I jerk away from her. “Your curse—spell, whatever you did—does it keep me from loving him?”
Her words soften. “I wanted you to avoid the heartache I’ve experienced. If you never loved him, losing him would mean little to you. At maturity, you’d come home to me and forget about Beck.” Mother tilts my chin toward her. “Killing him would mean little to you. My protection should have prevented you from falling in love with him. Instead, for some strange reason, you’re drawn to each other.”
A scream lodges in my throat. “You knew it was a possibility? You knew I could love him, and now you expect me to kill him?”
Mother sighs. “Of course I do. It’s my job, as your mother, to make sure you aren’t harmed. But it hasn’t worked well, has it? Your heart is already broken.”
Her arms envelop me, and I lay my head on her chest, letting myself be lulled by the rise and fall of her breath. I know I should hate her, that I should strike out and run from my mother, but I can’t fault her logic. After all, aren’t the Channings hoping the same for Beck?
Is this what it all comes down to—who’s stronger, who has more magic on their side, who makes the first move?
I sit up and gaze into her clear, blue eyes, and despite what my heart wants, I wish her charm had worked. If I didn’t love Beck, could I kill him without remorse? Would it really have been that easy?
Henry pours Mother another glass of wine. She stares into it and swirls. “I’ve only ever loved one person more than you, Lark.” Her eyes don’t leave the glass. “Your father meant everything to me. When they took him, when the Light witches hunted us down and killed him for loving me, I understood it was my fault. I may not have cast the fatal spell, but he died because of me.
“I don’t want that for you. My heartbreak knows no end. Every day, I wake to the knowledge that if it weren’t for me, Sebastian would still be here.”
Mother tucks my hair behind my ear. “That’s why I placed the protection. I thought I was preventing heartbreak.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Hot tears spill down my cheeks.
“You and Beck are already tied to each other in so many ways. Plus, you’re a target simply for being Dark. For being my daughter.” She holds my hands between hers and kisses them. “There is nothing I can do to stop this. We just have to wait and see what happens.”
“If we pose no threat to each other now, why did you separate us? Couldn’t you have waited until closer to our birthday?”
To my surprise, Henry answers. “It’s a game of politics, Lark. We need a plausible explanation for why the two of you will no longer be paired. At some point, before your birthday, we will publically expose Beck as Sensitive.”
I begin to protest, but Henry holds up his hand stopping me. “He’s already agreed to it. It’s the only explanation the non-witch population will accept—both for you no longer being paired, and for his possible death. The outing of the students was to plant the seeds of suspicion.” He stares at the fire while he says this.
Mother kisses my hands again before dropping them. With her thumb, she dabs the corner of her eye. “Beck will never be safe near you, just like your father was never safe near me.” She looks deep into my eyes and I allow myself to be swallowed by her presence. “I couldn’t protect your father. I thought I could, but I couldn’t. Our magic wasn’t meant to be together. Just like yours and Beck’s isn’t.”
She kisses my cheek. “Now, go. Enjoy the time you have left with him. Love him, for now. It’s the best I can do.”
30
I’m groggy and barely functioning when Mrs. Channing sticks her head into my room.
“Time to wake up.”
I moan and toy with the idea of faking illness so I can stay in bed, until I remember doing so would involve a visit from Eamon.
Getting up is the more appealing choice, so I drag myself from my sanctuary.
Such a strange dream last night. Something about Mother, Henry and I in a cottage. I think Kyra was in it too—stomping around and rambling on about things as usual.
As I stand in front of the mirror, my eyes closed in an attempt to recapture the dream. It wasn’t frightening. Mostly pleasant. Mother stared at me with such pride. And seeing Kyra was great—even if she did get mad at me.
I lift my hairbrush and begin pulling my hair back into a ponytail. As I reach both hands up to tighten it, I open my eyes to check my work.
My blue wristlet clings to my forearm. Image after image floods my mind: Henry and my mother drinking wine, her coat around my shoulders, the way she held my hands in hers. Her silky voice encouraging me to spend time with Beck and love him. Terrified, I rip off the wristlet and shove it into my drawer.
I need to see Henry. He tricked me. He has to explain this.
Adrenaline surges through my body as I sprint down the stairs and outside to the lawn. I scan the vast space and, not seeing Henry, run along the edge of the tent town peering down the long aisles.
“Lark, what are you doing? You’re still in your nightclothes.” Bethina blocks my path.
I stop in front of her, but jump up and down, eager to keep moving. My eyes dart around the lawn. “Have you seen Henry?”
Bethina places one hand on each hip. “He’s off doing errands. Do you need something?”
“When will he be back?”
“That I don’t know. But I do know you need to dress yourself properly before you run around in public.”
Before I can protest, she grabs my arm and starts marching me back toward the house. We pass Beck eating breakfast with the group of witches that always surrounds him. When he notices me, he rises out of his seat, but Bethina shakes her head at him. With a pitiful look, he sinks to his chair.
I attempt to wiggle away from Bethina.
“What are you doing?” she asks, turning me around, away from Beck. “You need to stay away from that boy. Remember?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and yell in my head Beck! But there’s no answer. Why could he hear me before but not now?
A tingling crawls along my arms and I fling my eyes open. A few tables over, to the right, Eamon watches me. With his teeth he tears off a chunk of bread. The action looks absolutely animalistic. My breath quickens when our eyes lock and I refuse to look away first. I’ll stand here all day if I have to.
Still glaring at me, Eamon rips off another piece of bread. I allow my body to fill with hate. It would be fun to hurt him, just for a second. Nothing too serious. Maybe just a shock or something.
As I play with the idea of trying to replicate whatever it was I did to Quinn—the imaginary girl Eloise created the first time we worked together—Dasha appears at Eamon’s shoulder and whispers in his ear. Finally, he looks away to talk to her. With one swift movement, he leaps to his feet and grabs her by the arm. I expect her to struggle, but no. She smiles and bats her eyes at him.
Oh, gross. I mean, he is gorgeous, but really? She likes him?
As soon as Eamon begins walking toward the tent village, someone whistles Alouette and every single table around his empties, creating a trail of witches in his wake.
“Well, well, well. Someone’s entourage has been growing,” Bethina mutters as we watch the exodus. The song becomes louder as Eamon’s group grows.
“I hate that song,” I say, stomping up the porch steps. I’ve accepted that I’m not going to find Henry before my lessons start. “It gives me the creeps.”
Bethina lingers behind me, watching Eamon and his friends disappear into the ever-growing tent town. “They do seem overly fond of it, don’t they? I hear it more and more everyday.”
I open the door and wait for Bethina to enter. “Eamon calls me that—Alouette.”
“Alouette is another name for ‘lark.’ And it isn’t a nice song.”
I turn around to see who spoke. Beck’s friend Kellan stands near the steps with his arm draped around Julia’s waist.
“I could have told you that,” I say, remembering Eamon’s
illustration of the words, his hand running down my throat and over my back.
“What do you mean?” Bethina asks, not of me, but Kellan.
Kellan’s eyes grow wide. “I’m surprised the Gathering doesn’t know. Alouette is an old French song about plucking and killing larks.”
All color fades from Bethina’s face and she flies down the steps. Over her shoulder she says, “You have Illusion this morning, Elemental Control after your break, and Movement this evening.”
“B?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”
Bethina blinks as if her thoughts are elsewhere. “Yes, of course. Hurry up now, you’ll be late,” she says before shooing me off. With her other hand, she motions for Kellan and Julia to follow her.
Something about Eamon hating me surprised Bethina. But what?
#
“You look exhausted.” Eloise waits for me, as usual, at our table. She dips a French fry into ketchup and waves it around as I approach. “Did you sleep okay after, well, you know?”
I wipe at the sweat rolling down my neck and into my cleavage. I’ve run all the way from the Lake—where my Illusion class is held—to the East Lawn. Normally, I’d take the seat across from Eloise, but if I don’t find Henry soon, I may implode and save the Light witches the trouble of figuring out what to do with me.
But first, I owe Eloise an apology. I tug on the hem of my skirt, unsure how to start. Best be direct. “I’m sorry for attacking you, Eloise. You know that, right?”
She finishes chewing and smiles. “I do now. Have a seat?”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m looking for Henry. Do you know where his tent is?”
Like Bethina, she eyes me suspiciously. “You’re visiting Henry? At his tent?”
I flip my hands over to show it isn’t a big deal. “I want to ask him some questions about my family. About my mother.”
Eloise nibbles on some weird meat sandwich thing and doesn’t say anything. She takes a sip of her drink and swallows. “His tent is in the center of the village, in the West quadrant. Second aisle. Ten tents down and on the left.”
Such detailed instructions. I wonder how many times she’s been to Henry’s tent? I raise my eyebrows.
“Don’t even say it because it isn’t true. He is not my life-mate or whatever you Dark witches call it.”
“Oh, I won’t say anything. Except those are very detailed instructions.” I giggle and duck, avoiding the piece of bread she lobs at my head.
“We’re on the Gathering council together. Of course I know where he lives.” She tosses another piece of bread at me but I’m already up and heading toward the tent village. “Besides, he’s in his thirties. I’m not a day over twenty-three.”
“If you say so,” I tease. This time, Eloise’s projectile hits me on the back. I chuckle—she’s protesting a little too much.
As anxious as I am to find Henry, I walk slowly, using up every bit of my limited self-control. No need to draw attention to myself—especially after my outburst last night.
At the center aisle, I stop and glance around. Children flit between canvas, chasing floating objects. Above them, colorful tent banners announcing the occupant’s Society flutter in the wind.
The hair at the nape of my neck pricks up. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel eyes watching me. A shiver runs along my back. I give a quick glance over my shoulder, and seeing nothing unusual, immerse myself in the raucous tent town.
I find Henry’s tent easily enough—Eloise’s directions were spot on.
“Henry?”
I spread the canvas flap and reveal a cavernous interior that looks like—well, it looks a lot like his classroom at school. Workstations, microscopes, specimen closet.
“Good morning, Lark,” Henry says from behind me.
I spin around and drop the tent flap. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure how to knock.”
He reaches around me and pulls the flap open again. “No need to be sorry. I was expecting you.” He tips his head toward the interior and waits for me to enter.
I swing my gaze back to the inside and my mouth drops open. The workroom from earlier has vanished. In its place is a cozy living space, a simple kitchen and a small office.
Henry touches my shoulder. “After you.”
I walk through the opening and take a spot on the low couch. “Why did you change the room?”
“It’s impossible to cram all my belongings into one tiny tent, so I rotate rooms as needed.” He hands me a glass of something bubbly.
I swirl the glass in my hands, watching the way the liquid moves around the cup. The memory of the red wine floats back into my mind. I hope this doesn’t taste as bad.
“You remember last night?” Henry says. I can’t tell if it’s a statement or question.
I sink back into the couch. “Yes and no. I’m a bit foggy on details. I wasn’t entirely sure it happened, but it seemed so real.”
Henry nods. “It happened.”
“I know. I had my wristlet on this morning.”
A rush of air escapes Henry’s lungs. “Yes. Well, you see, Malin wanted you to know she spoke with you.”
“You’re still in contact with her.” I say it matter-of-factly. After the events of last night, there’s no doubt in my mind, Henry and Mother are close.
“I know how it appears, but last night was the first time I’ve seen Malin in person in over sixteen years.” I train my eyes on him, daring him to lie to me. “But to answer your question, yes, I’m in contact with Malin. That’s why the Council brought me here—to act as a liaison.”
“And you thought smuggling me out of Summer Hill to my Mother was the best way to perform your duties?”
Henry rubs his upper arm. “She wanted to see you and wouldn’t stop until she did. If I hadn’t brought you, she would have ordered another attack. It seemed like the best solution.”
Maybe so, but it makes no sense. “Why did she send me back? Wasn’t the point of her attack to get me? Isn’t she trying to steal me away?”
Henry folds his hands and glances to the left. I can tell he’s struggling with something.
“What?” I ask.
“The Channings are protecting you on Malin’s orders.”
A flash of a memory—Mother saying she and Patrick despise each other. That can’t be right. The Channings work for my mother? They’re Light and she’s Dark. I shake my head slightly and bite my lip. “No, they’re afraid of me. They’re trying to learn about my powers so they can keep Beck safe.”
“That may be the case, but your mother is forcing them to keep you.”
“Why would she do that? This can’t be safer than being with her.”
Henry sits up straight and runs his hand through his hair. “The assassination attempts on Malin have increased over the past few months. No one knows for sure who’s behind them, but we suspect a splinter group of Light witches. And we think they’re led by Eamon.”
Tremors shake my body and the room spins.
“He hates me,” I manage to sputter.
“Yes, he does.” Henry walks around the table and sits beside me. He uncurls my fingers and draws the calming circles.
The whirling decreases enough for my tense muscles to relax slightly. Control slowly replaces the anger.
“Yet she wants me here, with the group she suspects of trying to harm her.” I’m missing something that will let me see the whole picture. “Doesn’t she care he’s threatened me?”
Henry’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“Eamon attacked me, while the Dark witches tore Summer Hill apart. He only stopped because of Beck.” I yank my hand away from Henry. “And that song he has everyone singing—it’s about killing larks. Kellan told us.”
Henry exhales loudly. “Eamon wouldn’t risk moving against you here. It would draw too much attention to himself—even if it were disguised as an accident.” He says this more to himself than me. Trouble clouds his eyes.
I keep track of the passing seconds by counting th
e beats of Henry’s fingers drumming against his thigh. When I get to fifty-two, he stands and walks to the tent opening. He ducks his head outside and swings his head left to right as if checking to see if anyone is listening.
When he faces me directly, I see shadows under his eyes and notice, for the first time, his rumpled clothes. Henry hasn’t slept well.
“This is bigger than the issue between you and Beck. Malin is also preoccupied by the splinter group. Instead of following the normal diplomatic channels, they’ve resorted to violence against Malin and other high-ranking State officials. They’re angry about the restriction the State has placed on us and concerned about the increasing arrests of actual Light witches. Some believe she’s purposely dwindling our numbers, like the State has with humans.”
His words lie heavy in my heart. I was right. The State, the ideal of peace and prosperity, has been slowly depleting the numbers of humans.
“Is she?”
Henry paces in front of the desk, each footfall muffled by the elaborate floor rug. “I don’t know. But I do know we need a diplomatic solution—something that results in the fewest witch deaths possible. Otherwise, the survival of magic is doomed.”
“Because of the genetic limitations?”
“Yes. We’ll never have greater numbers than we do now.”
“But what does this have to do with keeping me here?” I ask.
Careful to keep his eyes from mine, Henry rearranges items on his desk. “It’s politics—you don’t understand.”
Larkstorm Page 24
