A Ragged Magic

by Lindsey S. Johnson

  Connor grasps my other and nods graciously to the footman. “Smile,” he whispers at us, and we do, and enter. I let Connor’s momentum carry me into this parody of my family home.

  Bowing to the host and hostess, I try to glare only a little, and at the floor, not Jeffrey Aman. He stands in state with his wife, Giselle. Francis and Melisande mill to their right, the Danwrights to their left. The dais where they stand used to hold the first loom that Great-Grandfather made and used in this very home. Images of my father polishing it sting my eyes. I wonder what Aman did with the family things.

  The Guildmaster and his family acknowledge our bows, then ignore our party, behavior no doubt inspired by Archbishop Montmoore, if the news of this afternoon has spread. It likely has, and traders friendly with the Duke of Haverston will not find warm welcome with allies of Montmoore. We slip to the sidebar and out of notice. The rest of the party takes their cue from Aman, and we are shunned.

  I reach for a cup of wine on the table against the wall. The room is set up for dancing, and large banquet tables line the walls, covered with pitchers of wine, breads and cheeses in baskets, and platters of sausages and fruits braised in sugared wine. An enormous subtlety graces the head table on the dais at the top of the hall. It looks rather like a dog being strangled by vines, but I can’t be certain it isn’t supposed to be a stag in a forest, to represent Francis’ virility.

  The tall ceiling of the hall is festooned with ribbons and banners in the families’ colors, which have been altered slightly so they don’t clash. I had forgotten that Danwright colors are topaz and garnet. Aman colors are purple and blue.

  I smirk at the played-down threads of violet stitching and edging on things. Green and gold, Owen colors, at least would have matched. I point it out quietly to Linnet, and we both stifle grins.

  The mirror that has been here for generations still hangs magnificent on the wall across from me. Its huge golden frame and the enormous size of the glass itself explain why they didn’t move it, despite the subtle Owen family crest stamped in the metal frame.

  I catch a glimpse of a tawny woman, her dark eyes wary in her oval face. I recognize the dress before I recognize myself.

  Hugh steps in front of me, his purple and gold tunic flashing in the lamplight. “Chins up, folks. These backwater Talarians don’t know how to throw a party.”

  Dark looks pierce us from all sides. Connor casually picks up a meat pastry and inspects it. I try not to roll my eyes at Hugh.

  In a low voice, Hugh reminds us of our instructions — at the first opportunity he and Connor will slip away to other rooms. Linnet is to stick close to me, and I’m to keep my mind open, use my Sight cautiously. If at any time the spell goes awry, quietly get out and meet in the carriage. If anything at all goes wrong, meet in the carriage. Linnet sniffs at this possibility.

  “We have to stay until the second music break, to be polite. After that we’ll leave. Get whatever you need by then.” Hugh grins at us all, Bhanu’s crooked tooth a mischievous gleam in his black beard. “Meanwhile, have fun! We’re at a party, not a funeral!”

  Around us the laughter swirls as couples dance to a morisque, my favorite of the modern dances. It looks so pretty: all those colors whirling around, the skirts like flowers blooming.

  Hugh whisks Linnet onto the floor in a gap between dancers, and I find myself similarly pulled into Connor’s arms. The heat of his hand on my waist startles me, but I fall into the steps easily. Looking into strange eyes, I see a familiar half-smile lurking. As we step with the rhythm of the dance, he inclines his head toward me.

  “You dance very well,” he says.

  I grin; something is going right this evening. I feel lighter than I have in months. “It’s the one thing about all the parties I actually liked. And since Francis and I were already engaged, we never needed to court or even talk. All we did was dance the first three dances and then he and our fathers would talk business, and I would either dance with polite young men my mother brought to me, or hide upstairs in the library, reading.”

  Connor spins me in a wide turn as the music ends. “Which would explain why you know General Sherron’s speech at the battle of Kiras, but it doesn’t explain why Francis is only coming to majority now, and not three years ago when he should have.”

  I look at him in surprise as we start the next dance, a slow pavanne. “Everyone knows that. It’s because Francis is a terrible Jewelsmith. It took him two years longer than most to get his journeyman’s badge. Da wouldn’t pass any of his past projects for his master work.

  “He and Master Danwright would get into furious fights about it. Francis may be a fine merchant when it comes to business: but he is not an artist, and Da would have nothing less for a Master Jewelsmith. Even if it meant ruining my betrothal into the family.”

  Connor’s eyebrows rise. “Does it upset you, his marrying someone else?”

  I shrug and perform my reverence, curtseying low. “It was marriage or the kirche, and I chose marriage, and marriage was supposed to be to Francis. But we were never friends. I don’t think I was his first choice. I don’t think he thought much of me at all.”

  “Then he was a fool,” Connor says.

  I stare at him, my mouth a little open in surprise, and I look down to hide a blush. When I glance up, that little half-smile lingers on Zelig’s mouth, but I know whose mouth it truly rests on.

  And what that mouth feels like on mine. I blush harder.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The dance changes to a galliard and we spin with the music, jumping and turning until the last high jumps at the end. Laughing and out of breath, the dancers exit the floor as the musicians take their first break.

  Connor and I join Hugh and Linnet near the wine. My pulse beats harder than even the athletic dance calls for.

  “Oh dear, Francis. I hope the wine is not all spoilt.” A familiar sneer greets me and I turn slowly to my left. Melisande and Francis approach us, looking past us as though we aren’t here. A trick Melisande perfected when she was six, as I recall. Her topaz gown is not a good color for her, and the multitude of ruffles succeeds in making her look like a meringue. She sniffs petulantly as Francis steps toward Hugh.

  “Don’t worry, dearest. Southern winds can’t spoil good, northern wine.” Francis’ voice is more nasal than I recall. He leers at me as they approach, his gaze fastened on my chest. The bright colors of his velvet tunic overpower his pie-like face and mouse-brown hair. He reaches past Hugh for a cup of wine.

  Hugh grins in his face. “If it isn’t the groom! Well met, young Francis Danwright. The Star Lord’s blessing on you and your bride!” Hugh stares into Francis’ eyes, grinning Bhanu’s grin, until Francis starts to stammer.

  Unable to repudiate a blessing from a guest, Francis pulls back his arm without taking any wine and stutters a thank-you.

  “The Star Lord’s blessing on you, Indrani,” Melisande sniffs, more adept at the insult game. A mere blessing doesn’t disconcert her. “I should think you need it more.” She turns her back on the lot of us and pins the shrinking Francis with a pointed “Francis. My wine.”

  Francis winces and looks petulant.

  Hugh hands her a goblet with a flourish.

  She flinches back, unready for such gallantry in response to her snub.

  “You are of course right, dear lady. A couple such as you needs no blessing for a good life. I see so many younger couples rush blindly into things: it is wise of you to start married life as an older woman.”

  Melisande flushes. I don’t quite muffle a snicker. She glares at me, and I give her Asa’s most beatific smile. Her chin comes up. “You’re very forward for such a backward people. In our country, a guildwoman waits for her betrothed to reach his majority. Francis worked hard until he was satisfied with his masterwork. He’s very particular.” I hear a few snorts from the people around us, and she tosses her hair. “And anyway, he’s lucky he did wait: otherwise he’d have married that witch!”


  Silence ripples from her outburst over the gleaming crowd. Heads turn toward Melisande. Francis glares daggers at her as Hugh surreptitiously steps from the picture. Spice merchant Sandros speaks up from behind me. Connor pulls me close to hide my startled jump.

  “Now, young lady, ‘witch’ is an inflammatory word to throw around. The guild council never did record the Owen girl so, since she died without trial. The Owen family didn’t get a full hearing in front of the guild. Never sat well with me, that whole business.” The burly trader’s deep voice carries to Gantry, who has just entered to an unnoticed fanfare. White with rage, he flows through the stunned crowd like a storm.

  “Do you question the validity of a kirche verdict, Master Trader?” His voice like ripped silk covers me with a sheen of sweat. Gantry’s eyes flash over people and everyone shivers: I can feel his slipping control, and I think others can, also.

  Sandros stammers an apology. “My Lord Bishop, I meant no disrespect. There was no verdict, is what I meant. You should have sat at their trial, my lord. I’m sure there was no mistake —”

  “Mistake! Do you dare imply —”

  A firm hand descends on Gantry’s shoulder. Archbishop Montmoore steps from behind Gantry and smiles at the stunned crowd. “Now, Theodore, let’s not discuss politics at a party, hmm?”

  Gantry stares straight ahead, his mouth closed like a vice.

  Montmoore reins him hard — the knuckles on his hand stand out in stark relief against Gantry’s fancy red robes.

  “Of course the man meant no harm. We shall let wine-sotted remarks pass, shall we not?” Montmoore smiles a diplomatic smile and steers Gantry away from the knotted statues of nervous people. “Let’s greet our host, Theodore. No need for quarrels tonight.”

  I can hear my heart beating hard, and I begin to breathe again, trying to keep my gasping quiet. I realize I’m not the only one to have held my breath as I hear others do the same.

  Melisande, cheeks flaming, flees the room. Francis follows her, glaring at everyone. The music starts up again, another pavan, soft and soothing. I see Aman with his head bent, furiously whispering to a servant as Gantry and Montmoore drift toward the food. The music break is over early — a diversion, I suppose.

  ～

  The party continues despite dramatics. We all dance several more sets, laughing and eyeing the guests. I take a few turns with Hugh, and we analyze the mood of the room. People seem out of sorts and tired, fewer dancing, some leaving early, claiming illness.

  Francis makes his return, and drinks his usual copious amount. Most who are left are the younger set, closer to Linnet’s age, becoming more raucous and inebriated. Several people seem overcome by the wine and dancing, fainting and being carried off by their friends. The older traders and guildfolk stand at the wall, in the halls, murmuring to one another. They look wary and concerned.

  Hugh jerks his head toward the stairs, and he and Connor make their separate ways toward them. Linnet stays with me, smiling and nodding to my nonexistent chatter. Her gaze darts after them now and again.

  The wine in my hand feels heavy suddenly, and the room sways as if I’d actually been drinking it. I set my goblet down carefully on the table and look at Linnet. Her face appears the same bronzed color — the benefits of illusion — but the glow around her fluctuates in time with the pounding in my head and the pull on my magic strengthens as she struggles for power.

  I lean forward, smiling brightly.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve never held this spell for so long. I think I’m just tired.”

  I grip her hand in alarm. “Should we get out? Should we warn the others?”

  She smiles a party smile, although her eyes are vague and wandering. “It’s fine, Asa. I just have had too much wine.”

  I turn in time to catch Francis leaning close to hear us. I smile as wide as my mouth will go and pull Linnet closer to me. I back away from him and toward some chairs for the old, ignored, and weary. I feel I must be all three.

  “Mistress trader, is there something the matter?” Francis at my elbow, hovering and in the way.

  “No sir, my friend is just tired. I’ll sit with her and I’m sure she’ll feel better soon.” I try to speak quietly, as near to an Indrani accent as I can.

  Francis takes my hand as Linnet sits on the edge of a high-backed chair. His hand feels as clammy as I remember, but his eyes seem more aware of me than ever they were when we were betrothed.

  “You needn’t sit with her, mistress. She’ll be fine here without you. Of course you will dance with me.” His breath stinks of wine.

  I sigh inwardly. Linnet visibly wilts, and I feed her more magic, even though I’m afraid of the consequences. Although overloading the spell is a worry, I find it far less frightening than the spell failing altogether. There are spells to ward off overload. There are no spells against death.

  Francis continues to tug my hand, saying something about wine, or dancing, or toes. Where is Melisande? I look around. “Where is your lady fiancé, Mastersmith? Shouldn’t you dance with her?”

  “Oh, we have danced the required dances. She’s retired early. I am fortunate enough to have a stronger constitution, and a love of dancing. Especially with such pretty ladies.”

  Was he always like this? I also used to leave parties early. I sigh, pulling my hand away, and curtsey deeply to him. “My dear Mastersmith, I’m afraid I can’t dance with you. I really must stay with my friend. Pray forgive me.” I back fairly gracefully into a chair and sit, smiling with determination.

  Taking Linnet’s hand, I congratulate myself for disaster diverted, or at least aggravation, and try to open the link between my sister and me a little more. She looks into my eyes, startled and confused. Double images flood my brain; me looking at her, her looking at me. I See as if through her eyes for a moment, and feel her looking through mine.

  Emotions wash over me — exhaustion, grief, some excitement, and fear that the spell is too powerful for me to hold. I realize that these emotions aren’t mine, but Linnet’s. I blink and the feeling recedes. She pulls away from me magically. The sharing is reduced to a trickle, and we stare at each other, concerned. That was too much sharing.

  Francis hovers again. “You look pale, mistress. Perhaps you should get some fresh air.” He holds out his elbow, but I ignore it.

  “Preyasi. I’m going to get my brothers. Perhaps we should leave if you’re feeling so poorly. Wait here for me.”

  Linnet nods slowly and I stand.

  “Forgive me again, Mastersmith. I’m afraid my friend is feeling ill. I must find the rest of our party. Pardon me,” I say as I edge past him.

  He pursues me to the entryway, where I sweep up Linnet’s and my cloaks. Francis follows. I hadn’t remembered how much he resembled a sheep. “Surely one dance won’t hurt. Your friend will recover,” he insists, trying to grab my elbow.

  I shrug away. “My concern must be with my sister-in-law, sir. We should leave as soon as I find my brothers. Really, I do hope you’ll understand,” and I sweep past his outstretched arm.

  Annoyance flashes over his features, but it hardly matters. We’ll be gone soon, and Connor will just have to figure out another way to get into the manor.

  I head for my father’s study, remembering that Connor was to check there last. I pass the ladies’ retiring room, and the clumps of people in the hall have thinned out to nothing. I try to seem as though I might be lost, in case I do run into anyone. The hall is deserted, and I enter the study slowly, on the off chance someone is in there. I can always claim I’m looking for the retiring room.

  The light from the hall shines into the dark room. I open the door a little wider, and slip inside. The room still smells of my father’s liniment and wool and old paper. The desk is an unfamiliar untidy mess. Da liked things in order, from wool to looms to papers to his children. But I used to come in here and sit with him, talk about books with him, in the evenings.

&nb
sp; The light from the hall slants across the room, creating odd shadows. I don’t see Connor anywhere, but the large closet stands partly open. I walk quietly over and peer inside. It’s empty, but I think of the hidden safe, and walk in. The closet door swings almost shut behind me. Dim light peeks through, and I peer into shadows.

  Shelves line the closet, and cloth and thread and yarn sit under dust covers. I bend down, run my hands over the mounds of cloth at the end of the lowest shelf, looking for the latch. The latch clicks and the shelf pulls out. The safe is full of a wrapped package: Aman never found it.

  I unwrap the package to find three pieces of weaving. One I recognize as Linnet’s first work: a lovely purple sash she wove when she was six, fine enough to be worn at her coming out. I remember Da putting it away and saying he would always treasure it. Another work I don’t recognize — a small wall hanging, dark with what looks like stars in the form of a face. And the last I peer at, and finally know it. It’s my own first work: a scarf I made for Mum. It’s blue and green and gold — green and gold for Owen colors, and blue for her eyes. She never wore it, and I thought it was because it wasn’t good enough to wear.

  I close my eyes and sit back on my heels. I hug the works tightly to me, trying not to cry. The wall hanging must be Keenan’s. I remember the sash of Linnet’s used to be in Mum and Da’s chambers, in a chest Mum kept up there. I don’t know why Da put these here, but I’m glad I found them.

  There’s also a letter, a ledger, and a bag. I tuck them all as lumplessly as I can in with the cloaks. Hoping I can keep from dropping everything, I clutch the bundle to my chest.

  Voices in the hall, and I shrink into the corner of the closet behind a table stacked with cloth.

  “Are you certain the man can be trusted? He seems unstable to me,” a smooth voice says.

  I hear the door to the hall close, and for a moment the room is dark. The lamps near the door light slowly as someone touches them.