound around my spine.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled the magic, letting it seep through me. A subtle, masterfully-woven spell. A call, meant to lure one to the witch, or to where she wanted her target. Why cast it here?

  My heart thrummed in my chest, but I focused on the spell. If one of them wanted me to come, I’d play whatever game they were looking for. Desmond could wait a few minutes. I followed the magic’s pull, down the hall. Another wave of it rolled across my tongue and I stopped. The door to one of the guest bedrooms stood cracked open—unusual; I knew the servants kept it closed when they weren’t freshening it up—and the thread pulled insistently for me to enter. I didn’t.

  “Why do you insist on this?” Mother’s voice drifted from inside—the tone she used when she knew the answer but wanted to hear it. I shuffled half a step closer. Was she the one who had cast it? Or was she with one of my sisters? And why?

  Something in my bones, an instinct apart from the magic, told me to back away. Not to listen, to continue on my way and meet with Desmond, to ignore the magic telling me to inch closer. My curiosity stamped it down.

  I knew it was a mistake when Mother got her answer. “Neyva is beautiful, Devaria, and I don’t mind courting her. But she’s your third. How much will she truly inherit?”

  Desmond. I knew his voice in an instant, and I closed my eyes. No.

  The statement shouldn’t have been a surprise. My family didn’t arrange pairings for love, and love was a secondary concern to most other nobles. Prestige, influence, wealth, appearances—all were more important. And he was right; I had two sisters before me to inherit all the Morningspell name had to offer. Mother would ensure whoever of us proved to be the best witch and weapon would inherit the most, but the rest of the world didn’t—couldn’t—know that.

  A little twist of fury snaked through my chest, a startling, searing-hot thing, and my fingers tightened around the doorknob. Was he here to bargain with Mother? Try to pair himself with Tulia instead?

  We had an agreement. A long courtship, an eventual engagement, a perfect future. Not some little girl’s naïve fantasy, but a comfortable life in the luxury we were both used to. A son to appease him, a daughter or two to pass on my legacy.

  An agreement.

  I shoved the door open, a thousand sharp words on the tip of my tongue. Every one of them died.

  Rumpled bedclothes. Mother draped across
them, icy eyes meeting mine. Her lips curled the slightest bit. Desmond stood near the covered window, shirtless. My heart stopped as my gaze landed on him, and his on me. Shock flitted across his face, followed by horror. “Neyva,” he started, but he didn’t have anything more to say.

  I looked to Mother, but no words made it past my throat. She tilted her head. “You’d do best to remember to knock, dearest.”

  I wasn’t sure my heart could start again. I turned and left.

  My vision swam, and I closed my eyes, but memories danced behind my lids. Stolen kisses in empty rooms. Mother’s thoughtful nod when I’d told her I intended to accept whenever he decided to propose, and the little thrill in my chest at her approval. He’s a good choice, she’d said. He’ll serve you well.

  I was halfway to the stairs again when I heard pounding footsteps behind me. “Neyva!” I ignored Desmond and went, down the steps, out to the gardens. I didn’t know why; I wanted out, out of the suffocating stillness of the house with its walls like eyes and the tang of magic choking me. Out where maybe the winter sky could rip the image of them from my mind.

  The air was ice-cold, the wind biting into my skin, but it felt distant. The image was there, tinged red, wherever I looked.

  “Neyva. Neyva, look at me, please.” I heard the desperation in his voice, the way it cracked. My pulse roared in my ears and drowned it out. My hands shook. My lungs strained for breath, like the sharp air was too thin. Or like there wasn’t enough air left in the world. The frosty garden blurred. I lifted one hand to my cheek and found it wet.

  Tears?

  Yes, tears; they stung my eyes, and I tasted the salt of them on my lips. I stared at my fingertips. I hadn’t cried in years. Not since I’d been a little girl—since before my first kill. I hadn’t even cried then.

  “Neyva, please, don’t cry,” Desmond said, grabbing my hand. I jerked away.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  No, no, I didn’t speak to him that way. I spoke to Desmond with the honey tones of a young noblewoman, of a kind, normal girl to her suitor. But the honey voice wouldn’t come. What came out was the voice of a Morningspell—cold and authoritative, but sharper than Mother’s. Even Mother didn’t snap like that.