by Katie Cross
“I’m going north with Nan,” she said again, as if convincing herself. “Da too, although he plans to come back. Not all the gypsies want to leave yet, but Nan is determined, and we have to keep her safe.”
“There will be no safe place when the West attacks.” I turned away, staring out at the sea of burned rubble. An abandoned doll lay in the wreckage, her porcelain face half-burned. “Not anywhere.”
“Our home is much safer than here,” she insisted, her jaw set. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you going to do if there is a war?”
I glanced at the burned remains of the streets of Chatham City and wondered the same thing.
“I’ll fight.”
We continued down the street without another word.
The Chatterer Archives
“We’ve convinced most of the gypsies to stay for now,” Marten said when I stumbled, bleary-eyed, into his office the next morning. “Barely. One more event and I can’t say we’ll be able to hold onto them. An entire contingent of Guardians and two Protectors will live amongst them in plain clothing for the time being, and two more Protectors have been assigned to find Angelina. Somehow she continues to evade us.”
The firm, dubious expression that had been on Jackie’s face replayed itself in my mind. “Will it be enough to keep them here?”
“Let’s hope.”
“Do you think the Factios attacks are linked to the Western or Southern Networks?” I asked, recalling vapid moments of my dream when I’d seen the fire descend on the city and heard Angelina’s voice. Marten’s forehead furrowed in thought.
“What do you mean?”
I swallowed. “Angelina. What if Angelina is controlling more than just the Factios?”
Marten seemed to think it over. “It would make sense. If she truly wants a war, the way she seems to, just focusing on the Central Network would be short-sighted.”
No, I wanted to say. I’m worried she’s focusing on me also.
“The fire was strange, wasn’t it?” I asked. “It wasn’t just fire. It was oppressive and … dark. We couldn’t do any magic near it, like the fire just absorbed our attempts. I’ve never heard of that before.”
He eyed me with a strange gaze, but the trickle of curiosity behind it spurred me on. “What are you getting at?”
“What if … what if all this strange magic that’s happening, the oppressive fire, the explosive potion bottles the Factios threw at the gypsies … what if it’s Almorran magic given to them by Angelina? What if we are too late and Angelina already has the Book of Spells?”
A moment of panic whipped through Marten’s eyes, but he calmed immediately. “I suppose it’s possible. But none of those things can be proven to be Almorran, let alone from the Book of Spells. There are many ancient magics that any witch could draw from to harm us.”
“But not Clavas.”
“No, Clavas are Almorran, but Mabel used those, not Angelina. The magic she’s using could be anything.”
“How would we know it’s not Almorran if we don’t know Almorran magic at all?”
“It’s something to think about,” Marten conceded. “Although we don’t know that the Book of Spells has been found.”
“We don’t know it hasn’t.”
“True. But until it’s confirmed, we must keep looking. We can at least assume that Miss Mabel didn’t have the book last summer when you heard her and Angelina discussing the need to find it.”
“Assuming the book they spoke of was the Book of Spells.”
He fell into deeper thought. “You make several good points, Bianca. Well done. Spoken like a true Ambassador.”
I think Angelina is giving me dreams, I wanted to add, but bit my bottom lip. That addition would surely degrade any credibility my theory had garnered, and I didn’t want him to lose the surge of pride in his tone.
“Thanks.”
“Regardless,” Marten said, “I had an idea the other day regarding the Book of Spells, so I wanted to follow up on it. We don’t have a lot of time to search as we have a meeting with Border Guards in the Eastern Covens at noon, but we’ll take a look. Transport to the Chatterer archives. I’ll meet you there.”
I obeyed, grateful to leave the subject of Angelina behind for a while, even if it meant turning to the bleaker prospect of the seemingly fruitless search for the Book of Spells.
The witches that worked in the Chatham Chatterer archives rustled in the background of the old building with as much enthusiasm as a listless tree. Judging by the sheer amount of dust moving around the place, not very many witches came through anymore. Except for the two workers, I observed no other signs of life.
The Chatham Chatterer newsscroll updated itself every day, or sometimes every hour or two, leaving no trace of previous articles—a vexing issue in itself when you really liked one but then couldn’t find it ten minutes later. Fortunately, the article didn’t disappear entirely. An archive existed in a small town outside of the Chatham City limits, protected from fire, theft, or water by complex incantations. The archives housed every article ever published in the Chatterer.
“These are the shelves of articles written during the Dark Days,” Marten said, motioning to an entire row of journals as we walked past. “This is where I want to look.”
Any mention of the Dark Days piqued my interest. A lack of finger marks in the thick layer of dust indicated witches showed little interest in these particularly thick journals.
“What are we looking for?” I asked when he pulled a collection off the shelf.
“I remember rumors about the Book of Spells circulating when I was just a Captain of the Guards, around the time I met Mildred. I wanted to look into it again.”
He flipped the book open, skimming slowly enough for me to catch a few of the headlines. Riots in Newberry. Disease in Chatham City.
“It certainly was a frightening time, wasn’t it?” I murmured, tracking the horrid details through the articles. Grandmother had spoken of it with the same token of reverent fear. My stomach clenched just thinking about it. Weren’t we on the verge of something just as horrific? Perhaps more so.
“It was a frightening time,” Marten said, “but Mildred brought it out of the ashes beautifully. She gave the Central Network new life.”
He replaced the tome and ran his hand along the spines of the others as if he knew them by feel. Finding the one he wanted, he pulled it from the shelves. It was as hefty as the first. He handed it to me and shuffled to the side, seeking another. Once he found it, he balanced it in the crook of his arm and left the stacks.
One lone witch sat at a circular table on the other side of the room, sipping something from a silver teacup and poring over a book. We moved to a larger table where both of us could clutter the space.
“Start skimming,” he said. “Look for anything on the Book of Spells.”
Not only did the Chatterer archives include every article ever published, it included the ads as well. In my perusal, I passed notices for new caramels at Miss Holly’s Candy Shop, a potion to treat nail fungus, and a new style of wool capes. Glimpses of history waited in the archives for someone to care about them again.
“Here’s a report,” Marten said thirty minutes later, tapping on his book. “But it only claims an Almorran spell was used, not the book itself, and it looks like the witch was drunk.”
“Sounds like another dead end,” I murmured, skimming past hair potion ads when a familiar word caught my eye.
Almorran.
I stopped and read back.
Almorran Book of Spells in the Southern Covens?
“Here’s one,” I said, turning the book so both of us could read.
The Almorran Book of Spells, reputed to still exist thousands of years after the evil Almorran race of witches was completely wiped out, has reputedly been stolen from a poor farmer in the Southern Covens.
Willard Stacey, an illiterate witch in the farming village of Ellswor
th, stirred up a ruckus two years ago when he first claimed he’d found the book of dark magic in the floor of his kitchen. Willard recently came forward again this week saying that someone had bewitched him and stolen it months ago. He states he’s very “concerned that it’s back out in the world with no one to stop whoever stole it,” though he can’t recall the thief, nor when exactly it was stolen. His nine-year-old son, a witness to the event, confirms his father’s testimony but refuses to speak on the details of the matter.
Dougall McKenzie, Coven Leader over Ellsworth in the Southern Covens where Stacey resides, states, “Willard is occasionally delusional and prone to drink. The only thing that’s been stolen is precious time from the witches of this community.”
The Network authorities have no comment.
I glanced at Marten in disbelief. “Is this it?” I asked. “The one you remember?”
He nodded. “That’s the one,” he said, his shoulders slouching in disappointment. “I remember reading it when it first came out. Poor Willard Stacey was ruined for the rest of his life.”
I skimmed the article again. Something in the words rang a bell in my head. I stopped reading to stare at a blank spot on the page.
Southern Covens.
“Marten,” I said, my voice sounding distant and strange. “I don’t think he was lying. In Mildred’s Resistance, Mabel’s grandmother May said in a letter that she went to the Southern Covens on a business trip once. What if the timing coincides? What if May took the book?”
“I’m sure May had a lot of business meetings throughout the Network. She ran the most prosperous Network school.”
“She ran a school, not a thrift store. Why would she travel to the Southern Covens?”
“Meet with a prospective student?”
“So far south?”
“May stealing the Book of Spells from this random witch is a big stretch. Not to mention a poor farmer finding the most powerful book of black magic in his floorboards?”
“Let’s just say that it was the Book of Spells,” I said patiently. “Wouldn’t it make sense that May would go after every rumor in the hopes of finding it, just like we are? May was trying to take over Antebellum, wasn’t she? Even Mildred suspected the Book of Spells back then and before she died.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “It may be a lead. At the very least, we can check it out and see if it is.”
The pages of the book whirred under his thumb and finally stopped.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a new article. “Willard Stacey died shortly after all this mess. Says it was from a deranged mind.”
He slid his book over the top of the table to me, his finger on a small article at the bottom.
Famed Farmer Willard Stacey Dies from Madness.
A suspicious feeling in my gut told me that Willard had been telling the truth—at least as far as he knew it to be true—and that the witch who had taken the Book of Spells from him was none other than May, the vile grandmother of my teacher. If true, that meant Angelina or Miss Mabel could have inherited the book on May’s death. Which meant that Marten and I had wasted eight months searching for something that had already been found.
And a powerful book of magic lay in the hands of a witch who sought to destroy the Central Network.
“Have any serious rumors of it popped up since then?” I asked.
“Not that I’ve heard.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
Oh, it meant something, all right. But I’d need proof to convince Papa and the others. “The article mentions a son. Can I see if his son is still there? I’ll feel better about it if I could just talk to him.”
Marten hesitated. “I suppose we have to follow every rumor to the end, don’t we? I don’t see any inherent danger that your father would disapprove of … it’s fine,” he said with a nod. “Go tomorrow morning and report back before lunch. No longer. We need to check the Borderlands tomorrow to make sure the West Guards aren’t sneaking up on us.”
Bartie Stacey
I left for the Southern Covens as soon as I finished scarfing down breakfast the next morning. After a quick kiss for Papa, who’d been studying a map of the Network borders all morning, I transported to Ellsworth at the heart of the Southern Covens.
The slow-moving Southern Covens were full of heart. The residents cut and stored ice in the winter, packing it in thick sheds of sawdust to send north. Chatham Castle would buy the ice throughout the year for parties, balls, and medicinal use. The richest witches in Ashleigh City bought it for ice sculptures and cooling down in the summer. For the rest of the year, when the freshwater lakes weren’t two feet thick in ice, the Southern Covens’ witches chopped wood and lived off of small family farms in the midst of Letum Wood.
When I arrived, wearing a heavy cloak lined with velvet and fur, Ellsworth seemed to have been forgotten. Only half the stores were open, and piles of snow littered the road. No doubt most witches were out on the ice. Unfortunately, my presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. In a world where everyone knew everyone, an unknown witch in leather shoes strolling down the dirt road drew too much attention. I ignored the eyes that watched my every step and approached a blacksmith. He was a scrawny man, wiry from years of hard work, but strong through the shoulders, with massive forearms. He regarded me through lidded eyes, a tuft of brown hair wafting from underneath his hat.
“What?” he barked.
“I’m looking for the son of Willard Stacey,” I called, hovering in the doorway. “Do you know him?”
The blacksmith pulled a white-hot iron from the heart of the fire and dipped it into a cauldron of water. It hissed and sizzled, small droplets bouncing off the top of the water around it.
“So what if I do?”
“I’d like to speak with him.”
“What if he doesn’t want to speak with you?” he replied, going about his business as if I wasn’t there.
“I’d say that’s a conclusion he should come to himself.”
The blacksmith glanced up, studied me, and snorted. Not without some amusement, to my relief.
“His name is Bartie. If you want to speak with him, he’s an hour walk down the road. His farmhouse is on the right. Small wooden building with a barn in back.”
“Thank you,” I said gratefully. He nodded, sifting through a gamut of black tools that lay before him, not seeming to notice when I slipped away. Once out of sight of the sad little town, I began to run. The movement warmed me as I headed down the snow-packed road, noting every house I passed. Very few children played outside, making it seem stark and barren.
Bartie Stacey’s farmhouse appeared before half an hour had passed, thanks to my quick pace. It had been far too long since I’d pushed myself for speed. Running on trails meant I sacrificed speed for safety so I didn’t trip over rocks or roots. At the farmhouse, failing shutters hung from the windows, and chipped red paint peeled like dry skin from the walls. A few chickens scattered when I walked up the dirt path from the road. I stopped when a dog growled at me.
“Bartie?” I called. The dog stood up, nose in the air, chest rumbling. “Mr. Stacey?”
A flash in an upper window caught my eye. Within moments, a spiny figure appeared in the door.
“What?”
“Are you Willard Stacey’s son, Bartie?”
He hesitated, lingering in the dark shadows so I couldn’t make him out. “So what if I am?”
“I’d like to talk to you about your father and the Book of Spells.”
“Do you now?” he asked in a low drawl.
“Yes.”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “It’s been a while since we’ve heard from the likes of you.”
My forehead wrinkled over my eyes. “The likes of me?”
“Witches wanting to come poke fun at Pops. Destroying the good name of Stacey. Pops wasn’t crazy. He didn’t lose a shred of sanity in all his short days.”
“On the contrary,” I said, wonderi
ng if this had been the best idea. “I think your father was telling the truth.”
Bartie hesitated before shuffling forward, moving closer to the light. I caught a glimpse of deep-set eyes in a stubborn face. Definitely a farmer, I thought. It seemed like farmers all had the same earthy look, as if the soil had become part of their personalities.
“Searching for the book yourself?” he asked.
My “yes” faltered on my lips. He was testing me; I could tell from the gleam in his calm face. No doubt others, with more sinister intent than I, had come to find the truth behind the rumors. I sensed he’d turn me away in a heartbeat if he suspected I wanted the book—regardless of the purity of my intent—and I’d lose my chance.
“Not exactly,” I said, honestly. “I came to ask more about the witch who took it from your father.”
He tilted his head back, as if that helped him judge my character. A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the cluck of the chickens. I waited for him to proceed.
“Come in,” he finally said, evaporating into the darkness. The dog followed him, and so did I.
I sat with Bartie at a table barely big enough for both of us, in a house filled with useless trinkets and moths. Most of the wooden walls, some of which suffered the growth of a dark mold along the top, remained bare. Bartie brought an old iron kettle over from the fire and poured me a cup of hot water.
“I don’t have any tea,” he said without apology. “But hot water is as good as cold water on a chilly day like this.”
I managed a polite nod. I’d drink bitter herbs if he’d give me information about Mabel’s grandmother, May. Bartie was a lean man, with elbows sticking out of knobby arms, large knuckles, and defined cheekbones. He sported an unkempt mop of grayish brown hair that hadn’t been cut in a few months.
“Will you tell me about your father?” I asked.
Bartie sipped his water, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “He was a quiet man that lived his life and minded his own business. He certainly didn’t like all the attention that the Book of Spells gave him.”
