by S. L. Prater
When they reached the manor, Bran couldn’t come inside for the hot meal Marnie planned to force on him. Her heart sank. She made him promise to rest soon. With a final wave goodbye, he drifted up the street with his silent, stalking guard in the direction of the palace.
Later, she was so frazzled by Bran’s plans for her that she made a mistake. She blurted out the news to her mother. Annette was proud, hugging her, patting her head, then quickly clucking over her knotted hair. Against her will, she was cooped up in the madam’s bedroom, being assaulted by ‘appropriate’ clothing.
“These clothes are more suitable for a royal councilor.” Annette tapped her chin, thinking. “I’ll need to go shopping.”
Marnie’s head spun. The golden acorn might disappear in all the skirts and blouses.
It was foolish of her to think she would get the day off after all that. Her mother sent her to slave in the shop at the corner of the east gardens, the little flint building that sold fruit and flowers to the community and donated most of the proceeds to the church.
She counted notes and coins until her hands stunk like the currency. Inventory ratios were tiring. They changed frequently, as supplies were delivered to the shop and taken out again by customers or by manor staff to use at home. Her head was stuffed full of numbers, and by the end of the night, her brain hurt from overuse. The analytical part of her mind typically craved this method of problem solving, but Marnie was drained.
She had nearly forgotten all about the faceless demon, distracted as she was. He made an appearance in her bedroom mirror while she readied for sleep after her bath. He was quiet at first, leaning lazily between the mirror frame and the caricature of Bran tacked to the glass. He vanished as she combed out her loose curls. She tried to ignore him altogether, but the knife clung to her fingers stubbornly. An image appeared in the mirror.
It was Bran.
“That’s not funny,” she said through her teeth.
Bran’s form was joined by another—Marnie, or a version of Marnie dressed in elegant evening wear. In the glass, Bran leaned low and kissed her. Her heart stuttered.
She closed her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I could make this happen,” Faceless said.
“So could I! You are of no use to me. Leave the knife already and take your freedom. The deal is done. Go.” She threw her cotton dress over the mirror and stalked to her wardrobe, pretending that the demon couldn’t see her naked. She slept with the stubborn possessed blade in the pocket of her nightdress. Her dreams were confusing flashes: she searched the manor for Bran, she heard him, sometimes she even caught glimpses of him, but she never found him.
***
Over the next two days, she had equally frustrating dreams. Whenever she was near a mirror, Faceless taunted her with images of Bran and her together, usually locked in some indecent embrace she pretended poorly to ignore. Again, she insisted it take its freedom from the knife, but the demon cackled at her and the blade remained secured to her person.
She attempted to trick it, sitting the folded knife in an old jewelry box and closing the lid. When she tried to leave the box, it stuck to her hands, as stubborn as the blade inside. She tried again with a shoe. After slipping the blade inside, she attempted to toss the shoe off her balcony, but it stuck to her person.
Somehow, it always knew her intent. She sensed the creature laughing at her.
The morning she was due at the palace, Marnie awoke frustrated and overly tired. The sun seemed so bright in the cloudless sky, she jolted upright, certain she was already late. Her mother force-fed her too much breakfast, when all she wanted in her nervous stomach was toast. Annette insisted on pinning her hair up high and so tight Marnie’s scalp hurt. She appeased her mother further by putting on a fitted blue skirt, the hem of which fell to her knees. Marnie added a light jacket with sleeves that ended at her elbows. She was uncomfortable and a little too warm, but she had to admit that she looked nice all cleaned up and well put together.
She looked like a Sophia.
The streets were busy. Copper automaton cleaners with large plated wheels for feet swept dutifully, clearing fallen sun leaves and discarded coconuts. A brass automaton delivered milk bottles at doorways. The underground trains thundered by, and Marnie was careful to avoid the steam spewing out of grates on the walkways. She clutched the golden acorn tight in a sweaty palm, and the possessed blade was back in her shoe. With Jack’s help, she had made a compartment for it in the thick heel of her right boot, so traveling with it was much more comfortable. Hiding it in a pocket would have been easier, but she enjoyed reminding Faceless of where he belonged, under her heel.
This would be her first time behind the palace gates. Her heart danced. She gulped big breaths, trying to calm it. Spectators were packed against the iron walls, pressing together to peek through the spaces in the bars, which was customary. It would have been strange to see the gates without a crowd in front of them.
Palace guards dressed in white uniforms with matching peaked hats kept the entrance sealed tight. Marnie called to one, presenting her acorn. The only blade guard in black at the gate separated the crowd and stepped out to receive her. She gulped at him. He stood a head taller than Marnie with broad shoulders, a prominent nose, and deep red hair that looked like flames in the direct sunlight. Freckles dotted his serious face but did nothing to soften his appearance.
She wondered if blade guards could smile.
The stone steps leading into the palace were flanked by lit braziers which added doubly to the tropical heat. Marnie and her escort kissed their thumbs and touched their foreheads to honor God before climbing. Inside, she was led down marble halls, beyond a conservatory stuffed with rare herbs, past violet hangings of fine linens, and into a courtyard dotted with pearl furniture and rare vibrant flowers.
She was not alone. Constable Alec was there, no stole or pistol this time. He chatted peacefully with a plump man who had a pink face and an easy smile. The plump man wore a master’s blue stole over a brown boiler suit with Ammon’s crossed hammers sewn into the fabric. He must have owned the glassblower’s shops. She recognized the smell of melting sand, and the spirit Ammon favored craftsmen.
“Are you serving refreshments?”
Marnie turned toward the questioner and found Juliet Becker standing there, staring expectantly at her.
“No.” Marnie held up her gilded acorn.
“Oh. Pity.” Juliet’s coral-painted lips pouted. “I’ve been here for hours, and I’m dreadfully thirsty.” She fanned herself, unwrapping a violet shawl from around her shoulders. She stuffed it into Marnie’s unwilling arms. Her dress was velvet and fitted. She had always been naturally lovely with her long black hair thick with curls, light olive skin, curvy frame, and the Becker gray eyes.
“How are you, Juliet?” Marnie asked politely, or what she hoped was politely. She had never been good at playing pretend, and it was hard to feel anything but perturbed when she was around the family who’d cast out her mother. Marnie held the shawl out for her. Juliet let it hang there between them, so she dropped it on the ground.
“Have we met?” Juliet asked.
Marnie felt her mouth shrinking. “Yes, cousin, in school we shared a classroom on more than one occasion.” She rolled her eyes when Juliet shook her head, feigning cluelessness.
“School? Surely, a Mary like you hasn’t been to the Silk District school.” She looked Marnie up and down in a way that made her feel as small as a bug.
“See those orchids there?” Marnie pointed to the colorful display. Juliet seemed unimpressed. “I’m tempted by them, just now, because with one match and a fistful of those, I could turn you into a stupid cow, but then, what about you would that change, exactly?”
Juliet’s nostrils flared, but she kept her tone level, overly polite. She was very good at playing pretend. It made Marnie hate her own temper. “I don’t know who you stole that golden summons from, but you’d best give it back before a blade guard
cuts your hands off.”
“I am your cousin and not a servant here.” She kicked the shawl at her, and it stuck to Marnie’s boot. Their rising voices caught the attention of the others in the courtyard.
“Go find a pot to scrub!” Juliet hissed. “You don’t belong here!”
Marnie stomped towards the marble archway, clumsily kicking free of the shawl. A small part of her was glad for the excuse to run away. She hadn’t asked to be there. She had been coerced, and she was suddenly livid at Bran for doing so. Her angry footsteps echoed in the quiet halls.
A moment later, she was lost. The halls of marble and granite formed a maze, but then she spotted a servant dressed in a buttoned shirt. He hurried down a shorter, well-lit corridor, his arms full of dishes. She followed him into the kitchens. Instantly, she felt more comfortable amongst the bustling staff.
Marnie used her height to reach the pots on a tall shelf for one of the cooks. The cook rewarded her with a piece of day-old cherry pie. It was delicious. In thanks, she cured the cook of a grease burn using elementary natural magic from a bit of saliva and a drop of sweat. The cook’s laugh was easy and infectious. She had dark skin and amber eyes, an Achean who appreciated Marnie’s magic. There in the kitchen, no one hurried to insult her. No one questioned who she was or why she was there.
Because I belong in a kitchen.
Admittedly, she wanted to continue to work with Bran, to be near him. He wanted that too, or he wouldn’t have come up with the ludicrous idea to make her a councilor. In the palace kitchens was where she and her mother needed to be to do it, she decided. Madam Becker wasn’t so unhappy with her position in life. She stared at the golden acorn in her palm like it would agree with her, but it remained cold and unfeeling under her thumb.
The cook chattered about her impressions of the new emperor. “Too young, very kind and handsome,” she said, nudging Marnie in the ribs with her chubby elbow. “He has a way of talking to you like he truly sees you, like you matter.”
Perhaps if Marnie asked nicely, Bran would let her work in the palace kitchens instead of at the manor. She had saved him from a curse, after all. He owed her. She could earn her keep and finish her studies at the academy. If he wanted her help with other things, she could do it as an alchemist, not as some silly political statement planted among the aristocracy. The people of Loreley would have a much easier time digesting a witch in the palace kitchens than as a councilor.
“There you are!” The irritated voice came from the ginger blade guard who had ushered her through the palace earlier.
He did not look like he belonged as he bumped and stumbled his way through servants and their wares. He took Marnie’s arm at the wrist and toted her after him, ignoring her protests. The kitchen door slapped her on the way out. His firm grip and bony fingers cut blood flow to her digits. By the time they reached the courtyard, her hand was numb and tingly, and she was nursing a bruise on her shoulder from the kitchen door.
Bran stood beside Alastor, the blade guard captain, in a fresh silk shirt and tan slacks, with the emperor’s emerald green stole draping his shoulders. Servants with downcast eyes served refreshments. Alastor, as usual, appeared incapable of smiling, though this didn’t deter Juliet, who spoke to him and the master of the glassblowers excitedly, fanning herself.
“Found her,” the sword guard declared, hoisting Marnie’s arm like it was a trophy.
“Thank you, Raif.” Bran grinned broadly. “I think you can let her go now, right, Marnie?”
“Right,” she said begrudgingly, rubbing her wrist.
“To be clear,” Bran announced to the room, “you’ve each been selected to compete for the open position on council. An invitation here does not secure your place. You will serve as an apprentice councilor on a short-term basis. The competitions will be scored the traditional way with a collection of armbands. Complete tasks successfully to service the people of Loreley and gain an armband. The apprentice with the most at the time of my coronation earns the position.”
Alastor stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Juliet, for you.” He pulled a silver armband from his pocket. It glinted in the sun as he fed it onto her wrist and then up her arm. “For your work building charities on the coast to feed the hungry there.”
“Thank you, Alastor,” Juliet said regally. She turned her bright eyes on Bran. “My lord, you must know you would look marvelous with shorter hair. If you’re interested, I know several reputable stylists who would be honored to help you with that. Think how a visit from you would make their businesses flourish.” She reached up and smoothed his black hair off his forehead.
Bran smiled down on her, and Marnie’s heart pinched. The smile was polite and didn’t reach his eyes. Polite or not, she fought against the desire to stand between them.
She pretended she had turned Juliet into a cow—something she was not at all confident she could ever pull off, but the mental image calmed her.
“Before you leave today,” Alastor said, “you will all be presented with badges that will assist you in your performance of various tasks outside of the palace. Use these badges to solicit help from locals or to vouch for purchases when supplies are needed.”
Alastor droned on about procedure and ethics, and Marnie felt like she was back in school. She reasoned she had no need to listen to any of it since she was going to ask Bran to place her in the kitchens.
“Marnie,” Alastor said, startling her. “Did you hear me? You need to accompany Lord LaFontaine now. Your assistance has been requested personally by the Cloth.” He glowered at her, or she thought he did. His face always looked like that.
“Oh . . . ? Oh, okay.”
Bran led her out through the stained-glass doors on the far side of the courtyard. Ginger Raif wasn’t far behind them, glaring. The floors of the hall were purest white, so white Marnie was afraid to dirty them, so she walked on her tiptoes.
Bran noticed and laughed. “I did the same thing my first day here.”
Marnie stopped then, and so did he. His expression turned severe, mirroring her own. She planned to ask him to hire her in the kitchens. The words formed on her tongue and then melted away. Instead, she reached up, fingering the troublesome strand of wavy raven hair that always fell in his face.
“Please don’t cut your hair.” She tugged on it playfully, and he smiled. Then she tied it into a knot.
He blew the knot out of his face, indifferent. “You like my hair?”
“Very much so.”
“Then it does not inspire you to rebel against the traditions which dictate common civility in Loreley?”
“Oh, it does,” she quipped. “The anarchist within me grows right along with your tresses.”
He chuckled, and the sound warmed Marnie’s heart. “Well then, I’d be a fool to cut it. Anarchy is the spice of life. Come on.”
A library was concealed down a curving hallway behind heavy double doors. The room was bursting with fat dusty books, the boring kind Bran loved. She smelled their leather and parchment. Magic clung to their pages and dripped down the wooden shelves. It smelled like coconut oil. The furniture was done in red and blue velvet.
When they entered, Brother Doyle was standing at a bookshelf in front of a cold hearth, thumbing through a copy of Spirit Runes and Symbols. He smiled in greeting, then snapped his book closed, shooting a cloud of dust into his glasses. Guardsman Raif found a corner in which to play a statue.
Bran shared a velvet settee with Marnie. She crossed her legs, unsure how to carry herself. Then uncrossed them. Then sat up a little straighter, fidgeting with her hands.
“Sophia, always a pleasure.” Doyle wiped dust from his glasses. He tucked his book under his arm and patted his pockets. “Ah. Here she is.” He pulled free a silver armband, a twin of the one Juliet now wore. “I look forward to rewarding you with one of these soon.”
An unexpected longing came over her as she looked at the band. She remembered the kind things Bran had said to her when he asked h
er to try out for councilor. Suddenly, she wanted to make all those nice things true, and earning that armband seemed like the only way to do it.
“What is it that you need, exactly?” Bran gestured for Doyle to sit.
The priest chose a billowy armchair, sinking deep into its softness so his knees were level with his barreled chest. Doyle told a story about a poor family living just outside the walls of Loreley’s capital, among the fishermen and ferry riders there. A young girl, Addie, was trapped inside a home with a demon.
“The girl is the creature’s hostage. I cannot help her unless I get inside without damaging the home in a way that would surely hurt the child. The home has been warded well by the creature. Taking down such wards would have destructive consequences to other nearby homes—many could be harmed. I don’t dare cast any rites upon it. The village is terrified. Marnie, I think you know what I'm going to ask.”
She swallowed. “You want me to transport you inside.”
He nodded. “I will take care of the messy parts from there. It’s a small demon, I’m certain. It’s always the weaker ones who favor children. It won’t take me long.”
“You need her help against a demon?” Bran frowned. “Wards done by a demon?” His hands made fists.
Marnie patted his knee to settle him. “I can try to help you,” she said, her foot tapping nervously. “To be honest, I don’t have the most control over my magic-riding. I concussed myself the last time I tried.”
“I’m sorry, Brother.” Bran shook his head. “The bishop should have been more forthcoming when he requested Marnie. This task isn’t for her.”
Isn’t for me?
A surge of hot anger chased away the last of her nerves. Her foot stilled. “I can’t help him with a demon, because I’m a witch, right?” Her tone was icy. “I’m here to fight the prejudice, prove it all wrong, but you’re worried what might happen if I’m with a demon!”
“It’s not because you’re a witch.” Bran’s face was placid, serious, very unlike him. Doyle
