At my knock, the lid swung open and I took out the papers I had spent the past few months sorting. A thrill ran through my body whenever I handled Mickelmas’s spells. The cracked scrolls and books bound in red and green leather, gold lettering still visible along their faded spines. There was a sense of home when I held them in my hands. It wasn’t simply because I was born a magician; books offered a sense of safety for me. Taking my papers, I slid the trunk back under the bed and went downstairs. The chair by the library fire was comfortable, and I knew I’d be reading for a while.
As I headed along the halls, I wished the grand house weren’t so silent, like a mausoleum. The Blackwoods’ London manor had tiled floors, high vaulted ceilings, pillars of gold-veined green marble, and stained-glass windows with the distant remove of a church. This wasn’t a place designed for cheer. Black velvet and green damask curtains muted whispers and shut out light. Portraits of starch-collared, disapproving ancestors from different eras of English history lined the walls. Every alcove displayed some chiseled bust or sorcerer relic. A stave that had belonged to Blackwood’s father rested on display in a glass case by one of the windows. The ivy carvings upon its length were typical for Blackwood sorcerers.
And me, apparently. My stave bore a similar design.
Entering the library, I found Blackwood seated on the sofa and Eliza, standing before him, her white forehead creased.
“But why should you speak with Aubrey Foxglove?” She played with a bit of lace at her skirt, a nervous gesture. In her cream gown, with her pale skin, rosy lips, and jet-black hair styled in a pretty chignon, she looked like a modern Snow White.
“Don’t fidget,” Blackwood said, smiling as he took her hand. “His family seat is in Ireland. You’ll be safe there.” It sounded as if he’d rehearsed this speech. I coughed to make my presence known, and Eliza waved me into the room.
“George and I are only talking.” Her tone sounded forcibly cheerful. I stood a bit awkwardly looking through my papers. Yes, very fascinating papers.
Eliza continued. “You can’t be serious about Foxglove. He’s ancient!”
“Forty-two,” Blackwood said, “and in good health.”
“You told me I’d have a say.” Eliza’s voice held a warning.
“You’ll be sixteen in less than three weeks.” Blackwood was pretending to be easy and careless about the whole thing, which was so painfully stilted that I winced. “It’s tradition to announce your engagement at your debut ball.”
God, yes. Eliza’s ball was going to be massive. The war might be raging outside, but the sorcerers must have their traditions, particularly the Blackwoods.
“I know that,” Eliza said, her voice tightening. “That’s not the problem. You said I could have a choice in the matter. My choice is: not Foxglove.” Eliza sounded matter-of-fact. “You may come to me with any other suitors you’d like.” Blackwood said nothing to that, which relaxed her further. “Now. May I still go to the assembly tomorrow? It’s only at Cornelia Berry’s house.”
“I won’t be able to take you, and you know the streets are dangerous.” But he was weakening already. No matter how hard he tried to be stern, Blackwood always bent to his sister’s will. At least, he bent a little bit. Eliza swept behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“I’ve been inside for three days. I’m so bored, George. Please? Please.” She pressed her cheek to his. Blackwood, already smiling, tapped her arm.
“Fine. I’ll arrange an escort.”
“I adore you.” She kissed the top of his head. “I’m off upstairs. Good night.” She came over to kiss my cheek. Blackwood stood and watched her leave the room.
“That’s not the last we’ll hear of Foxglove, is it?” I asked as I went to sit before the fire. Poor Eliza. All her privilege came at a price: doing whatever her father or, in this case, her brother told her to do. The thought of it made me ill.
“I don’t want to worry her about it. Not yet.” He sighed. I opened my papers to an interesting discussion of eighteenth-century magicians in pre-Revolutionary France. Blackwood took up one of the pages. He read it, then reread it, his face going blank. “These are from your magician’s chest, aren’t they?”
I cleared my throat. “They’re interesting. You should read some.”
“Whitechurch told you to stay away from these. Do you ever actually listen to your superiors?”
“Yes. When I think they’re right.”
He all but groaned. “Why can’t you read novels instead?”
“I’ve categorized everything by date. Come see.” Creating systems for things made me happy. When I was a little girl, I loved alphabetizing the Brimthorn library shelves. Sometimes, for a treat, I’d sort them by color. I’d tried to show Rook how fun it was, but he’d always fall to the floor and pretend to be dead.
Blackwood pinched the bridge of his nose. But then he sat on the sofa, his weight beside me a comfort.
“Do you think there’ll be anything to help us?”
“Any detail about R’hlem, no matter how insignificant, could give me something.” I turned a page. I would have dearly loved to stay on the Napoleonic Wars, but I needed to work fast.
“And what insignificant details are you looking for?”
“Any books I’ve read on the Ancients and their tactics came from sorcerer scholars. No one’s investigated magician theories in all of this.”
“Magicians don’t much care about the war.” Blackwood didn’t say it dismissively. “The Order made sure of that.”
Public use of magician craft had been banned in England for over a decade. Terrible things were done to those caught practicing. It was why I’d been so desperately afraid when Mickelmas revealed my magician heritage to me. “Then think. If I find something useful, it could change the Imperator’s mind about magicians.” I wasn’t holding my breath on that, but why not hope?
The door opened, and one of the footmen carried in a tray laden with an exquisite china set. He placed it on a table before us and poured steaming chocolate into two delicate cups. The scent warmed me at once, and—yes!—he’d even included a plate of fresh gingerbread. My favorite. Blackwood handed me a cup, looking pleased with himself.
“How did you know I’d be reading in here?” I immediately snatched up some of the gingerbread.
“You always read in the evenings. I know you too well.”
“Oh? I must be very dull.”
Blackwood considered this a moment. “No. I believe I like anticipating you.”
“Am I that easy to predict?” I blew on the chocolate and sipped.
“I like a good routine.” He was reading another of the papers intently and placed his hand on the sofa, brushing the edge of my dress. I moved myself a bit farther down the couch. He meant nothing by it, of course, but one could become too comfortable.
“Do you want to help me?” I had a large pile of papers to get through, after all. But Blackwood quickly put down what he was reading.
“I really shouldn’t involve myself.” He handed me the paper delicately, as though it would bite him. “But tell me if you find something.” He knelt on the floor to pick up some scattered pages. He got caught up in one of them—they were interesting, after all—and sat there quite at ease and informal. When I’d first met him, the idea of Blackwood sitting on the floor would have been a ridiculous one. What a difference a few months made.
“If I find anything important, you’ll be the first person I tell,” I said.
“Good,” he replied. He gazed back into the fire, a distant expression on his face.
“What is it?” I asked. He shook his head.
“It’s nothing. Read as long as you’d like.” He was on his feet with a speed and grace that bordered on feline, and was gone.
The only sound in the room was a log snapping in the hearth as an hour crept by. I ate the gingerbread, careful not to get crumbs everywhere, and read until my eyes were blurry.
For the next two days, that w
as my routine. Wake, train with Valens, patrol the barrier when it was my turn, and in the evening read in the library. I went painstakingly through every scrap of paper, but while they were fascinating, they were also fundamentally useless.
The magical trunk regurgitated the oddest bits and bobs. I found a tin soldier that turned into a living caterpillar when touched. There was a powder that made my skin itch and turn green, twenty empty snuffboxes, and a tiny hand mirror with what appeared to be a crystallized thumbprint in the center. When I touched the print, for two seconds I had the most intense flash of an image: a young girl, approximately my age, with dark skin and beautiful bright eyes. She smiled in a pink silk gown. The image vanished when I dropped the mirror in surprise.
Indeed, Mickelmas had millions of secrets.
Stories of famous and irascible magicians filled the pages of his books; histories of the great Washing Tub War of 1745, in which two magicians, Esther Holloway and Tobias Small, engaged in a duel to see who could scrub all the linen in London by magic alone. There were mentions of Ralph Strangewayes, the founder of English magicianship, and his wild abilities to summon beasts from the air and bring forth gold from the ground.
When it came to the Ancients’ war, though, only the standard order of events could be found: Mickelmas and Willoughby (and Blackwood’s father, Charles, but no books contained that piece of information) opened a tear in reality twelve years ago. R’hlem and his creatures came through that tear. Even after all this time, little was known of R’hlem himself. His powers included the ability to rip all the flesh from someone’s bones with nary a thought, and he clearly had some other psychic abilities—I had met him on the magicians’ astral plane, after all. But suppose he had other powers, ones he had not yet shown to us all? Our knowledge of him was so sketchy, even compared to how little we knew of the other Ancients.
On the third night of reading well past the time I should have been asleep, I was growing frustrated with myself. The fire was low, and my temples throbbed. I rubbed my eyes before standing to stretch, my corset pinching me in the ribs.
I should go up to Lilly soon and prepare for bed. It wouldn’t do to keep her waiting too long.
But I couldn’t help looking back at one of the pictures of R’hlem’s victims. I’d stumbled upon a rather grisly description of how he liked to skin people. He started with the hands, ripping the flesh away while the poor bastard watched himself being flayed alive. I imagined myself screaming as he peeled me like an orange.
The door creaked open. My fingers burst into flame on instinct.
“Henrietta?” Rook came to me, cap in his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Groaning, I put my fire out and flung my arms around him, my heart hammering. “I was just scaring myself. I’m very good at it,” I muttered. Rook squeezed me back. For one sweet moment I didn’t think about monsters. Rook released me, taking a polite step away.
Again, always the image of politeness. Sighing, I grabbed the book I’d been reading from off the floor.
“I was afraid I’d miss seeing you,” he said, stepping toward me again. This was our dance now: he would move near, and then shy away like a colt. Frustration churned inside me.
Perhaps all he needed was a little encouragement? But I didn’t even know how to begin. Flutter my eyelashes? Pretend to trip and get him to catch me? Somehow that didn’t seem like, well, us.
“How was your day?” I asked, feeling stiff and awkward. “Were the horses happy to see you?” Lord, what kinds of stables were open this late at night?
“Very happy.” He laughed, passing a hand through his golden hair. “They all insisted on an extra handful of oats.”
“You spoil them.” I drew a little closer, and he let me. Yes, that was much better.
“I’m happy to have the work.” His mouth tightened. He hated living off Blackwood’s charity. In the first days after he’d nearly died, he’d kept trying to get out of bed so he could march outside and begin looking for a job. “And you?” he asked, his expression softening.
“It’s been the most beastly day,” I murmured.
“Still reading, then.” He took the book from me and flipped through the pages. “You think there’s a way to stop the Skinless Man in here? Truly?”
“Do stay quiet about it,” I said, blushing. “I don’t want word spreading.”
“No one will know.” He caught my hand. There was a hard light in his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. “I still don’t understand why R’hlem wants you.”
Gently, I released myself and sat on the sofa. “It’s a way to show the people the sorcerers can’t even protect their great ‘chosen one.’ ” My eyes rolled inadvertently whenever I said those stupid words. “Who knows? Perhaps he thinks I can do something for him.”
“He’ll never have you.” Rook sat beside me, his cap bunched in his hands.
“Of course he won’t. I’m notoriously difficult to catch,” I said lightly. That made him smile.
“You recall when we were thirteen, and your powers had just shown themselves? The things we had to do to hide them from Colegrind?”
God, the days when I’d set fire to just about anything. “When I scorched his parlor drapes?”
Rook smiled. “When you set fire to the rhododendron in the garden.” He looked rather proud. “I convinced Colegrind it was an exploding bird. ‘An act of God,’ he said.”
I pictured the pompous expression on our old headmaster’s face and burst into a giggling fit. Rook and I drew nearer. If I reached out my hand, I could touch him. Turning my head, I looked up into Rook’s eyes.
His black eyes. The sight of them made me shudder. They had once been a pale blue, but the color had shifted. Part of his gift from Korozoth. Part of his transformation. Fenswick and I had slowed it with our studies and potions, but we could contain it only so long.
Rook said, “I helped you then, and I can help you now. I could use my powers to protect you.” His hand covered my own. My heart leaped as I watched the fire’s glow play over his face, the strong line of his jaw.
I wanted to make some teasing comment, but the firelight began to die. Shadows slunk from the corner to play about our feet. Instantly, I pulled away from Rook, and the darkness vanished. He stood, cursing softly.
“We can’t play with your powers until we know how they’ll be received,” I said. Though I knew how the sorcerers would receive them; we both did.
“Of course,” he said, his tone distant.
“One day the war will be over. We’ll be free.” I got up and went beside him.
“One day,” he echoed. He touched me, only a hand on my waist. “Henrietta,” he whispered, sending a thrill down my back. And then, his black eyes searching mine, he leaned closer. Closer still.
He wasn’t going to stop.
Trying not to tremble, I slid my hand up his shoulder, tilted my head back…until he twisted away with a thick and bloody cough. Heart sinking, I watched as the shadows slithered toward Rook’s feet.
“Help,” he whispered, turning back to me. His eyes had gone full black, shining and depthless.
“Drink this down,” Fenswick said, handing Rook a wooden cup filled with a steaming liquid. The hobgoblin doctor took up Rook’s wrist and felt it, tapping his clawed finger to mark the pulse.
I’d brought Rook to the hobgoblin’s apothecary, at the very top of the house. The room was under a sloped wooden eave, loops of garlic and bunches of dried flowers hanging from the rafters. A small stove squatted in the corner, unwashed copper pots strewn about it. Pewter bowls and wooden pestles, covered in pollen and rose paste, were littered across a long wooden table. The place was homey and comfortable, not at all where one would expect to find a rabbit-eared, bat-nosed little hobgoblin in fashionable trousers.
Rook rolled his sleeve down. His face still looked a bit green.
“Should I be worried? I’ve had more control,” Rook said. I winced. Fenswick and I knew that gaining more control
was a bad sign. Rook’s body was accepting his abilities. He was changing.
When I’d helped him through the dark house below, his arm slung about my shoulder, I had prayed that no one would see as the shadows had flared and rustled. They’d caught at my skirt with inky hands as I’d helped Rook up one painful step after another. Every day they grew stronger.
“No need to worry right now,” Fenswick lied smoothly. My stomach knotted. “Get some rest.”
“I’m sorry,” Rook said to me. “I hate that you had to see such things.”
“I don’t care.” It was the truth; I didn’t give a damn about his powers. I only cared about him. I wanted my Rook back. Gently, I put my hand on his cheek. His skin was hot to the touch. Rook squeezed my wrist, kissing my fingers quickly. My body thrilled for a brief instant, and then he stood.
“Good night, Doctor. Thank you,” he said, and left. Fenswick approached me. He wanted to talk, and I guessed the subject.
Avoiding his gaze, I picked up one of the pestles for grinding herbs. It was still covered with yellow powder—he’d been mixing dandelion root. It was supposed to help suppress infection.
“I’m afraid he’s getting worse,” Fenswick said. Worse. As though this were some cold, or a chill that was mildly dangerous. Worse didn’t seem the right word for a boy who had shadows at his beck and call. A faint buzzing started in my ears. I dropped the pestle, which hit the table with a hard thunk.
Rook was being swallowed by darkness, and I hadn’t done a damned thing to help him.
“What about that mugwort extract? If it’s purified and honeyed, it’s supposed to be very effective.” I’d finally found that damned recipe after tearing through every one of the Blackwoods’ botany books I could lay hands on, and even then it had been in Latin. I’d had to double-check my translation.
“We’ve gone through every tome on herbalism I know,” Fenswick grumped. “We’ve even used forbidden practices from Faerie. Do you know how hard it was to get powdered bat eyeballs?”
A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire, Book Two) Page 3
