Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)

by Harper, Molly

  “The older girls are quite diligent in this task,” Miss Morton assured me. “Though I admit that with some classes where the talent pool is, shall we say, diluted, the faculty step in to supplement.”

  I smiled, but didn’t comment, sorely afraid that I would say the wrong thing in the wrong accent and give myself away before I even started. Miss Morton led me down the sweeping marble staircase to the ground floor, where she seated me in a little window alcove at a private desk.

  “One thousand words,” she said kindly. “I’m sure you’ll manage it in no time at all. And then I shall show you some of the more interesting botany books, since you appear to take an interest in the subject.”

  I glanced down at The Dark and Dangerous Garden. Miss Morton snapped a green velvet curtain closed around my study alcove, separating me from the rest of the library. I cleared my throat and uncapped my pen. I searched through the table of contents until I found the chapter on Drosera plants. One illustration showed the plant as I’d first observed it, beautiful, golden blooms glowing against a dark background. The second illustration, labeled “actual appearance,” revealed a plant covered in brown reptilian scales and a split mouth-like pod with teeth like the disgusting lake lampreys Mr. Sykes sold at the fish market.

  Plants of the family drosera use a glamour of bright petals and faint iridescence to attract potential prey. The plant requires the blood of its prey to generate the glamour, so only the strong specimens survive.

  I wrinkled my nose, wondering which of her hapless underclassmen Headmistress Lockwood used to feed her plant. Still, it was an interesting plant and reminded me of the old vampire tales Mrs. Green, our teacher at the Warren school, tried to scare us with around All Hallow’s Eve. I dutifully scrawled out an introductory paragraph in my neatest cursive, comparing the plant’s methods to the old vampire tales and suggesting that the familiar legends could have some link to the plant world. It might not have made any sense, but at least it would entertain Headmistress Lockwood.

  Soon, I had a passable first draft – one thousand and fourteen words, thank you very much – but as I read over it, I realized it was missing something. Mrs. Green had insisted on supporting our essays with multiple sources, something Mary had complained about bitterly. I needed something to back up my assertions about the vampire tales. Surely, a library like this had a section devoted to folklore and legends.

  I stood, poking my head out of the study alcove. Miss Morton was nowhere to be found. Come to think of it, she was supposed to come back to check my progress. Had she forgotten about me completely or I was supposed to alert her when I’d reached my goal? Was working past my goal considered a breach of new student etiquette? I worried my lip, considering my options. If I waited for Miss Morton, I might not finish my essay, which would definitely not help my case with Headmistress Lockwood. And I had been given permission to look at the “entry level” shelves, though I’m sure Headmistress Lockwood meant for me to have an escort. As long as I didn’t touch anything, I told myself, I would be fine.

  Several heads rose as I parted the velvet curtains. Though several sets of eyes followed me, each girl was careful not to appear as if she was watching. I scanned the plaque on the stairwell, listing the subject areas on each floor. The folklore section was located on the third floor. I sighed, eying the steep staircase and my voluminous skirts.

  What would Mrs. Winter do, I wondered.

  She would hike herself up those stairs. Or she would enchant someone to carry her.

  I grabbed the bannister, pulling myself up the first step. I marveled at the sheer number of bookshelves I passed, novels, history, alchemy, astronomy, divination. Seeing Headmistress Lockwood’s office and this monument to the written word made me that much more eager to get up the mountain of stairs and finish my paper so I could stay at Miss Castwell’s. And I wanted to stay at Miss Castwell’s, not to please Mrs. Winter or to avoid Coven Guild dissection, but because I wanted to live in this library. I wanted to wallow in these bookshelves, taking my time as I worked my way through the treasures it had to offer.

  Several minutes and curses against fashion later, I’d arrived on the third floor landing. The library was even more impressive from this height, the green-carpeted levels standing out sharply from the black and white floor tiles. The ceiling’s jewel-like renderings of the House crests were so close I could almost touch them.

  The older students I’d seen before were still milling about, adding to the burden of their floating book stacks. They largely ignored me, but I could see the occasional intentionally casual glance thrown my way. I could see now that there was a seventh crest etched into the glass, but it had been nearly obliterated. Only a dark outline remained, a rounded blobby bird-like shape with outstretched wings.

  “Or possibly a bat,” I acknowledged softly to myself, tilting my head to study the blurred shape. “Or a cranky dragon.”

  Why would the school try to cover a House crest? For that matter, whose House crest could it be? As far as I knew, there were only six great families. Had the glasscutter made a mistake in one of the designs? The strange bird-like smudge could be the Benisse peacock, a fat, hyper-extended version of the peacock. I moved along the railing to the center of the landing, closer to the blurry bird. Distracted by its malformed wings, I bumped into a glass display case on a pedestal on the near side of the landing. The case was like another bell jar, protecting the open, blank pages of a large book the size of a paving stone.

  I jumped, my hands fumbling to keep the case from falling. I leaned closer to get a better look, my breath fogging the protective glass. Tiny, evenly spaced symbols appeared on the white pages in molten, glowing gold. The glow rippled from one corner of the page to the other. The text must have been Greek or Sanskrit or some magical dialect I’d never heard of, because I couldn’t make out any words I recognized.

  I smiled, delighted, and rubbed at the glass to wipe away the fog. As if in response, the symbols rose from the page, bouncing against the glass like confused, insistent bees. I glanced around the floor, to the older students wandering the shelves, but none of them seemed to notice glowing, golden words, tapping testily at a glass display case… which made me question the school as an educational institution all together, really.

  Also, I needed to stop examining items in glass cases. No good came of it.

  The floating letters gave one last mighty heave against the glass case, popping it open like a clamshell. The smell of verbena and old paper rose immediately to my nostrils. I might have closed my eyes to enjoy the fragrance, if not for the floating letters trailing up my arms, across my chest and around my head.

  My fingers moved as if controlled by some unseen puppet master, dragging gently down the corners of the book and gripping its edges. I did, I would admit much later to myself, panic, when I couldn’t let go of the book. My fingers felt glued to the pages. I frantically scanned the floor, wondering whether I should call for help.

  None of the other girls seemed to be reacting to this bizarre occurrence. I didn’t know what sort of spell I’d activated or what sort of harm it could do. And I was certain that Headmistress Lockwood would not look kindly on removing ancient books from their perfectly nice display cabinets, which were probably in place to protect students from their own stupidity as much as from the curses contained under the glass. And I wasn’t even a student, so the headmistress’s patience was not likely to extend to me.

  I blew out of the corner of my mouth as I could chase the floating symbols away like annoying insects. I shook the book, attempting to dislodge it from my hands. Was this some sort of practical joke? Or a cruel trick meant to punish unworthy Snipes who touch books without permission? I yowled as the silk of my gloves and sleeves burned away, flaking to the floor in ashes.

  Hallucinogenic punishments for Snipes who touch books without permission. How lovely.

  The ink crawled the lengths of my fingertips to my hands, the words flowing over my skin intact. Curling bl
ack lines scrolled across the skin of my palms like climbing vines, forming an almost bat-shaped crest of stylized swirls. It burned, but it wasn’t painful. It was like getting into bathwater that’s just a little too hot. It felt right to have the marks carving their way into my skin. They were raised, metallic, like an inflexible vein of silver had embedded its way into my skin forming a slender wing-shape across each hand. The stylized curves were shining metal that reflected all of the colors of the spectrum. My hands finally loosened from the book and I was able to touch the shape on either palm, finding it pleasantly warm to the touch.

  My gloves and sleeves disintegrating as metalwork spontaneously burst from my palms did seem to finally get other girls’ attention. I heard soft exclamations and the rustle of skirts as I cradled my hands together, pressing my pinkies together in a cupping gesture, so that when my hands touched, it looked like a silver dragonfly was perched in my hands, the head pointing toward my fingertips. It didn’t hurt. I flexed my hands gently. How could I have so much metal embedded in my skin and still be able to bend my fingers, grasp my hands? My legs twisted under me, and I fell back to the carpet on my rump.

  Mum was not going to pleased. She did not like magical marks, no matter how in fashion they were in Guardian circles. I didn’t think my “aunt’s” reaction would be all that favorable, either.

  I glanced up at the circle of strange faces around, unsure of who to ask for help. The sea of green skirts surrounding me parted and a dreadfully familiar black-and-grey striped gown approached. My cheeks flushed red. I tried to push to my feet, but my legs were tangled in about a dozen layers of petticoat and silk. I couldn’t move.

  I’d expected Mrs. Winter’s expression to be furious, but she eyed this mottled green cover of the book in my lap, and she had to school her features from the gleeful grin that threatened to smear her lip rouge.

  “The book chose you,” she marveled. “How… interesting.”

  “W-what?” I huffed out a breath, wiping at the perspiration forming on my brow and trying against to push to my feet.

  “No, no, dear,” Mrs. Winter said, dropping to her knees in front of me and pressing me back to rest against the mahogany display case. “You mustn’t move your hands too quickly. You will want that to set properly, like a healing bone. It takes a moment.”

  She glanced up at Headmistress Lockwood, who was shooing the gathered students away with practiced ease. Mrs. Winter cast a triumphant look over her shoulder. “It chose her, Dora.”

  Headmistress Lockwood rolled her eyes. “Oh, Aneira, enough of your foolishness. That book has been stored on school property for more than two centuries. It will remain school property.”

  “The book chose to show her its secrets, Dora. It belongs to her now.”

  “I don’t think it showed me anything,” I told Mrs. Winter. “I couldn’t read it.”

  Mrs. Winter smiled, but it wasn’t a warm expression meant to comfort. There was greed in her eyes, bright and gleaming, and it made a shiver run down my back.

  “You will, in time.” She nodded toward the decorative insect now embedded in my skin. “That marks you as the owner and translator of The Mother Book. The original Mother Book, written in magical cuneiform by matriarchs of the great families before the Houses were even formed, before we could scratch out a language so harsh and guttural as English. It represents one of the largest deposits of archaic magical knowledge in the world and is imbued with a magical will all its own

  The book only allows its secrets to appear to the Translator, one person it believes to trustworthy enough to read its contents. It bounced between the old world magical schools, sharing the matriarchs’ secrets, before it was brought here the year the school was founded. The book will only reveal itself to witches it deems worthy of its secrets. A Translator hasn’t been chosen in how long, Dora?”

  “One hundred and forty-two years,” Headmistress Lockwood muttered.

  “And all of the previous Translators have been much older than you, dear. The youngest Translator on record was seventeen. To be chosen at fourteen… well, the book must have felt quite the connection to you.”

  Mrs. Winter seemed to laying on this Translator business on pretty thickly. I could only hope this wasn’t some trick she’d arranged to convince Headmistress Lockwood to admit me to the school. Because the Headmistress in question looked like she wanted to pitch me and my silver dragonfly out onto the gravel drive.

  “What does the Translator do?” I asked, still wiggling my fingers, as if I thought they would suddenly stop working if I didn’t flutter them.

  “Study the book,” Headmistress Lockwood said. “Translate the spells and determine what to share with other witches, with the Guild government. Previous Translators have only worked through about a third of the pages. You are not in for an easy road, Miss Reed.”

  “I didn’t expect any of this to be easy,” I assured her.

  Mrs. Winter smirked up at the headmistress as she helped me to my feet. “So I suppose this qualifies as sufficient record of her magical ability for admission, Dora?”

  “No one likes a gloater, Aneira.”

  6

  The Wheels Turn

  Mrs. Winter and Headmistress Lockwood led me to a wing marked “dormitories,” and I felt the faint magical sizzle of protective wards pass over my skin, warming the metalwork on my hands. The two ladies seemed to be arguing in several different languages, switching from French to Italian to German as we passed little pods of students pretending not to stare at the girl in the tattered sleeves being led down the hall, carrying a beloved school artifact.

  The room, done in greens and greys, was laid out much like my room at Raven’s Rest, though obviously less grand. A desk stood in front of the window, already stacked high with textbooks. I kept Mother Book clutched to my chest, its thick parchment pages glowing with a faint gold aura of power, making it stand out from the ordinary history and astronomy texts. Thick quilts sewn from green, black and white were piled high on a sturdy four-poster bed. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, overlooking the grounds. A little blue-green bird hopped back and forth over my windowsill, as if it was his job to provide cheerful mid-morning chirping.

  “The Peridot Suite,” Headmistress Lockwood told me. “You have a private bath, through there. Your orientation packet lists other meal-times and will include your class schedule by morning.” She turned on Mrs. Winter. “You will send for her clothes by this evening?”

  “Her trunks are waiting on the carriage downstairs,” Mrs. Winter said, looking very pleased with herself.

  “Always prepared,” Headmistress Lockwood said, rolling her eyes a bit. She turned to me. “I hope you know, that display in the library will not entitle you to special treatment. You have a certain amount of independent study built into your schedule for the Mother Book. But otherwise, you will meet all of the expectations set forth for the other students, is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Magic is not what you have been told. It is mathematics, physics, chemistry, science,” she said. In my hands, the book seemed to shudder, as if it didn’t appreciate Headmistress Lockwood’s sentiments. “The superiority of our bloodlines allow us to manipulate the energies around us so that we can control matter, reach between molecules and change their behavior. It is not a mystical loving force bubbling up from a spring of loveliness somewhere inside you.”

  “And how do you explain this?” I asked, gesturing with my recently decorated palms.

  “All systems have their anomalies,” she said airily. “Now, as for your first essay, while it shows a degree of original and creative thought, your margins were laughable and you used the word ‘interesting’ far too often. By morning, I expect a list of at least twenty alternatives for the word ‘interesting’ on my desk.”

  I nodded. That didn’t seem unreasonable.

  “Copied five times.”

  That seemed less reasonable.

  “Thank you,
ma’am.”

  “If you have any complications with your new mark, please see Mrs. Wentworth in the infirmary. She will send up medication with your dinner tray, to help balance your system after its exertions,” she said, eyeing my hands. “See that book does not leave this room.”

  Headmistress Lockwood inclined her head and swept out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind us in a magical flounce.

  “What is this?” I asked Mrs. Winter, sagging to the bed.

  “A rather lovely, and none-too-inexpensive suite,” Mrs. Winter said dryly. “We paid for you to have a private room, because we were afraid that any well-bred girl who roomed with you would recognize any quirks leftover from your… less fortunate upbringing.”

  “I could always come home for visits, give my classmates less time to watch me,” I said.

  Mrs. Winter gave a light tap to my chin with her pointer finger. “There’s no leaving the school grounds for now. The book has claimed you. Dora is already suspicious and attempting to leave the school grounds right away with a precious magical relic would probably send her over the edge. She’s never truly trusted me, not even when we were in school together.”

  I opened my eyes wide, feigning disbelief. I chose not to comment on how Mrs. Winter had managed to look about thirty years younger than Headmistress Lockwood. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Oh, no, I gave her good reason,” Mrs. Winter said. “But no matter, with your first social dance scheduled for this weekend, your sudden, rather dramatic appearance at school should give you a bit of traction on the gossip circuit.”

  I shuddered. I’d forgotten about the social dances, opportunities for the girls of Miss Castwell’s and the young men of Palmer’s to demonstrate what they’d learned in their dance lessons while preparing for the busy spring cotillion season. The social dances were less formal versions of the cotillions, an opportunity for the ladies of Miss Castwell’s to practice and demonstrate the steps we’d learned. The Palmer boys would be there to serve as partners. I would not only be expected to mingle and socialize but dance. In public.