by Monica Sanz
Sera gripped the banister tighter at the realization, her heart losing its rhythm. Reason told her perhaps she gazed at him for longer than was proper, but his shock quickly gave way to something else, and Sera couldn’t look away. Had she not seen the expression before, she never would have noticed it, but she had—the same mix of shame and sorrow as when he looked at Filip’s portrait. The expression tightened her belly, but she willed her eyes away, clutched hard at the banister, and descended. She moved from the staircase and rounded the corner to the planetarium that had been transformed to a glorious vision of a snowy palace, but stopped and peeked around the bend to watch Mary descend.
In a fitting black frock coat, Timothy met her at the foot of the stairs, dark curls raked away from his face. His cravat was sky blue like Mary’s dress, and equally accentuated his eyes. A swell of joy warmed Sera’s heart for her friend. Timothy was immensely attractive, and Mary would relish his company the entire night.
He handed Mary the white rose and kissed her gloved hand. “Miss Tenant, I daresay I’ll be the envy of every man this evening.”
Mary fanned herself, a blush bright in her cheeks.
“Shall we?” Timothy asked, offering Mary his arm. He turned them away and led her down the long corridor toward the planetarium. Sera pretended to adjust her gloves as they passed her and stopped at the threshold, admiring the grand display of magic. The theme of wishes was spread around them, beautiful orbs of light floating above, dashing along the ceiling like shooting stars in the night sky. Tables outlined the room, and couples danced in the middle as if on a cloud, a cool mist swathing the floor.
“I think I hear a waltz starting,” Timothy noted. “Miss Tenant, will you do me the honor?”
Mary blushed and nodded.
Sera watched them walk away. The smile on her lips quickly withered as she glanced about the room. Groups of students sat at tables, laughing and enjoying life as they should, yet she could not bring herself to walk another step into the hall. This was not her life, and turning, she walked out, opting for the shadows in the gardens.
The gardens were desolate. A light misty rain kept everyone inside, and Sera would have had it no other way. She hugged herself against the cold that nipped at her skin and walked down the cobbled path to the tunneled archways of thick vines that led toward the Wishing Tree. Small orbs of light glowed like heartbeats, as if fireflies were trapped within the vines. The night air was frigid, but she drew in a breath, needing it to freeze the strange tightness in her stomach.
If her impending dance with Timothy hadn’t been enough to make this night frustratingly nerve racking, now there was Professor Barrington. If only he’d looked angry or indifferent. She could deal with those. But no, there had been more in those eyes.
She groaned. It was impossible. Witches were losing their lives, Barrington had lost his family, and she had lost what was perhaps her only chance at a referral for the assessment. She gazed up at Mary’s Wishing Tree.
“I doubt even you could fix this mess,” she muttered. And even if the tree could somehow mend her and Barrington’s fractured relationship, she wondered whether she would want it to. Could she ever bring herself to trust him wholly with her life? He needed her, and she needed him. She tapped her chin. Perhaps she could make demands of her own—demand there be no secrets between them. Maybe then she could grant him this trust he’d asked of her.
After her outburst, it was probably too late. She had called him a monster, a liar, a Purist, and worse than Noah. What if, in her anger, she had burned down his beloved portrait? The way he’d stared at it that night, his sadness thinly veiled…
“It’s rather cold to be out here without a coat.”
She bristled and turned slowly to Professor Barrington standing under the last archway. He was like one with the night, just as cold and dark, mysterious and elegant. Her mouth wavered between a hello and a thin line of uncertainty.
He entered the space enclosed by waist-high hedges. Hands at his back, he stood a distance away, which she knew was for propriety’s sake. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said first.
She forced her eyes back to the tree. “I had no intention of coming, but Mary was nervous, and so I conceded. I’m sure after all that’s happened, I can survive the night.”
Silence.
“You look lovely,” he said and cleared his throat. “And the flower in your hair.”
Sera touched the rose. “Oh, yes, thank you. It was a gift from Mr. Delacort,” she said, regretting it instantly but unable to tame the nerves that made her ramble.
“Hmm. Mr. Delacort has an interesting choice in color. Yellow stands for hope. What has he to hope for?” He focused back on the tree. “I would imagine his father able to purchase him any whim.”
“He hopes for what we all hope for. That which not even money can buy.”
He arched a brow. “I never thought you a romantic.”
“It’s not love I speak of, but dreams.” She shrugged. “We all chase after something, and it’s normally that which we can’t have. Mr. Delacort is no different.”
He looked to her but said nothing.
The silence deepened, a deafening, glaring thing between them. Sera bit her inner lip. Was he thinking of apologizing? A cold sweat pricked at the back of her neck. If he apologized, what would she say? Goodness, what would he? Was he even going to apologize, or sever their agreement once and for all?
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Miss Dovetail, I admit I’m not the best at this sort of thing…”
“Speaking of romantics,” she cut above him, “my friend Mary was in charge of making this tree. Along the trunk are quotes of love and hope, very much like my dear Mary.” She walked around the large tree, hoping he didn’t continue down his road of speech. Not until she knew what to say, what to do. “And we’re able to write our wishes onto those leaves there, then bind them to the tree.”
“Yes, I saw it earlier. But, as I was saying—”
“Very creative, don’t you think?” She leaned in to the paper bark. Damn it. She had to decide. Should she—could she trust him with her life? Her lips bowed, and she shifted back, uncertain.
He sighed. “Creative, indeed,” he said, seeming to accept that she would not speak of it at the moment. He held out a blank paper leaf to her. “Would you care to try?”
She met him by the table at the base of the tree, thanked him for the paper leaf, and picked up a pencil. He did the same, and they each wrote their wishes. A light breeze soughed past as if to snatch away their secret desires, and they each respectively held down their slivers of paper. She stole a glance at his leaf and noticed that he, too, wrote something that started with the letter F. His fingers covered the rest, though she had no doubt he wrote Filip.
Her heart dulled. Did he wish to have his dear brother back even if for a day? Perhaps have the chance to tell him goodbye one last time? She lowered her eyes to her own word, Family, and sighed. They were more alike than she cared to admit, and his pain affected her more than she wished it did.
Barrington folded his leaf in half. “There. Makes it look more like a real leaf.”
She smiled. “Now we’re to send them up and bind them to the branch with our magic.” Sera unsheathed her wand. Barrington did the same. They tapped the edges of their wishes, and the leaves floated upward as though time were being turned back. She was glad laziness made levitation one of her most frequently used spells, and she no longer had to speak the spell, merely think it, as the silence in that moment was magical. She sealed her leaf at the base of the third branch while Barrington clasped his beside a dark acorn that was flattened on one side.
They lowered their wands and stood in silence.
“Miss Dovetail…”
“There you are!” The sound of footsteps approached from behind, and they turned to Mary walking down the path. “Oh, good evening, Professor,” she said, her face still flushed from the dance.
He inclined his he
ad. “Miss Tenant, if you will excuse me.” He turned and bowed to Sera. “Thank you for explaining the purpose of the tree, Miss Dovetail. I agree. You did a marvelous job, Miss Tenant.”
Mary clapped her hands, delighted. “Thank you, Professor,” she said, but he had already turned and stalked down the path toward the ballroom, his black robe billowing behind him.
“So severe a man,” Mary whispered. “A pity, as he really is quite handsome.” She waved a hand airily. “You must come inside! Timothy and I think you should dance at least once. Though to make me smile even wider, he said he would dance with you as many times as was proper. I said twice was fine, and I would smile brighter than the sun. Any more and people might talk.” She tugged at Sera’s arm. “Come, before the next dance!”
She allowed Mary to pull her away, though could not help but look to the folded leaf beside the flattened acorn one last time.
Timothy waited beside their table. He rubbed his fingers at his sides, looking utterly perfect. His hair was perfect, his attire was perfect. The way he stared and smiled as though taken by the sight of her was…perfect. And yet, Sera thanked the heavens the room was dim so he could not see the way she was more ready to flee than to dance. She was doing this for Mary, but would it backfire? Would Mary see the way he looked at her, his eyes full of devotion? Would she finally realize that the mystery girl of Timothy’s desire was Sera all along?
They stopped before him, and he bowed. “Miss Dovetail, may I have this dance?”
Forcing a smile, Sera curtsied and slipped her hand into his. Butterflies tangled in her stomach, though much more over never having danced in front of so many people before—not in her limited memories, anyway. The sea of dancers parted, and eyes followed as Timothy brought them to the floor. Many scoffed and moved off the dance floor, gathering in groups and whispering to one another.
A waltz ensued. As strings were plucked and the violins whined, Sera let Timothy guide her, grateful all she had to do was follow, as she no longer heard the song or the words he spoke. There were only memories of the garden, of decisions to be made—no, a decision she had made, to let fear no longer guide her. She would hear out Barrington and then demand an oath of complete honesty between them. She would help him with his case, he would help her find her family, and they would then go their separate ways. She would mend what had been broken. There was no other way.
As they spun, the lights became spider threads of light, and Sera scanned the fringes of the room and found Professor Barrington in the shadows. A smile touched her lips. Where else? It was where she would be, too. They made a final turn, and as the music died, she curtsied and lifted her lashes, but frowned. The shadows remained, but Barrington was gone.
“Are you all right?” Timothy asked, straightening from his bow.
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.” She rose from her curtsy and slipped her hand from his. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Delacort. I am…I need…I…” Her words unsaid, she shifted back and squeezed through the crowd as the next dance commenced. She could wait until tomorrow to speak to Barrington, but why wait when everything could be resolved tonight?
Mary called from behind her, but other dancers whisked past between them, and she could not follow as Sera dashed out of the ballroom. She whirled in a quick circle. Where was he? He couldn’t be far. He’d only just left. She surveyed the gardens and scrutinized the shadows. He wasn’t there. She spun back inside and walked across the first level, through the rectory, and into the greenhouse.
Barrington was nowhere to be found.
She turned to leave and startled. “Timothy!”
“Forgive me. I saw you run away and worried I’d done something wrong.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “No, no. I needed air, but it was too cold outside and…a headache—I have a headache, and the music was too loud so I came to look for feverfew to perhaps make a tea.” She spun to the plants and tugged off two leaves from the nearest one as he eased beside her.
He reached for one of the leaves she had just plucked and chuckled. “Obviously you haven’t been paying much attention in Botany, have you? This is neem, used for rashes and other skin conditions. Not for headaches very much.”
Of course it was. She hefted a sigh and let the other leaf float down before her.
“I know it’s confusing,” Timothy said, taking her hand in his, “and the last thing you want is to hurt Mary, but I saw you smile when we danced. And I may not be the best empath, but I can feel strong emotions, and I felt you. You were happy. I feel the same, and I don’t want to fight it anymore. Especially not after tonight.”
“Timothy…” she started, but he stole the word away with a kiss.
A gasp resounded with the sprinkle of glass. They shifted away from each other and saw Mary at the greenhouse door.
“I…I thought to bring you some water, in case you felt sick…” Eyes glossy with tears, she spun and ran away into the dark forest.
“Mary, wait!” Sera made to run after her, but Timothy took hold of her hand.
“I’ll find her. It’s dark, and you shouldn’t be out there alone—”
“You’ve done enough.” She snatched her hand away. “She’s my friend, and I will find her.” Running outside, Sera drew her wand and held it above her. White fire sparked at the tip, flares of magic dancing like torch flames. In the halo of its silver light, she gathered her skirts and tunneled into the forest.
18
stay with me
The night had grown colder, winter’s teeth fully bared in the mid-December night. Sera scanned her surroundings. The winds wailed, and the trees shivered.
She blinked, needing clear eyes and a clear mind to find Mary, but the tears remained, multiplied. Through the cold, heat gathered in her cheeks, shame a weight heavy on her chest. She had to find her and explain. How would she explain it? There was no excuse. No way to hide it; she had seen his kiss with her own eyes. Surely she would know Timothy accompanied her to the dance only in order to be with Sera.
Sera’s heart tightened. Barrington’s betrayal had broken her, and now she’d inflicted that pain upon another. Mary would never bear it. She would lose her friend forever.
“Mary!” Sera shouted. How could she have single-handedly ruined all the good in her life? Her friendship with Mary, her agreement with Barrington? Her heart begged to escape, to run through the thickets, scale the gate, and flee the Academy. What was left for her here? Her chances at a referral had been destroyed along with her partnership with the only man who’d ever given her a chance to prove herself beyond a seventhborn. And now her only true friend was gone. Her breaths caught and broke in her chest. She couldn’t have ruined this, too. No, no, no.
She pushed through the dense brush. Things couldn’t end this way. She wouldn’t lose Mary, not without first apologizing. She hadn’t moved quickly enough to catch Barrington, but she would find Mary if it was the last thing she did.
She held out her wand, illuminating the spaces around her. “Mary!” The winds shifted and howled. Disturbed gaunt branches made shadows dance on the ground as if to scare her. But she trudged forward. Mary had come this way, and she wouldn’t turn back without her.
“Mary, please,” she yelled out into the darkness. “Tell me where you are so we can talk.” She whirled, hoping to catch sight of the girl or the light of her wand. The Academy spires were smaller than expected; she hadn’t noticed how far she’d run. Still, she ran deeper into the dark, her magic torchlight wavering. Roots tripped her. Barren branches sliced at her face and snatched at her dress as she dashed through dense thickets. She stumbled forward into a small meadow and spun wildly. “Tell me where you are! Mary!”
She expanded her light but found no trace of her friend. Only a deep, unnatural silence. Uneasiness squeezed her bones. “Mary?”
A masculine chuckle resounded from the dark between the trees. “She isn’t here.”
Sera tightened her grip on her wand. “Whittaker, I ha
ve no time for your nonsense.”
“Whittaker? No, he isn’t here, either. But we are.”
A robed figure emerged from the darkness. Sera spun slowly, watching more of them appear from behind the trees, one by one, their wands illuminated red. They wore black, beaked plague masks, and in their light, she caught sight of the emblem on their robes—ravens.
No…
Fear rushed to her limbs in a dizzying manner. Was he here? She eyed each man carefully. No, Noah wouldn’t ever use a mask. He was much too proud. Much too sadistic.
Instincts flared, and she aimed her wand at them. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned, her eyes darting at the figures as they spread about and encircled her. She would never escape. Accepting this, she held her wand steady. They wouldn’t take her alive. Not without a good fight. “I won’t go with you. I’ll never be your puppet.”
One of the robed figures stepped into the circle. “And how do you know this, witchling? Not even the Aetherium has caught on to us.” He lifted his wand to her swiftly. Shackles of magic whipped around her, scalding ropes of red. She screamed, fell back onto the damp grass, and writhed against the burn that cut through the fabric of her dress and into her skin. Blood seared as it seeped from gashes, wetting her skin. Her wand tumbled away from her, but even if she held it, no magic would come. Only pain. Eyes shut tight, she thrashed, struggled to evade the ache spreading over her skin, digging its claws into her pores. It was everywhere.
He lowered his wand, and the flow of his magic stopped. “There’s nothing to be scared of. The master is certain you will help us usher in a new era, and that’s a great purpose. You should be honored, seventhborn.” He held out a hand to her.
