by Eden Reign
Jackson lifted one brow. “We’ll see about that. Where’s your aunt?”
“She’s not my aunt. She’s Mrs. Tailor. She went down to the grocer’s because we were out of tea.” The boy did not move from the doorway or make room for Jackson to enter. “I’m staying here until my papa comes, like he said I should. He said I wasn’t to go anywhere until he came for me after the war. I remember.” Grey’s voice rose, and Jackson heard panic beneath the bravado.
Cleansing Fires, had Mrs. Tailor not told Grey of his father’s death? Jackson had explained the situation to her in his letter, and though he’d demanded discretion and secrecy on the sensitive topic, he hadn’t meant she shouldn’t tell Grey.
Jackson closed his eyes. He believed in the fast removal of bandages. Quick, sharp pain was easier to bear than lengthier tortures. “Your father won’t be coming for you, Grey. He’s dead.”
Grey flinched as though he’d been struck, and he backed away from the door. “You’re a liar!” he shouted and raced past Jackson, leaping from the porch and disappearing around the corner of the house.
Jackson watched him go, flummoxed. Footsteps rustled on the front walk, pulling Jackson’s attention to a tall, angular woman.
“Master Coal?” she asked. “Oh, I’d hoped you’d arrive a bit later. I’m so sorry. Give me but a moment, and I’ll get some tea on. I’m Mrs. Tailor.” She was of middling age, dressed in a shabby black serge spanning a circular hoop skirt, with a wide-rimmed bonnet blocking most of her face as she juggled her parcels. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she added as Jackson stepped aside to make room for her skirt to pass into the cottage in front of him. “I’m nearly at my wit’s end with that boy.”
Jackson ducked beneath the doorjamb. He’d rarely had cause to socialize with mundanes in their own environs. The cottage felt tight and small, with its low ceilings and its clutter of bric-a-brac lining bookshelves and windowsills.
Mrs. Tailor laid her parcels on a table and offered her gloved hand. Jackson bowed over it perfunctorily. “Madame Tailor.”
“I’ll just get the tea on, shall I?” the woman said. “Where’s Grey gotten off to, I wonder? Honestly, I can barely keep track of him. He’s like a little creature of the wilds, always out in the swamps, getting filthy, bringing home critters in his pockets. If I never see another frog, I’ll count my blessings.” She shuddered before offering Jackson a tiny curtsey. “Make yourself comfortable, please.”
Jackson was anything but comfortable. The two seats in the front room both looked as though they’d collapse beneath him, so he remained standing. He feared ruining everything—the seats, the moment with Grey. He ought to have broken the news of Lige’s death more gently, but—how was he to know the proper way to broach such topics with children? He was out of his element.
Mrs. Tailor returned with two chipped china cups and handed one to Jackson. Her bonnet had concealed a sad, weathered face.
“Things have been tight since the war and my husband’s death,” Mrs. Tailor said sheepishly, brushing her finger over the chip on the brim of her cup. “The Levelers didn’t have stipends for war widows, not like the Arcanan Army widows get.”
“Your husband was a Leveler?”
“Oh, yes. It was a matter of his conscience, you see. He believed in equality for all.” She peered up at him. “You know what Grey is, do you not, Master?”
Jackson nodded brusquely. “You didn’t tell him his father died.”
Mrs. Tailor took one of the fragile-looking seats and gestured at the other. Jackson perched warily on its edge. “I meant to, I did. But honestly, I worried what he would do when I told him. He can be a perfect angel, when he wants to be. But most of the time ...” She sighed. “The truth, Master Coal, is that I am simply not what he needs. You cannot know how relieved I am that a man of your stature has taken an interest in him. He needs someone who can teach him, who can guide him in the proper use of his … gifts. As it is, he uses them recklessly.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Truly, it’s only a matter of time before he is discovered. You must take him away. I tried, for his mother’s sake, to look after him. But there’s only so much I can do. Blue Hill is a divided place. Many of the villagers supported the Brotherhood in the war.”
“Mundanes supporting the Brotherhood?” Jackson blurted in surprise. “Why? The Levelers wanted to improve life for the mundanes—they advocated for unions and contracts for share-croppers, for mundane voting rights, and so much more.”
“I know,” Mrs. Tailor murmured. “But most people prefer what they’ve always known, Master. It feels safe to them.” She sighed again. “Half the time, I agree. Look what the Levelers’ cries for change wrought: destruction everywhere, countless widows and orphans, plantations burned, people starving—and for what? They achieved very little. Our lives are as small as ever. Poor Grey is in just as much danger as he ever was.”
The black, empty void surrounding Jackson’s heart swallowed more ground as he thought of Lige, his dreams, and his final words. “There are new laws still under consideration in the Armistice package that would expand rights for people like Grey. And I will protect him.”
“I said I wasn’t going with you,” a small voice declared behind him. Jackson whipped his head around and dropped his teacup. A resounding crack echoed through the room as the armrest of his chair fell to the floor.
He leaped to his feet and collected the broken items. “My apologies, ma’am. I’ll pay for the damage, I assure you.”
Grey Lake stood in the front doorway, arms crossed, scowling. His red-rimmed eyes betrayed his feelings.
“Grey,” Mrs. Tailor admonished weakly. “This is Master Coal. He’s come to look after you. Come and shake his hand like a good boy.”
Grey made no move to obey. Behind him, the sky was growing unnaturally dark. Clouds gathered in thick heaps beyond the doorway. Thunder rattled the thin pane of glass in the room’s one window.
“Oh, mercy!” cried Mrs. Tailor. “Not another storm!” She rose from her seat and turned toward the hall. “I must get the back shutters closed.”
As she departed, Jackson set down the armrest and the broken teacup, studying Grey intently. Fingers of strange magic probed the air. Another rumble of thunder shook the cottage, and beyond the doorway where Grey still stood, the skies opened. Rain poured in roaring sheets.
Grey jutted his chin forward. “I guess we can’t travel,” he said defiantly. “And your horse is getting wet.” He stepped into the house and slammed the front door.
Jackson’s fiery temper was on a short leash. “Put an end to it,” he said sharply, taking a few steps toward the boy. “You foolish child, finish it, now. If I can feel your power, someone else might, too.”
The rain only poured harder.
Jackson held the boy’s shoulders and bent down, meeting his stormy gaze. Those limpid saltwater eyes gave him chills. “Listen to me, Grey. This isn’t the way. Your father—he was my dearest friend in the world. He made me promise to look after you. I’m here to help you. But you must stop this dangerous magic. You could hurt yourself or someone else. Come now.” He gave what he thought was a reassuring squeeze, but Grey pulled away and darted around Jackson.
Mrs. Tailor stopped the boy’s progress in the hall beyond the front room, frowning severely. “Go and get your things, Grey.” She let him pass and then faced Jackson. “He’s all packed. These storms tend to be sudden. I’m sure it will clear shortly, and you can be on your way.” Her hands trembled, though, as she clasped them at her waist.
The rain did not abate. Jackson peered out the window. He wasn’t going to be manipulated in this way by a little boy. It was all too clear Grey was accustomed to using his magic to bully and get his way. That bad habit ended here.
“I’m not afraid of a bit of rain, ma’am. If Grey’s as hardy as he looks, we’ll be fine.” He spoke loudly, so the boy would hear him.
Grey stomped back into the front room and threw down a rucksack.
“Excellent,” Jackson said. “I like a rough and ready soldier. Have you got a mackintosh?”
Grey said nothing. Mrs. Tailor moved silently to the hook by the front door and took down an oilcloth cloak. She held it open expectantly.
Grey crossed his arms. “We can’t ride a horse in this weather!”
Jackson strode forward and patted him on the back. “Sure we can! You should have seen the rains the watermages threw at my battalion at Gainstown. This is nothing but a little sprinkle. Off we go!”
Mrs. Tailor wrapped the boy in the cloak. She gave him a peck on the top of his head. “You be a good boy, Grey.” She stepped back and hastily wiped a tear from her cheek, careful to turn away so Grey did not see.
Jackson rummaged in his pockets and pulled out ten fullmarks. “For the damage I did to your property, ma’am.”
After Mrs. Tailor took the money, Jackson put on his hat, shouldered Grey’s rucksack, and steered the boy to the front door. Mrs. Tailor did not accompany them.
Jackson leaned over and whispered to Grey. “It’s up to you. We can travel comfortably dry, if you stop this reckless nonsense. Or I can lock your hands to keep you from using your magic.”
The flash of anger in the boy’s eyes made Jackson hesitate.
“Try me,” Grey said, defiance rolling off him in waves.
Jackson’s jaw tightened. He glanced out the door at the sky before pulling Grey’s arms behind him, quickly tapping the Wells and taking a thread of fire from the Eternal Flame, weaving it around Grey’s wrists to lock his power in place, being careful not to burn his skin.
To his shock, the rain continued, pouring harder if anything. Jackson could feel the power still emanating from the small body, and then he cursed himself for not realizing that such specific fullmage magic would not work on a halfmage, who possessed a more direct connection to the elements.
“Very well,” he murmured. He struggled to calm his voice. “We can ride soaked to the bone, then. Either way, we’re riding.”
The boy snuffled, but the rain continued. “I’ll get too cold,” he complained. “We might get sick.”
Jackson smiled and tapped the Indigo Wells. “We won’t have to worry about the cold,” he explained as he summoned heat. “I can keep us plenty warm. I’m a firemage.” And with that, he ushered the boy into the driving rain.
Jackson had thought his plan to continue on despite the boy’s hindering rain an excellent plan—three hours ago. As the afternoon progressed, he doubted the wisdom of his idea. How was the child keeping this up?
In the distance, Jackson could see where the rain-storm ended. He glanced at the heavens, watching the clouds roll along with their progress, covering an enormous swath of sky. The diameter of Grey’s storm was shockingly large for a boy his age to handle. It was hard to imagine anyone commanding such power for so long.
The boy sat in front of him on Beau, tucked up in the oilcloth, silent and fuming. Anytime Jackson’s heat started drying his own jacket, the boy changed the storm—instead of fat raindrops, the sky unleashed hail, in chunks so large Jackson feared it might actually hurt one of them. It took all his concentration to track and counter the largest hailstones, melting them before they could do any harm. This division of his attention made it so Jackson had to slow their pace to a plodding walk; he couldn’t ride quickly on the wet road while he was monitoring hail. The two-hour journey was turning into a four-hour slog. At this rate, the governess would arrive at Coalhaven before they did.
“Enough, Grey,” Jackson finally said. “Enough. You’re going to hurt someone. Me, you, the horse, or worse, an innocent bystander. You must cease this.”
Jackson’s words were met only with silence. Jackson was stubborn, too, though. “Your father was my friend, Grey. He was like a brother to me. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry he has died. You cannot imagine—” Jackson cut himself off. It was too easy to treat this precocious boy as older than his years. “When we get to Coalhaven, I’ll tell you all about him. Everything he’s done. Everything he hoped for you. I can never replace your father, Grey. I don’t intend to try. But I promised I’d care for you, and I will.” Gingerly, Jackson wrapped an arm around the boy, pulled him against his body. Trying to comfort this small, weary bundle of fear and anger was like trying to outrun his own dark thoughts. But he had to do this. He had to fix this. For Lige. “We’re going to find a way to get through this, Grey.”
Still the boy said nothing, but the hail turned back into rain, and gradually, the rain lessened until it was only a light drizzle, and Jackson dared to move the horse along faster. The clouds cleared, revealing a gorgeous painted sky streaked with amber and blood-orange.
Jackson exhaled in relief, though during the ride, he’d grown increasingly concerned about the governess. How could he hand over this damaged, dangerous boy to even an experienced matron from Peachtree Orphanage? He heaved a weary sigh. When had the burdens of the world ever been light? He’d decide how to handle the situation once he met the new governess and assessed her mettle.
“I’m cold,” Grey muttered.
Jackson intensified his warmth until the boy subsided, an exhausted wolf cub, still full of fight, but too tired to resist any longer. “How’s that?” Jackson asked. “We’re almost there.”
Chapter 6
Manda
The magic of Coalhaven swept over Manda before the carriage even reached the plantation’s wide gravel drive, but when it trundled onto it, Manda sank back into her seat as the feeling of water—powerful water—seeped through her. Coalhaven was a firemage’s estate. Why was there such a potent feel of water magic?
Manda leaned closer to the window, awed. The drive stretched as far as she could see, and on both sides, expansive oak trees grew, their boughs tangling into a dark web over the path, the trailing moss draping off the branches like shrouds. In the distance, beyond the northern woods, the high, long roofs of the plantation millworks rose above the greenery. A large, painted sign underneath the high drooping eaves proclaiming Millworks was visible across the treetops. Smaller structures abutted the brick buildings, their airy construction and glass roofing suggesting that they were greenhouses.
When the house slid into view around a bend, Manda’s breath caught in her throat. From Peachtree Orphanage to this?
An expansive three-story plantation manor sat atop a rise, hemmed in with enormous magnolias and oaks, backlit by an orange and gold and crimson sunset. Beneath the trees, quiet gardens spread in hazy, purple-tinged magnificence. Gray, trailing moss decorated these trees, too, and charming white gazebos, intricate though barren flower beds, and overgrowths of old honeysuckle wove a tapestry throughout the gardens. A brown-bearded man—the groundskeeper, Manda assumed—bent over one of the flower beds on the southern side of the manor, his gloved hands removing a tangle of dead winter vines to make room for spring growth. He glanced up as the carriage passed and nodded to the driver.
A wide swing hung from the boughs of a tree near one of the house wings, swaying in the gentle breeze. In the front of the house, the driveway curved across the lawn to the portico. A large fountain stood in the middle of the driveway circle, its centerpiece a stone woman with open arms, her wide skirts made of the falling water. Beyond the circle, an expansive lawn opened to a view of the sparkling sea in the eastern distance. The indigo fields beyond, sparse and patchy, covered the distant hillocks. Their untended state was understandable, though, Manda thought, given the changeover of owners and the likely staff upheaval in recent weeks, besides the effects of war on all Arcanan property, Leveler or Brotherhood. Through the opposite window, trees and woods stretched without end beyond the millworks to the northwest. Manda wondered if all of it was Coalhaven’s property.
The house itself was painted white brick. Doric columns supported both the first floor porch that ran the entire length of the home and the second floor balcony, which also reached from end to end of the house. Three gabled windows punctuated the roofline to fo
rm the third floor. The deep gray shutters on the upstairs windows were tightly closed.
Through the unshuttered windows of the lower floor she caught glimpses of white.
When the carriage stopped and she alighted, the coachman carried her carpetbag to the front doors.
“Thank you, Mr. Coachman,” Manda said, accepting the carpetbag from the man.
“You’re welcome, miss. If you’re settled here, I’ll be on my way.” The driver, a mundane, recognizable by his practical name, gave a crisp, almost military bow.
Manda wondered if he had fought with the Levelers. She had heard much about mundane discontent fueling the Leveler Army, though those Manda had known in Savana, the orphans and Mrs. Hurley, had all stood staunchly for the Brotherhood and “the way things had always been” between mages and mundanes.
The door opened behind Manda.
“Good evening, Miss.” A dark-haired man of about thirty years, with skin the color of dark honey—a Nanu tribesman, if she wasn’t mistaken—greeted her with a smile. “Please come in. You are another one of the new staff, I presume?”
“Yes, the governess. Thank you.” She followed the tall Nanu man into the house. The white she had seen through the windows was explained; furnishings had been draped in snowy sheets to protect them from dust.
Most of the portraits and paintings around the enormous great room remained covered in their shrouds, but a few were bare, their subjects gazing down at the hickory floor. The one that hung on the back wall above the second floor walkway caught Manda’s attention. The largest portrait by far, its subject was a tall woman with dark curls sprigged about her ears, her hands folded demurely in her lap, a tiny smile playing on her broad lips. Her dark eyes bled mystery.
The butler noticed her perusal. “It’s a fine portrait, is it not? The housemaid says she is the former mistress of the plantation—Julia Coal.”
“She looks sad,” Manda murmured.
