Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)

by Harper, Molly

  I knew I was feeling better because the suppressors were fading from my system, but the better I felt, the sharper my guilt. My family was only a short distance away. I missed my mother so badly, my stomach ached with it. Could I sneak away from the garden, through the herb and vegetable beds, to the kitchen window without Mrs. Winter spotting me? No. It was better to wait, to show Mrs. Winter that I could be trusted alone… so she might relax her guard long enough to let me sneak behind her back.

  I would worry about my willingness to deceive and sneak at some other time.

  I finished the primer, feeling no more informed about magic than when I started. Though I did learn that magical children were very gullible about their origins.

  Still, I dutifully read my assignments. I tried to tackle A Comprehensive History of the Coven Guild, but eventually, the complex explanations of the origins of magic and the first generations of Guardians to experience the magical “spark” made my eyes cross with boredom. To my shame, I only reached page thirteen.

  Mrs. Winter had drifted from the pond to one of her experimental herb beds. Though it was difficult to imagine the ever-coiffed Mrs. Winter dirtying her hands, the magical garden was her passion. When she wasn’t orchestrating the social lives of the Guardian elite, Mrs. Winter ran meetings of the Demeter Society, a prominent women’s research guild devoted to the advancement of magical botany. Mrs. Winter used the talents and social clout of her fellow members to further her research, “bettering magical society” while maintaining and advancing her power base. Similar guilds existed for nearly every specialty – healing, metallurgy, astronomy, divination and more.

  Entrance into the Demeter Society was even more coveted than most positions within the ever-competitive guilds. To be admitted, new members had to be legacies, related to other Demeter ladies, or have shown meteoric potential at Miss Castwell’s. Lesser botanists were admitted to the not-quite-as-illustrious Epona Society, or worse yet, the Lightbourne Garden Club, which was barely a guild at all. Still the Garden Club was better than being left out of a guild entirely, which was considered a great disgrace among Castwell graduates.

  From what I overheard while serving tea, Mrs. Winter was cross-breeding different varieties of tansy so it wouldn’t burn so quickly when dried specimens were added to spellwork. I had no idea what that meant, but Mrs. Winter seemed very focused on growing heartier, less flammable specimens.

  Closing my book, I stood and took a few steps away from the bench, waiting to see if Mrs. Winter noticed. She hadn’t, because she’d slipped through the iron gate to her “restricted” garden where she grew the specimens so dangerous that she didn’t dare mention them in conversation over tea. My father wasn’t even allowed to enter this section of the garden, nor Mrs. Winter’s restricted greenhouse, both of which were kept under keys and wards only accessible by their mistress.

  I took a few more steps toward the kitchen herb garden, the one full of plain old cooking grade mint and thyme, smells I would always associate with my mother. She would be baking the lemon-rosemary cakes for tea by this time of the morning. Could I sneak to the kitchen entrance before Mrs. Winter noticed?

  I took another step.

  Nothing.

  With hurried, quiet movements, I picked up my skirts and moved toward the kitchen door. Every step I took that wasn’t interrupted by Mrs. Winter’s yelling, had me moving faster. I saw my mother through the window, hunched over a sink full of dishes. Mary was nowhere to be seen.

  Was my mother angry with me, like Mary? Was she upset over seeing me all dressed up in a dress my family could never afford? I barely resembled the daughter she knew. Was she afraid that she’d lost me permanently? Or was it too scary to see this spit-and-polished Guardian version of the little girl who clung to her skirts all those years? And if she felt that way, what would my father say? Did he remember that I was gone, or were the empty bottles simply piling up by his fireside chair without me to collect them each night?

  In that moment, I didn’t care about the lies and the pills and the magic. I just wanted to see my mother. Just as Mum looked up and spotted me, I grasped the door handle.

  And I was thrown back as if a horse had kicked me, hind end over tea kettle with my skirt thrown over my head. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning, my skin tingling with the shock of running into a ward keyed to keep me out.

  “I think I hate wards,” I grumbled.

  I rolled to sit up, shoving at my skirts until they were no longer over my head. I blew my hair out of my face. Mum was pressed against the window, her eyes wide with fright. I couldn’t hear her, but I could see her mouth forming the words, “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, and waved away her concern. I pushed to my feet with some difficulty and brushing the stray grass from my skirts. I looked back to the window to try to have some sort of conversation with Mum through the glass. However, once Mum had assured herself that Mrs. Winter’s ward wasn’t going to do me permanent damage, she’d disappeared.

  I knew I shouldn’t let that disappoint me. Mum had been putting distance between us ever since I could remember, always shooing me toward work that needed me to be done or away from the boiling pot she was watching. I used to think she was just too busy to be a mother, but now I wondered, knowing that she’d known about my magic from the start, had she been afraid of me? Ashamed of me? Had she been afraid to get attached, knowing that I could be taken from her if people found out about my magic?

  Still staring at the empty glass, I heard a sharp shout from behind the brick wall that separated the kitchen garden from the plot where Mrs. Winter grew plants for magical purposes. I glanced over to the little table and saw that the tarts had been reduced to crumbs. My shadow stretched far across the yard, almost to the feet of the statue of Queen Mab. How long had I been sitting out here?

  I heard the angry voice again. “Mother, I can’t believe you followed through on this ridiculous idea!”

  At the commanding, but somehow petulant, tone, I nearly dropped my book. Only one person in the Winter household could get away with speaking to Mrs. Winter like that – Owen Winter, the darling boy of this proud household and the object of my sister’s affections.

  The very thought of him set my teeth on edge. Once upon a time, I thought we were friends, but I hadn’t had much use for him since he was nine. The young boy with whom I’d once played pirates in the petunias had grown up to be cold and haughty. He rarely had a kind word for anyone but Horus.

  Of course, just because Owen could get away with using such a tone toward his mother, didn’t mean that I’d actually heard him use it. Though he was her darling boy, Owen was just as scared of his mother as the rest of us. I crept quietly toward the hedge, dragging my heavy skirts over the grass.

  “Owen, I appreciate your opinion on this subject, but what’s done is done,” Mrs. Winter responded calmly. “We cannot let Sarah’s abilities become known to the authorities. You know what that would do to our reputation. Not to mention the consequences for Sarah herself. We have struck a bargain with the Smiths and if we have taught you anything, it’s that a Winter stands by his or her word.”

  “There was no reason to contact the Institute on Sarah’s behalf! There are alternatives you haven’t considered. Continued suppression, re-location – just send her across the pond and let her stay with some of your American relatives.”

  Through the metal slats, I could see Owen towering over his mother. He was dressed in the typical uniform for his classes, an exquisitely tailored black suit with a high-creased, heavily starched, white collar and a black-and-silver striped tie. Like most young men of fashion, he showed his family allegiance through the silver raven pin securing his tie. His auburn hair, a cross between his mother’s gold and… whatever darker shade Mr. Winter had before he’d elected to shave it off, was slicked back behind his ears. He was the very picture of elegance, breeding and all things valued by his class at the ripe old age of fourteen.

  Mrs. Winter sat
on a stone bench in a slate blue muslin morning gown, her version of gardening clothes, culling rosemary stems. Owen threw off his silk coat and vest, choosing to rant at his mother in his shirtsleeves.

  He rolled those sleeves up to his elbows as he paced, exclaiming, “No one we know will believe this charade. No one in our circle will believe Sarah comes from a proper Guardian household. Send her back to her family before you ruin us all.”

  I felt that sting much deeper than I expected. Owen wanted me back in the scullery where I belonged. Although we’d never been what you would call close friends, I didn’t think I’d done anything to earn his disdain. But now he was afraid that I would embarrass him, that all his fancy Guardian friends would know that his mother was trotting out a servant, treating her like a show dog.

  “Owen, that is enough.” Mrs. Winter’s voice rose to a volume I’d never heard her use. “Cassandra has become a part of this household. She will be a credit to the Winter name. And if she is not, there are other, more final, solutions under consideration. But for now, we will simply have to make the best of this current situation.”

  I pressed my hands over my mouth. A more final solution? What exactly did that mean? What did Mrs. Winter have planned? I’d come to think of my employer as a constant in this shifting sea of tension, but could I really trust her? Could I trust anyone?

  “She’s a plain little mouse, afraid of her shadow, and you want to teach her magic?” Owen scoffed, his full mouth curling into a scowl. “You’d be better off trying to teach my cat to waltz.”

  I dropped my book to ground, yelping when it landed on my toe.

  Owen turned at my sound and saw me standing at the gate. His pale face flushed with guilt as he caught sight of my wounded expression. I backed away from the gate, willing away the hot angry tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. I gathered my skirts in both hands and turned on my heel, praying that I wouldn’t trip while I ran back into the house.

  I ignored Owen’s voice as he shouted after me. “Sarah! Come back!”

  5

  Second-Rate First Impressions

  Riding in the smart black carriage along McGavock Street, I stared out the window, rubbing my gloved hands together.

  I tried to focus on the novelty of riding inside the cray-fire carriage, instead of merely staring after them from the street. I would arrive at Miss Castwell’s with the faint ozone of a cray-fire engine clinging to my clothes, which was considered a mark of distinction among Guardian ladies. That didn’t do as much for my confidence as I’d hoped it would.

  My weeks living as “Cassandra” in Raven’s Rest had not left me feeling at all prepared for this morning. In this new identity, my life was in danger. My family was in danger. And the only thing keeping them safe was me being able to pretend this fairy tale girl – Cassandra Reed – to life. If I couldn’t convince the girls of Miss Castwell’s Institute for the Magical Instruction of Young Ladies that I was a proper, pampered little witch, I would lose everything and everyone I loved.

  Through the window, I watched young servant girls carrying their heavy wicker baskets full of bread and vegetables from the market, and children in their ragged clothes chasing hoops precariously close to the bustling cobblestone street. Somehow, I felt jealous of them. Even though my life was supposed to be easier now, I missed being Sarah Smith. I missed being one of those magic-less servant girls, knowing my place in the world.

  I caught my reflection in the glass. Over the past few weeks, my face had lost its pinched, tired look and my skin evened out to something like a fair complexion. My eyes had lost their feverish glint and settled into a clear, bright pewter color. My dull, limp hair became soft and shiny, a rich mahogany that fell over my shoulders in waves. I was still relatively thin, but I finally resembled the young lady I was, after years of looking like an underfed little girl. With the exception of the scars on my hands, I was no longer recognizable as Sarah Smith.

  I stared down at the smooth, silky blue material covering my hands. These days, I often stared at my rough palms, comforted by that connection to my old life. The scrapes from my run-in with the Guardian boy on Armitage Lane had long since faded to a dull white, blending in with all the other marks and burns from kitchen work. Sometimes, I thought about that boy, wondered if he’d knocked down some other Snipe girl since I saw him, or perhaps he’d learned his lesson about looking up while in a “good think.” I was sure he wouldn’t recognize me now as the proper Guardian lady, but somehow, I hoped I would see him someday, in this new incarnation. I didn’t want his last impression of me to be that pale, wan girl.

  I did not think rationally when I was under social distress.

  The carriage clattered through the gates of Miss Castwell’s and I found I was too frightened to look out the window for my first glimpse of the school. It was a shame. Miss Castwell’s had stood on one of the country’s most beautiful stretches of property for centuries. While placing the new Capitol near the existing school was a dramatic gesture against that area’s industrial development, I suspected it had far more to do with allowing magical parents convenient visits to their precious daughters.

  My days had become a cycle of rich, nutritious meals, mornings spent reading in the garden, and Mrs. Winter’s lessons. Martha, a slim, sly-eyed redhead who lived down the street from our house, spent hours rubbing tonics into my hair and moisturizing salves into my hands to soften the work-roughened skin. She was none too pleased about taking up the slack on my chores or serving the girl to whom she used to entrust with her lady’s chamber pot, but she was smart enough not to complain about it. She did, however, seem to enjoy brushing my hair as roughly as possible.

  For my part, I suffered intense table etiquette lessons and answered direct questions with practiced grammar. I discovered small pleasures to be had in life when you had the time and means to appreciate them. I had everything a little Snipe girl dreamt of, a warm soft bed, a full belly, pretty clothes. And still, I was constantly anxious and lonely. Everything in my life felt so temporary. One mistake, one badly timed word, and I would end up in Coven Guild custody. Nothing tied me to Raven’s Rest, not really. Beyond Mrs. Winter’s constant “attentions,” I didn’t feel like I was part of the Winter household. Owen pointedly ignored me. As he did in most situations, Mr. Winter was civil, but kept his distance. I got the distinct impression that he was under orders from Mrs. Winter.

  I felt so guilty, being pampered while my family was working so hard just a short distance away. My hands itched for something to do. I was used to constant motion and employment. If I’d been born a lady, I might not have minded the idleness. But as it was, I had to settle for Mr. Winter’s library and Mrs. Winter’s garden for entertainment. My nightstand in the Lavender Room was piled high with editions of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, The Swiss Family Robinson, and Around the World in 80 Days. Not the heavily edited versions we found in the Warren’s bookstore, but the originals. The differences in the fairy tales alone were shocking. Maybe if Snipes had heeded the Grimm Brothers’s warnings about witches, we wouldn’t have suffered through the Restoration.

  I wasn’t allowed to use magic. Mrs. Winter wanted me to have some grasp of magical history and theory before I “went about casting spells willy-nilly, causing chaos wherever I went.” I felt that was a little harsh. But I had sent the ceremonial blade she’d lent me flying through an eight-hundred-year-old tapestry depicting the Norse goddess, Frigg. It was possible I’d earned the criticism.

  On the morning she took me to Miss Castwell’s, Mrs. Winter had gifted me with her first ritual knife, a long, muted silver blade with a black stone set in the twisted silver handle. Unlike the fairy stories, Guardians did not use wands for spells. The metal of blades was more useful to direct magical energy, and each of them had their own personal athames, ritual knives, that they kept hidden, on their person or in their homes, to draw runes in the air during serious spellwork. Hand-motions, knife movements, chanting, herbs and various bits of nature all mad
e up the strange music of charms and wards. I had to master the basics of blade dancing before I could start throwing other elements into my rituals.

  It had the word “Ingenium” – the Latin word for wit –etched on the handle, which Mrs. Winter had explained was a family joke. The Brandywine ladies always carried their sharp wit with them. I knew that it was significant, having Mrs. Winter give me her first athame, which I’d decided to call “Wit” for brevity’s sake. Mrs. Winter also gave me an elaborately monogrammed leather holster to wear it under my sleeve. But for the protection of the other students, she told me to keep it stored in my trunk for the first few weeks. An athame was normally passed down mother to daughter over the magical generations. Mrs. Winter was either placing a lot of trust in me, or wanted to make a significant show of placing a lot of trust in me.

  Mrs. Winter did not provide me with a familiar, a sort of magical servant in animal form. I thought that was odd, but I didn’t want to push my luck when she was already giving me her magical heirlooms. Anything the magical person needed, the familiar would try to find a way to get it, whether it was help or potion ingredients or something as simple as companionship and comfort. The bond was supposed to last for the witch’s lifetime, but I certainly didn’t see any of that loving support from Horus the horrible cat. He spent most of his time licking himself. If I was to ever get a familiar, I hoped it would be something along the lines of Mr. Winter’s raven, Tiberius, who bothered no one and was mindful of upholstery stains.