The Changeling's Fortune (Winter's Blight Book 1)

by K. C. Lannon

  James shook his head. “No way. Adults don’t go exploring… They never do anything they really want to.”

  Deirdre just barely stopped herself from prying further or scolding him by remembering how Sister Margaret had warned her how little freedom young women have in the city. She had been right, painfully right.

  I thought the older you got, the freer you were supposed to be… Sighing, she scratched the back of her head. But James JUST wants to explore? That’s it? He’s so smart, wouldn’t he have some sort of goal in mind? This seems weird…

  She puzzled over it for a while but was unable to find any sort of plausible answer. The only thing she was certain of was that it was dangerous and silly for James to be wandering around alone. But she felt certain she couldn’t dissuade him.

  Deciding to worry about it later, she grinned at him and said, “Let’s hurry it up; we’ll want to get to wherever we’re stopping for the night on time.” Then she set a faster pace, leaving her concerns behind.

  * * *

  James found himself struggling to keep up with Deirdre’s steady pace, especially when the terrain slowly became rockier as they strayed from farmed, inhabited areas. To his dismay, sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, and he soon became breathless. He hadn’t thought it would be much different, in terms of physical strain, than walking in the city. As long as Deirdre didn’t ask him if he was all right, he could maintain his pride.

  Must be all these hills…

  All the while, even while taking in the beautiful landscape around him, James felt the presence of the mysterious letters in his backpack. The parchment was light in comparison to the books and items he’d packed, but they held a metaphorical weight he found difficult to ignore.

  It seemed to James that there were so many things that no one wanted him to read, so many conversations kept from him out of fear he wouldn’t understand, out of fear of truth. Banned books. Letters. Explanations. He was growing tired of being protected from knowledge.

  If Mum never wanted us to read these letters, then there must be truth in them.

  As eager as James was to read the letters, he had decided earlier on the journey to wait and read them when they stopped for camp or whenever he was next alone. In the past, Iain often pointed out to James that he never knew when to share information and when to keep it to himself. He had a tendency to overshare. But even James knew that he needed to keep the letters and his true mission private.

  As they walked along, they began to hear the faint trickling and bubbling sounds of a stream nearby. When they neared the stream, a creature with sleek, dark fur slunk through the field in the distance, just on the other side. The animal peered at them, alerted to their presence. Its long snout twitched as it sniffed the air.

  A fox!

  He and Deirdre both stopped; he beamed, his worries forgotten for the time being. “I’ve only ever seen mangy city foxes, and they were all orange,” James whispered. “This one’s black as midnight.”

  “They used to hang around the town near us,” Deirdre commented, not as softly. Then she chuckled. “There was this one elderly woman who used to feed them, like they were stray dogs. They make the silliest sounds, like an upset, yowling cat.”

  “My mum said they bring good luck, even though they’re unclean.” James began to slip past Deirdre, trying to get a better look. He carefully stretched one leg over the stream and then the other, only wobbling a little.

  Deirdre hummed thoughtfully. “What do you mean, they aren’t clean?”

  James was about to answer when Deirdre snapped her fingers suddenly, loud enough to startle the fox into scurrying farther away from them. “Oh,” she said, “is it because of your mother’s religion? Are you Jewish?”

  “She’s, um, Christian.” James left it at that, glancing away.

  “But why would she think anything is unclean? That’s not what God said in Acts. Hasn’t she read it?”

  James turned to look at her. “Of course she has. This is, uh, a completely different thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pursed his lips. “There are some things the gazhe are clueless about. Most things, actually.”

  “Gad-jay? What’s that?”

  Sighing loudly, he began to regret even bringing it up. “It means non-Roma. I forget that hardly anyone knows that.”

  “Oooh.” Deirdre was quiet for a moment, then asked, “But why do you have to have some fancy word for it? Why don’t you just say non-Roma? I mean, when Sister Margaret is mad at English people, she always just says ‘Oh, those bloody Brits!’ That way everyone can understand her…” She frowned. “Though Mother Superior always told her NOT to say that, but she still did it anyway. Maybe she should have used some sort of Scottish Gaelic word for ‘English’ or ‘British.’ But if she did, we’d all be confused every other history lesson. Sister Margaret taught British history.” She looked at James expectantly.

  James blinked, the wave of chatter stunning him briefly. He strained to remember what her first question had been. “Well, it’s not like it’s a nasty word. Anyway,” he said with a proud smile as they began to walk across the field again, “plenty of Romani words from different dialects have made it into the English language. You might’ve used one without knowing it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well…” James thought for a moment and then pointed to Deirdre’s hair. “Loli. That’s red. And loli pobble—that’s Romanichal—means red apple, like candied apple. It sounds quite a lot like lollipop, doesn’t it?”

  “Neat! But all lollipops aren’t red.”

  James suppressed an eye-roll. He said nothing to avoid possibly snapping at her.

  “Or, um, maybe originally lollipops were all red! So maybe that’s why they used that word. That’d make sense!” Deirdre grinned at him, her eyebrows raised high.

  “Yeah,” he said without feeling. “That does make sense.”

  “Good!” She pumped her fist lightly, as if she had made some achievement. After half a minute of walking, she asked, “So what other Romani words do you know?”

  “Not many,” he admitted rather sheepishly. “Mum didn’t teach us much. Just some basics.” And a few swear words. “But I’d like to learn more someday.”

  “Hmm. Where would you even go to study that sort of thing?”

  “Some universities used to teach it, I think. I dunno if they still do. They certainly wouldn’t teach it in Neo-London.”

  “You could go to a Catholic university in Europe! They will have LOADS more to study than some place in Neo-London. I mean, that school there, that we were going to, that was super limited! And, I mean, I’m not really a great student and all… but it didn’t look very good. Not much variety, not much, um, depth…” She frowned, searching for the right word. “It seemed pretty boring.”

  James felt his previous agitation fade as he met her gaze and replied eagerly, “I’ve been saying that for a while! Iain thinks any education is a good one, but I disagree. There’s so much they don’t teach you in the curriculum, so I’ve been studying different books on my own time.”

  He went to reach for his pack, only to remember that he hadn’t brought his books and that he’d already shown her a few books the other day. “Iain and I can agree on one thing though, and that’s that nothing competes with experience. Iain says that school teaches you important things but that it can’t teach you about life. That’s why I want to see everything for myself instead of listening to some teacher. That’s why I’m out here.”

  “Ohh, that’s why!” she exclaimed. “It’s like a self-imposed field trip. That kind of makes sense.”

  “Uh, yeah…”

  Deirdre nodded, curls bouncing. “Yep, experience is the best teacher. I mean, I can read stuff, and that’s one thing, but there’s nothing like experiencing it yourself!” Her expression abruptly sobered, and she stopped walking and asked, “And does Iain know you’re out here?”

  James stumbled over a st
one in his path before coming to a halt. “Well,” he said, a little louder than normal, “he probably knows by now.”

  James winced, realizing he’d been talking about his brother without even meaning to. It’s just out of habit.

  He wondered briefly if he should have told Iain he was leaving or at least have left him a note explaining why. He knew the gnawing ache of not knowing, of not having answers. He also knew Iain would forgive him when he came home. Iain could never stay mad at anyone for long. As for how much—or if—his father would care… he wasn’t certain of anything.

  Iain’s made his choices, and I’ve had to live with them. He’ll just have to live with mine now.

  James chanced another glance at Deirdre, taking in her bright smile as she looked at something ahead of them. She seemed like an understanding, open person, unlike anyone he had met in the city. He decided right then that he liked her quite a lot.

  “Should we get a move on?” James asked her.

  “Let’s take a break!” She strode past him, where another stream, this one too wide to just step over, was half-hidden under a bank.

  “A break? Already?”

  Deirdre did not seem to hear him as she plopped down on the other side of the stream on the bank and began unlacing her boots. She let out a sigh as she dunked her feet into the water and then began to hum to herself.

  “What are you doing?” James asked.

  Deirdre lolled her head to look backward at him. “It’s relaxing!”

  He looked at the stream, thinking she had no idea where it came from. “It might be dirty.”

  She laughed shamelessly at him. “You really are a city boy!”

  Iain was right… She is a country hick!

  James declined her offer to sit and soak his feet for a bit and went a little way off, thinking that this was a good opportunity to read one of the letters.

  He found a patch of short grass and sat down cross-legged, shrugging off his backpack and rummaging through it for the letters. He took one and smoothed it out against his knee.

  He flipped the envelope over and opened it, sliding the letter out. There were three small folded pages with neat writing on each side written in dark ink. The words were scratchy, like they were written with a fountain pen. For the first time in James’s life, he hesitated to read.

  They’re just words.

  Sitting up straighter and taking in a deep breath, James unfolded the pages and started to read, hands trembling. Or at least attempted to read. He squinted at the letter an embarrassingly long time before he realized the words were of a different language. He barely recognized any words, save for what Mum had taught him when he was younger. James didn’t let it shake him; if anything, it only made him more determined.

  You can work this out. You can think of something. Just try to remember what you know. Just—

  “Thank you, Marko!” James grinned, nearly slumping over in relief when he saw a crudely drawn smiley face drawn on the bottom of the first page, along with an arrow that led him to flip the paper over. On the back of the letter, Marko had written an English translation. It read:

  Marko, I hope this letter finds you well. Do not ask where I am, because I will not tell you. All I can say is that I am being taken care of enough so that I am able to write this letter, and I am supplied with parchment and ink.

  James took his time scouring the writing, taking in each word. When he flipped the page over again after the finishing the first paragraph, the writing looked like his mother’s handwriting for certain. She’d drawn little doodles like a border around the writing: little rabbits, foxes, and cats. She’d always liked to draw even if she didn’t think she was very skilled at it. James brushed his thumb over one of the cats, smiling faintly.

  Continuing to read, James began to skim over a few parts where she was asking about Iain, their father, and him, how they were faring. None of it told James what he wanted to know, so he did not linger on the words.

  You asked me how I knew Jal was marked, if I’d known instinctually? If you are so curious, a faery told me.

  James stared, his lips moving soundlessly as he read over it again. His mouth was dry, and the air around him seemed to still. Marked? What does that mean?

  A little goblin woman brought in a poor mutt dog to me to mend its wounded paw. Get this: when I told her I only treated humans, she had the nerve to ask me what the difference was! If I hadn’t sworn an oath, I might have slapped her.

  I treated the dog as best I could and meant to send her on her way. She asked what payment I took, and I told her she owed me nothing. She looked relieved and told me she had no money. She instead offered me a reading. The faery said she had a simple spell to see my family and romance connections and bring me good advice based on the reading.

  Normally, I would have refused instantly… but I admit I was weak and foolish. I had my suspicions about my husband, which turned out to be unfounded. Things had changed between us, and I thought there had to be someone else. I was weak. If that makes me marhime, well, I knew what I was doing, and I do not regret it.

  After she performed the spell, her black eyes were full of such sadness. When I asked what she’d seen, she took my hands and said something I have heard echoing in my head every moment since: I looked at your family tree, and darkness had devoured a branch. Your second born has been marked by dark magic. Something evil has claimed him.

  James’s eyes darted too quickly over the page, dizzily. His fingers shook as he underlined the words, reading through it over and over again, trying to make sense of something senseless. His chest tightened.

  Dark magic. Marked by dark magic.

  James forced himself to read on, confident that all would be explained.

  Evil? What is evil to a being with such a strange moral code? I asked her what she meant, but that was all she knew. She told me I needed to find a faery that could tell me if someone had made a deal or blood pact for my son’s life, if it was as she thought. I didn’t want to believe her, but I knew she was telling the truth, woman to woman. I went to see my family, but they were as helpful as they usually are.

  For a moment James forgot where he was until he felt the field grass brush against his arms as a light breeze rolled through and ruffled his hair and cooled the perspiration that was beading on his skin. He was back home. Or maybe he only wished he was back home.

  Iain would know what to say. He would know what to do.

  James curled his fingers tightly, his nails biting into his palms. But Iain wasn’t there, and he wasn’t going to be there, and even if he was, James was not sure Iain would even believe the truth that lay coiled in ink, soaked in the parchment.

  James read over the last page, hopeful that some explanation waited for him there.

  I have a photograph of Brishen and Jal together. Brishen and I had been baking in the kitchen all day when it happened. Jal was around four years old at the time, and he’d been pouting because I wouldn’t let him help. I couldn’t be watching him constantly to make sure he did everything properly. He tried to help anyway and ended up pouring the entire bag of flour over his head. Of course, he burst into tears instantly. He only stopped when Brishen took a handful of flour and dumped it on his own head to make Jal laugh. So I have a photo of two smiling, white-haired boys. They are worth all this. That is why I will not tell you where I am.

  James wilted. He remembered that day, vaguely. He remembered Mum taking the photograph and then taking it to church and showing it to all the women in her group. But the memory did nothing to soothe him, and it did nothing to answer his questions. It was useless.

  Just think it through, James told himself sternly. Treat it like a puzzle, a problem. Start with what you know for certain, and work from there. You can work this out. If he could imagine that the letter was about someone else, written by another’s hand, then he knew he could use reasoning and logic to figure it out.

  “—James?”

  James jolted, dropping the let
ter in his lap. He looked up to see Deirdre standing over him, the ends of her long hair nearly brushing his face as she leaned down and tilted her head to see what he was reading.

  “We should get going while we still have daylight left!” she said, gesturing for him to get moving.

  “Uh, right—” James fumbled with the letter clumsily, shoving it back into his bag carelessly, his hands like lead and his heart pounding furiously. “Right.”

  Deirdre set the pace again, walking ahead of him. She chattered on as usual, but James found it difficult to focus on anything she was saying. Occasionally she’d laugh at something she said and then twist around to see if he’d found it as funny.

  As open as she’d been with him thus far and as accepting of everything he’d told her like no one else, James could not be certain she would be as accepting if she found out what he knew now. He was marked by dark magic. James had no idea what that meant; all he knew was that, even now that he was far from the constricting city walls, he felt more trapped than ever.

  This doesn’t change anything. Words don’t change anything. I’m still the same as I was before, James reasoned with himself, standing up straighter.

  Resolved, he caught up to Deirdre as best he could. He was determined to put the letter’s contents aside for now until he could study them further and focus instead on where they were going next. There was still an issue he needed to address, and it was more pressing than a vague mention of dark magic.

  “Um, about the orphanage,” James piped up. “When we get there, I think it’ll be best if I wait outside.”

  “Why?” Deirdre asked.

  James had been hoping she would just leave it at that. He could not tell her that his father owned the building and that he might be recognized and told on by one of the Mothers or Sisters. “Because—because, you know, there are, um, girls there,” James rambled, making up an excuse on the fly. “It might be, um, inappropriate.”

  Deirdre’s covering her mouth did little to stifle her burst of laughter. “Yes, they might infect you with their girl germs!” She made a playful growling noise and swiped at him with clawed hands.