by Rosalyn Eves
“My dear Miss Arden, you have no choice.”
I looked at Grandmama, who shrugged sadly. Herr Steinberg plucked up my hand and slid the ring on my smallest finger. It hung on my hand like a tumor.
The wind frolicked down Kerepesi Street like an untrained vizsla puppy—it pushed its impudent nose at my skirts, tugged at my hair, and then darted off for long moments before returning to pummel me. The first leaves of autumn danced down the street before us. Buda-Pest in fall was much like a piece of music played on a cello: sweet, mellow, restful, but with unaccountable hints of melancholy.
It was good to be out, striding down the street with a purpose. William had invited Mátyás to his workshop, and Mátyás had extended the invitation to Gábor and me. It had been nearly a fortnight since my foray into the Binding, a week since Herr Steinberg put the spelled ring on me. I had spent the time mostly hiding, alternating between Grandmama’s drawing rooms and the shops in Váci Street, debating the merits of lace versus ribbon for my new dress, as though I were only an ordinary girl who wanted ordinary things. If the Circle was determined to watch me, I would bore them into inattention. I tried, once, to break the spell on the ring, but all I had won for my efforts was a pounding headache and blistered skin beneath the ring. Pál must have spelled it particularly to resist me.
I had heard nothing from Lady Berri.
Gábor had charmed us before leaving the house, a Romani casting that drew shadows to us and turned away attention.
“Won’t the ring register your spell?” I asked. If the Circle caught us casting a spell to go unnoticed, that would draw their attention far more effectively than doing nothing.
“I doubt it,” Mátyás said. “It’s not a Luminate spell. Probably the Circle doesn’t think anything else counts as magic.”
“Persuasion, not force,” Gábor reminded me. “There’s no ritual for the ring to recognize.”
I was tired of shutting myself up in the house, so I let myself be convinced.
Before me, Mátyás whistled tunelessly, his arms swaying with his long-limbed gait. Gábor walked beside me, close enough for his fingers to brush mine every few steps. With each grazing touch, warm prickles shot up my arm and into my stomach. But he did not look at me, and I could not tell if the contact was accidental or intended.
“Miss Arden, I have wanted to talk with you,” he said, speaking low so Mátyás would not overhear. My heart thumped. I wondered, for a wild, hopeful moment, if he meant to say something of his feelings for me.
“I am sorry for what happened. The Circle forcing their will on you must be intolerable,” he continued, and I blushed at my own foolishness. Now he did look at me, or rather, at the ring currently making an unsightly lump beneath my gloves. “But if this impels you to abandon a destructive path, it can only be a good thing.”
I stared at him. “It is a good thing to be trapped? To have someone else dictate your actions?”
He met my gaze evenly. “It is never good to be bound by rules not of your making. Any Romani could tell you that. But we still have choices. We can choose safety. Family. Life. You do not have to break the Binding. We can find other ways to create change.”
“And this revolution you plan, this is safe?”
“I am not a revolutionary. I want change, a society where Romani voices have a chance to be heard—something that will never happen so long as the Circle and the Hapsburgs rule together. I would prefer diplomacy, but I will fight if it comes to it. Change is never without cost.”
Ahead of us, Mátyás stopped to speak with an acquaintance. We paused a half dozen paces behind him.
I could have stomped my foot with frustration. With Herr Steinberg’s ring effectively preventing me from doing anything, Gábor’s arguments were particularly provoking. “You think I do not know that? Of course breaking the Binding is a risk—but I believe the risk is worth it for the change it will bring.”
He pressed his lips together, a dark flush staining his cheeks. “You don’t know what you risk. You can’t calculate its cost.”
A tremor of disquiet passed through me. I believed what I said. And yet—I could not be entirely sure how much of the certainty was my own, how much drawn from my lingering need to return to the world of the spell. I knew that Gábor would pounce on any sign of doubt, so I covered it over with anger.
“Then tell me! Don’t make vague allusions to a disastrous future. Respect me enough to assume I am an intelligent creature.” I could not bear it if Gábor patronized me as Freddy had. “You say there may be monsters. Have any of your people seen these creatures? Do they know?” Gábor had not seen the world of the Binding, as I had: the creatures of light, the dancing, and the laughter. Whatever I was releasing, it was not the destruction he feared.
“No,” he admitted. “But there may be other effects. The magic from the spell must go somewhere. Surely you haven’t forgotten what happened to my niece? Or to you, for that matter. Mátyás says you were unconscious for days after Sárvár.”
My words strangled in my throat. I had not forgotten. “Is your niece all right? Was it…was it truly her soul I pulled into the talisman?”
“She’s growing. But it’s early yet to know about her soul. My grandmother says it is.”
My fist closed around a handful of fabric from my skirt. I could not undo what had happened to Gábor’s niece. But I could—I hoped—make the world she grew up in easier for her. In any case, the situations were not the same. I had broken Noémi’s spell as she cast it, and the spell at Sárvár had been corrupted. The Binding spell was already cast. Its breaking would not be like the others. “Surely Lady Berri or Papa would have warned me if they feared that breaking the Binding would release destructive magic.”
Gábor shook his head. “I’m not sure they see past their own interest.”
“Lady Berri, perhaps, but not my father. Please,” I begged, “trust me to make the right decision as I trust you.”
“I care about you, Anna.” Gábor’s voice was pitched so low I strained to hear it. He glanced at Mátyás, but my cousin was still deep in conversation, oblivious to our exchange. “But I am afraid to trust you in this. I could not bear it if you were hurt.”
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Something tremendous hung in the balance between us, something fragile as glass and poised to shatter.
“Please,” he echoed my plea. “Do not break the Binding.” Lower still, “You will break my heart.”
Words hammered against my throat, words of longing, words that could frame the way my pulse beat so sharp and hard when he spoke to me.
But I could not give him the promise he wanted. If a way could be found around Herr Steinberg’s spell, I would break the Binding. I had not come to my decision lightly, and I would not be one of those women who remade herself and her beliefs for the attention of a man, even for Gábor. He would have to love me for myself—or not at all.
Mátyás’s friend moved on, and Mátyás filled the remaining distance to William’s workshop with harmless chatter. His noise covered the sharp-edged quiet that had fallen between Gábor and me, for which I was grateful. Gábor had taken my silence for answer and pulled away from me, his face pale and his lips set.
There was no more accidental brushing of hands. Despite my brave thoughts, not at all loomed as a terribly real and bleak prospect.
In Gábor’s silences I heard what he did not say: so long as the Binding remained intact, so long as the Circle governed society, there was no place in the world for a Romani and a lady to be together. But if I broke the Binding, I would lose him just the same.
It was a false choice. I was damned either way.
At length, Mátyás halted before an empty lot full of weeds and wind-blown leaflets. I frowned, confused, until he stepped forward and knocked three times on a door that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Only then did I see the large, unornamented building attached to the door. The structure looked sturdy, but bore signs of neglect in the boarde
d-up windows and weed-choked walkway.
I heard footsteps, then the sound of someone struggling with a lock. After a moment of fumbling, William flung the door open. “Welcome!” He cast a swift glance down the street, and then shut the door behind us and locked it. “There’s a warrant out for my arrest,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve a Hiding spell on the building, but that only works as long as the police don’t know what they’re looking for.”
He led us into a narrow, well-lit room bearing witness to its dual use as an office and living area. A small stove stood in one corner, opposite an unmade bed. In between, every available surface area was layered with drawings and papers so covered in scribbled notations they appeared to be bleeding ink. We forged onward, emerging into a vast, high-ceilinged room beyond the living quarters. I gasped.
Looming over us, metal sculptures in various stages of completion filled the room. Those closest to us resembled fantastic creatures: a manlike figure with four arms and delicate horns curling from his skull; a creature that was all trunk, with a small face—mostly eyes—perched atop a great cage of a body, underslung by two sets of wheels. Another sculpture appeared to be a woman, the hammered planes of her face alien and beautiful at the same time. Her hair, made of tiny, jointed arms, reminded me of a medusa.
“What are they?” I asked. “They’re beautiful.”
William grinned. “My secret weapon. You are the first—and so far, the only—to see them. Some men fight with weapons, some with magic. I fight with machines. Well, and a bit of magic. A man can stand inside each of these figures, protected from gunshot and anything other than direct cannon fire. I’ve improved the firing range and accuracy on the weapons built into these machines too.”
“They’re incredible.” They truly were—intricate form married to deadly function.
William thrust one freckled hand through his hair. “The Bourbons are slaughtering Italian revolutionaries in Palermo. They’ve summoned the Circle, and the Circle has infiltrated the people’s army. The Animanti go invisible behind enemy lines to tamper with their weapons and poison their food supply. They set flocks of ravens and starlings on them, spooking the men, blocking their guns. The Lucifera spoil the aim of their artillery and swallow entire cannons with the ground. The Circle uses Elementalist illusions to terrify the fighters and Coremancers to amplify their fear. The same will happen here, unless we have tools to fight.”
“That won’t happen here,” Mátyás said firmly. “Your machines will help—and you know there are those among us who are the equal of any Circle member in power and ability.”
“Fighting isn’t the only way to change,” Gábor said.
“Of course not. Perhaps Kossuth will succeed in Vienna in persuading the Hapsburg government to grant independence to Hungary and Poland and Bohemia. But I find it unlikely, and we must be prepared to state our case more strongly.” William turned to me, grasping one of my hands in his. His thin fingers were surprisingly strong. “Anna. What news of the Binding?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid.” I tugged off my glove to show him the ring and explained.
“That is unfortunate. But we shan’t let it stop us from fighting if we must.”
I replaced my glove. “Shall you succeed, with the Circle drawing on the full strength of the Binding?”
William didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
I knew that the Austrian Circle was unlikely to let Hungary go, even with the shrewdest diplomacy. Hungary was too big, too important to their empire. But an outright rebellion was a poor alternative. The students would be slaughtered. Already, I could see them: Gábor and Mátyás and the others from the café, strewn across the streets of the city like autumn leaves, bloody and broken.
Heat sparked inside me. If I could only find my way around Herr Steinberg’s ring, I could break the Binding and undermine the Circle’s power, giving my friends a chance to make their case with minimal fighting. I would not let the Circle’s threats dictate my actions.
I had to speak with Lady Berri. There must be some method of circumventing the ring’s restrictions.
We took a hansom cab from William’s workshop to Café Pilvax to celebrate the completion of William’s mechanical warriors. Before leaving, William cast a minor illusion to darken his bright hair and prematurely age his face, should anyone be watching for him.
To my delight, my new friend Karolina was at the café. While Gábor, William, and Mátyás joined Petőfi and the other students to debate accounts of the revolution in Italy, Karolina and I enjoyed a wide-ranging discussion involving the new play at the Hungarian national theater, the unexpected beauties of the Hanság, even fashion. When it came time to leave, shortly after Karolina’s departure, I had successfully put aside the gnawing worry about the Binding, the swirling uncertainty of revolution.
The street outside was quiet, only a handful of carriages rattling down neighboring roads and a scattering of pedestrians before us. The wind had died down.
Abruptly, shouting rent the air. A cluster of young men tumbled out of a nearby kocsma, fists raised high in the air. I could not make out what they were crying, but I saw Mátyás tense.
“What is it?”
“Croats,” Mátyás said, his eyes fixed on the young men in front of us. They were mostly thin and dark-complexioned, their black eyes flashing in the half light of the overcast day.
“Szabadság!” one cried, throwing his arms wide. Freedom. “Let us govern ourselves!”
Others shouted words in a language I didn’t recognize.
“We should leave,” Gábor said.
“Why are they so angry?” I asked.
“They want independent standing in the empire; they are tired of being considered part of Hungary.” Mátyás said this without a trace of irony. Did he not see that the Croats were only echoing the Hungarians’ own cry?
Students tumbled from the café behind us, drawn by the shouting.
“Hungary for Hungarians!” A young man with blond curls and a loosely tied red cravat ran into the street, coming to a halt just before the Croats.
One of the Croat boys spat in his face. The blond youth erupted toward him, fists swinging. Mátyás started for them.
“Mátyás, don’t,” Gábor warned. “We can’t be involved in this.”
At once, there were young men fighting everywhere. A student flew past me, crashing against the brick wall to my right, the soft felt hat favored by the radicals tumbling to the ground. He slumped down to the pavement, and I winced in sympathy. He blinked at me, dazed.
A Croat boy charged toward us, and Mátyás pushed him away. The boy snarled and shoved a fist in Mátyás’s face.
I scarce had time to wonder if Mátyás was all right when something—an elbow?—slammed into my cheek, and I stumbled back, my left ear ringing. Gábor cursed and swung me behind him. “Fools.”
Gábor hurried me around the corner. When the shouting had receded behind us, he probed the injury on my cheek. “Does it hurt much? We’re not far from the hospital.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” I wished, stupidly, that my wound were more severe, so his hands would linger.
Mátyás peered over Gábor’s shoulder at my face, wiping the blood dripping from his nose on his sleeve. “You’ll not want to go about for a day or two.”
“Me?” I asked, looking at the blood now smeared on his cheek.
“You’re going to have a black eye.”
I tried to imagine Grandmama’s reaction to that, when Gábor grasped my hand. “Move,” he said. “Soldiers.”
Flickers of blue and red flashed in the street beyond, followed by the thudding sounds of students fleeing. I hoped William got away safely.
“They’re making arrests. Go!”
Between Mátyás’s face and my already-swelling eye, it might be difficult to prove our innocence. Gábor took my arm, and we followed Mátyás as swiftly as my cumbersome skirts allowed.
When I got home, I snuck upstairs to my room and fo
und a crisp card with Lady Berri’s sprawling signature lying on my pillow. I assumed Ginny had smuggled it up to me. I flipped the card over.
Lady Berri had written simply: 8 o’clock, with an address scrawled beneath it.
I was not entirely easy when I arrived at Lady Berri’s rooms with Ginny, this time in a more modest establishment. A perfectly circular white carpet lay over the floor. In the center of the carpet stood a stone table, and on the table rested two shallow bowls, one silver and one bronze. Blood-red drapes guarded the windows.
“Good heavens, child.” Lady Berri peered at my eye, which was nearly swollen shut. “What on earth happened?”
“A street fracas. Some students were fighting, and we got caught in the middle of it.”
“What are they fighting about this time?” She sent Ginny downstairs to wait and gestured for me to sit.
I stripped off my gloves and set them to the side of the silver bowl, where they lay limp, like corpses.
“Freedom,” I said, sitting and fingering my ring. Szabadság, the Croats had shouted, but they attacked Hungarian students who wanted the same thing.
Didn’t they?
She tsked. “The Hungarians want to be free of the Austrians, I suppose. Well, that’s their business. I hope you’ve sense enough not to get caught up in it.”
I said nothing. The turul necklace Karolina had given me hung heavy at my throat.
Lady Berri handed me a tray of sliced bread with salted butter. “Eat. You may need your strength.”
I took the tray but did not select anything. I surveyed the shallow bowls on the table with misgiving. “What is this?”
“A minor grounding ritual. I need something of you—a bit of blood—to craft a spell to protect you in the Binding. You needn’t fear this spell. It won’t harm you. It touches your flesh, not your soul.”
This looked nothing like any minor ritual I had seen. “Herr Steinberg will know what spell you cast,” I told her, showing her the ring I wore and explaining how it worked.
She pressed her lips together until they had disappeared entirely. “Well. That is most vexing. I suppose we can forgo the protection spell—though I shall have to cast other spells in its place. I cannot risk Herr Steinberg finding me at the present moment or suspecting anything of our plans, which he will certainly do if he discovers this spell.”
