by Monica Sanz
Sera blasted freely at the page, angered more with each failed attempt. She chased it until blinded by the smoke filling the room. Until falling onto her knees, weary, spell books and vials scattered about her.
The room blurred in her eyes. As with every time she lost her temper, she would now have to clean up the mess. Slumping down onto the protection circle, surrounded by symbols, extinguished candles, and her self-pity, she curled into herself as the drain of magic settled in her bones, and her body grew cold, her reserve depleted. She would clean up later. For now, she would rest. No one would come. Everyone was used to her fits of rage…
But not to the tears that fell from her eyes as fatigue dragged her to sleep.
…
Sera woke with a start, the pull on her magic tight at her core. She pressed her hands down as the world righted itself before her eyes. Hardwood floors stretched beneath her just like in her room, but this ceiling of painted elemental signs was not hers. She rolled over and sat up. Neither was this room.
There was a large desk and behind it a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Along the adjacent wall were more bookcases, only these reached mid-wall, where three arched windows covered by thick maroon curtains dominated the rest of the space. Behind her was a fireplace, and displayed prominently atop it was a painting of two young boys, twins, dressed in dated fashions. Both had striking gray eyes…
Her jaw clenched, as did her fists. “Barrington.”
A gasp resounded behind her. Sera stood and spun to face a short, older woman. Puffed white hair peeked out from beneath her white cap.
The woman dropped the folded linens she’d been carrying and drew her wand from her apron pocket. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Sera raised her hands in surrender. “I mean no harm.”
The woman jumped back. “Drop your wand this instant!”
“But I—”
“I said drop your wand!”
Sera loosened her grip on the wand and let it tumble to the floor.
“Now kick it here.” The woman inched into the room, her wand pointed at Sera. “You chose the wrong home to steal from.”
“I’m not here to steal, I came to—”
“Kick your wand this way!”
“What on earth is this commotion? Oh.” Barrington appeared at the doorway, an apple in hand. He wore a white shirt, silver brocade waistcoat, and black pants, and looked much younger when not cloaked in his black professorial robe.
He leaned against the doorframe, his feet crossed at his ankles. “Miss Dovetail, you made it.”
“Miss Dovetail?” The older woman looked at her, blue eyes wide. “You mean…you mean you know her?”
“Yes, yes. Put down your wand, Rosie. All is well. I was expecting Miss Dovetail, only…” He slid out his watch from his vest pocket and flicked it open. “It took her longer than I expected.”
Sera’s cheeks burned, and she eyed her wand. Rosie might blast her, but if she were quick enough, maybe she could strike him first. It would be worth the pain.
Pushing off the doorframe, he passed the quavering woman and entered the room.
Rosie adjusted her cap and smoothed down her apron, her cheeks and nose flushed. “I’m terribly sorry, miss.”
Sera bent and gathered her wand. Sheathing it, she walked to the door and helped Rosie with the tumbled linens, but not before she glared at Barrington. “No apologies needed,” she assured her. “No one was hurt. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
They rose, and she set the folded pile into the woman’s arms. Rosie bowed her head and exited.
Sera turned to Barrington by his desk, and her anger crested once more. “You should have told her I was coming. She could’ve killed me, you know.”
“Rosie wouldn’t hurt a fly—well, she would, actually. She hates flies. But not you.”
“Well, I could have hurt her. Did you ever consider that I could’ve scared her to death, or mistakenly immobilized her? She’s an elderly woman. She may not have survived.”
Barrington pondered on this a moment, twisting the apple stem in slow rotations. A slight grin tipped his lips. “No, she has dealt with a lot worse than you in her years here.”
Sera frowned, not doubting that one bit.
“So then.” He motioned to the chair of red plush velvet across from his desk. “How were your travels? It seems you had some problems.”
“And whatever gives you that idea?” She harrumphed, sitting. “The scent of smoke or the ash on my face?”
“Neither, really, though they’re clear indications that I was right in protecting the spell as well. I time-altered it, you see.”
Her fists gathered. “You did what?”
“Time-altered—the symbol in the middle. It delayed the time the spell took to work—”
“I know what time-altered means.”
“Ah, good,” he said plainly, ignoring her anger. “I also proofed it. I imagined once you gathered your wits, you might have wanted to give it another go. Had you burned it, you would have lost your chance at a referral.” Small crinkles gathered at the sides of his eyes. “You’re welcome.”
She fixed him with a scowl. How could someone be so infuriating and irritating and boorish all at the same time and not explode?
“What do you think my test was, Miss Dovetail?”
“To torture me, I’m sure,” she grumbled.
He walked around the office, much neater than his one at school. “I like torture as much as the next man, but no.” He bit into his apple and chewed with precision, as though analyzing every burst of flavor, the same way he assessed her. “The first lesson is patience, which you lack in abundance, as evidenced by the way you nearly walked out of my office without so much as hearing my proposition and the way you almost destroyed the spell. Not to mention, the way you nearly set a boy on fire.” He looked at her pointedly.
A blush pricked Sera’s cheeks. He had seen her use wandless magic, of this she was sure. But if he was willing to overlook it, so would she.
“Remember always, Miss Dovetail, a quick temper hinders understanding and brings about regret.”
Sera smothered the urge to roll her eyes. If she wanted to listen to Pragmatic scripture quotes and judgments on her character, she would have gone to church service—were seventhborns allowed to attend.
He set down his apple. “But I must say, I’m happy you’re here, however late you are.”
She thought to say something. Perhaps, thank you. There had been a compliment somewhere in his words.
He clapped his hands together. “Now to discuss the reason you’re here…” He stopped, his gaze fixed at her shoulder. “There is blood on your collar.”
Sera raised a hand to the back of her head and winced. The cut wasn’t bleeding but was still rather sore. “It’s old, from yesterday. Having books fall onto one’s head may do that to a person.”
“You didn’t go to the infirmary?” He reached a hand toward her.
Heart pounding, she rushed to her feet and shifted away. “What are you doing?”
Barrington retracted his hand. “I thought I might heal you, but I take it you prefer to be in pain.”
Sera watched him for a moment as her heartbeat slowed and her mind registered his words.
A blush pricked her cheeks. Goodness, she had to relax, memories be damned. If they were to work together, she couldn’t flinch at his every move.
Steeling her spine, she nodded her acquiescence. “Thank you.”
Barrington’s brow dipped, but he neared her and lifted his hand to her head. Sera cursed inwardly, hoping to all in heaven he didn’t question her behavior.
“Pardon me, I…I thought your nearness improper…” she lied before he was able to ask.
“I’m afraid this pales in comparison to everything that is improper between us, Miss Dovetail. Now, relax.”
She let out a breath. If only it were so easy. It wasn’t every day she was alone with a man, her reputation and virtue
in danger…not that she had any reputation to ruin or virtue to keep. But banishing all thoughts of her past to the deep, dark hole where she housed them, Sera blew out another breath and deflated. She was safe here. She had to believe it. If he had wanted to hurt her, he could have done it already.
Barrington closed his eyes. His jaw, shadowed by light stubble, clenched, and his brows gathered. From this close, Sera considered the brooding professor. There was a slight curve to his lips that hinted at a pleasant smile should he ever decide to stop scowling, and he had a nice nose, sculpted, but not too severe. His hair was thick and full, though he did little to tame it. It was always unruly, as if he spent his days caught in a windstorm. Still, he was handsome, Sera conceded but pursed her lips. A man with his ego already knew that.
Warmth stung Sera’s scalp like tiny needles. The sensation grew to a wave of heat that clouded her mind and rolled down her limbs, slowly, until she felt sure she could float in it.
Hard as she wished not to, she stared at him openly, knowing he traveled the threads of her life, seeking out the blackened ones that marked her injury. She’d always found healing such a fascinating art, and were she not in search of her family, she may have even taken up the study.
Her neck quickly wearied. He was taller than her by about a head, and she was forced to look up at him. Left staring at his chest that undulated with each breath, she surveyed the room instead. The painting above the fireplace called her attention, yet her eyes kept moving. Nothing to see there but the possibility of more Barringtons. Heaven knew, one of him was enough.
He lowered his hands and opened his eyes, a strange mix of grays with golden flecks. “There.”
Sera touched the back of her head. No pain. “Thank you.”
He nodded a silent you’re welcome, turned on his heels, and walked back to his desk. “Now, for the reason you’re here.” He reached into a desk drawer and set out a file on the table. “I can’t recall if I asked, but I do hope you have a strong stomach.”
He opened the file, and her breath died in her lungs. Two bodies lay beside an exhumed grave. One was a skeleton, the other a charred, mangled corpse. Smoke curled out from the burned body, a frozen cloud of white in the picture.
He spread the impressions out on the table one by one. The scenes were the same, though the locations and victims varied.
“So many,” she whispered, nearing the table. “Who did this?”
“That’s what we’re here to discover. So far, I’ve found no connection between the corpses and the burned witches, nor between the burned witches themselves. With the witches burned beyond recognition, I need a new pair of eyes to look through these photographs and point out anything I may have missed. Tell me what you see.”
Sera spread out the pictures, trying to separate her emotions from the task at hand. “In every picture, a body has been exhumed,” she said, analyzing the gnarled and dusty skeletons beside the graves. She focused then on the burned bodies beside them. “I think the burned corpses died most recently; there’s still smoke emanating from their bodies. Their clothes are burned, but their dresses are still somewhat recognizable—”
“Yes, yes, I know this. Using your eyes is for ordinary humans, Miss Dovetail. You’re far from ordinary. Embrace it.” He was standing now. “Look at the picture.”
She lifted one before her eyes.
She set it down and picked up another. There was nothing there she hadn’t described. A dead body. Smoke. A coffin unearthed.
“Focus on the photograph,” he repeated, pacing behind his desk.
Jaw tight, she picked up another and stared. Putting it down, she tried the next. This was impossible.
“Do not force the answer,” Barrington said. “Let it come.”
She dropped the impression back onto the desk. “I am waiting. I’m staring until my eyes dry…and nothing.”
He brushed a hand aside. “We’re done for the night. If you don’t want to learn, I can’t force you.” He stacked the images into a pile. “Take them with you, and under no circumstances are you to show them to anyone. A spell will not help you, not in this case, at least. Sit with them. Study them. Come back with your analysis, and we will continue. If not, I’ll take the impressions and you’re relieved of your duties.”
Heat gathered in her cheeks. “If you will replace me so easily, why not do it already? Why did you bother choosing me, anyway?”
“I have needed an assistant for quite some time, but, for one reason or another, no one has wanted to take up my offer of employment.”
One reason or another. Sera stifled a snort. His boorishness and conceit were reason enough.
“And aside from my need, I haven’t replaced you because everyone is wrong about me, Miss Dovetail. I had hoped, perhaps, they were wrong about you as well. So far, I fear I may need to accept they were right.”
She gasped. “You—”
“I know nothing about you, yes, I know. You have told me before.” He held the stack out to her. “Prove me wrong, then. You have a week to find something for me in these impressions. In the meantime, you will report to me every evening to commence your training.”
“Training?”
He scoffed and lowered the impressions. “You didn’t think I fancied for myself an untrained assistant, did you? If we are to work together, you will be on your best behavior during your classes, and at night you will report to me. No outbursts. No wandless magic. No setting things—or people—on fire. Come to think of it, we will begin with wand training.”
Sera pursed her lips. “I know how to use my wand.”
His brows rose in mock amusement. “Do you now? Then you must have us all fooled considering you typically leave an explosion or fire in your wake.”
“You—”
“Wayward boor? Yes, I’ve heard it before as well. But I’ve a better one for you. You’re brilliant. Your power is vast and your reserves impressive. But you’re careless and impulsive, and soon you will learn that all the raw power and talent in the world mean nothing in magic if you don’t know how to use them. That will require hard work”—he looked at her levelly—“and patience. Losing control may give you a semblance of power, but you will realize that when you need your magic most, it will not work. It will scatter and be utterly useless. Only with focus and control can you achieve what you need it to do.”
Sera stared at him, once again taken by his fierceness. Her suspicions flared. There was indeed something dormant beneath his stoic surface, and she had a sense that whatever it was had once lost control, too. “Do you speak from experience, Professor?” she ventured.
He turned his eyes down, but not before Sera noticed the undercurrents of sadness within them. “Yes, I do.” He straightened, his mask in place, and handed her the impressions. “As I said, you have a week to find what I need in those impressions.”
She snatched the pictures from his hand. “So this is another test, then.”
He walked to her and pointed his wand at the floor. “It is. Only, if you fail these tests, other witches may die.”
“What—”
“Dismissed.”
Sera yelped, the ground beneath her vanishing. A blink of black and she crashed down onto her rug. Her hands loosened on the impressions, and they scattered around her. Stumbling back, she collapsed onto her window seat to steady herself as she gulped to dislodge her stomach, which had since found a home in her throat.
“You will get used to it, Sera,” she coaxed herself as she knelt down. That, however, depended on whether or not she figured out what on earth was in these impressions that Barrington had missed. He believed she could find it. But what could it be?
She gathered the photographs and shook her head at the unfortunate scenes.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered, and wished for once that the dead could speak.
4
an ocean within him
Dark clouds lingered on the horizon, speckled by black ravens gliding along the co
untryside. Gray, muted light filtered in through the small window at the back corner of the classroom. Winter had clamped its bite down early; a cold breeze wheezed through what cracks it could find in the glass panes.
Sera burrowed into herself and hugged her arms about her torso to keep from fidgeting. After an entire evening of staring at photographs, images of dead witches had invaded the darkness of her closed eyes and made it impossible to sleep. She stifled a yawn and looked around the classroom. Worst was knowing that in a few hours she would start training as Barrington’s assistant, which only made class that much more unbearable. With him, she would learn real magic and inspector work, not the useless drivel and theories she was forced to endure in some of her classes—she glanced at her History of Clairvoyance professor and frowned—especially this one.
“Next page,” Mrs. Norton called out, her whispery voice a nuisance. Half of the time Sera couldn’t hear her all the way in the back corner, and whenever she raised her hand, she was ignored, which had led to last month’s altercation.
The Aetherium gave you a place, Miss Dovetail. Not a voice. Be grateful for what you have, Mrs. Norton had said, to which Sera could not quite remember what she replied, only that her face grew hot, the redness washed over her sight, and the next moment she was in the headmistress’s office, explaining the obscenities she’d hurled at Mrs. Norton and the book she’d then thrown at the now-repaired window. Thankfully, Headmistress Reed had been much too busy to issue a real diatribe and punishment, and had Sera write an apology to Mrs. Norton on the blackboard, three hundred times over. It had taken her all night.
Sera turned the page, and her stomach tightened. As if her day couldn’t get any lousier. Caricatures of old Purist officers were drawn along the page. With their beaked plague masks and all-black attire, they looked like ravens. And, like ravens, the old Purist officers were harbingers of doom, especially to every seventhborn who crossed their path.
Mrs. Norton sighed. “Which brings us to the Persecution.”
A heavy silence settled over the room, one Sera was sure would not exist were she not present. A cold sweat pricked the back of her neck, her wool dress suddenly too constricting.
