by Emery Belle
While Garnet spoke softly into the receiver, I craned my neck to try and see the paperwork she was filing—I’d been feeling paranoid ever since finding out that Lord Macon had wanted my name added to the ‘dangerous creatures’ list—but, seeing what I was doing, Garnet slapped her hand over the files and shot me a severe look.
“Cordelia says you can go right up,” she said, hanging up the phone. Then she plopped down hard in her chair and raised her eyebrows at me while waving her hand over the files. “These are just the latest batch of marriage license applications, Wren, nothing that would be of interest to you. But they’re confidential—what are you trying to do, get me fired? I happen to like working for Lady Amabelle, you know, she’s quite the…”
Garnet was still speaking, but I was no longer listening. My breath coming fast and shallow, I gazed down at one of the applications poking out of the pile. It was for a woman named Penelope Sanderson and a man named Cole… something. I couldn’t see his last name. As soon as Garnet rolled her chair over to the filing cabinet, I darted out my hand and snagged the application, feeling as though my heart would burst right out of my ribcage.
Please don’t be, please don’t be, please don’t be…
Cole Evert.
Not Cole Noir, never Cole Noir. Not that it should matter, I reminded myself fiercely.
“Wren!” Garnet exploded, slapping the paper out of my hand. “What is wrong with you?” She glanced down at the names, then back up at me, taking note of my pale face. “Do you know these people?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I thought…” I let the rest of the sentence hang unfinished, but Garnet didn’t seem to notice, for Calvin had just arrived to take her out for lunch.
“Gotta go,” she said to me, a little breathlessly, giving him her best smile. “You know the way to Cordelia’s office, right, Wren?” She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the manor’s upper floors before looping her arm through Calvin’s and practically skipping toward the courtyard. I watched them go, my envy at her obvious happiness wriggling like a snake in my belly, then began heading toward the grand spiral staircase leading upstairs.
“Oh, Wren?”
I turned back, my foot on the first step, as Garnet poked her head back through the front door. “My mother wants to have a special dinner for me to celebrate passing my exams and receiving my wand, and she asked me to invite you. She’s been dying to meet you since I talk about you all the time. Tomorrow night at seven, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling slightly more cheerful as I climbed the stairs. I couldn’t remember the last time someone else had made a meal for me—Glenn’s peanut brittle didn’t count, though he certainly seemed to consider it one of the major food groups. I made a mental note to send some real food his way while he was still mostly holed up at his house, mourning Hattie; the last thing I wanted was to see him gain twenty pounds from living on sweets alone and then try to shove himself into his leather pants. There were already enough frightful sights on the island.
Despite Garnet’s shoddy directions, I managed to find Cordelia’s office, though I did get lost in a few of the mansion’s labyrinthine corridors along the way. None of the witches and wizards I passed paid me any attention, which suited me just fine, and thankfully, Lord Macon was nowhere in sight—I’d put off my visit to the manor several times for fear of running into him. And I also didn’t want him finding out I’d lost control over my magic, which would just give him more ammunition to banish me from the island once and for all.
“Miss Winters, please come in.” Cordelia greeted me with a warm smile as I entered her office. Like her, it was rather plain, with a threadbare striped rug, a desk that had seen better days, and an ugly wreath made of orange ribbons hanging on the wall. She waved me into a chair across from her desk, then sat down opposite me and folded her hands together. “I must say I’m a little surprised to be hearing from you. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes.” I produced my wand from my pocket and set it on her desk. “I seem to have lost control of my wand—no matter what spell I perform, something goes wrong. Is it possible…” I hesitated, not wanting her to think I was doubting her abilities to correctly interpret my aura or whatever kind of hocus-pocus Lady Winthrop said went into the wand selection process.
Cordelia raised her eyebrows at me. “You want to know whether I’ve made a mistake.” If she was insulted, she hid it well; instead, she seemed mildly intrigued as she held the wand a hair’s breadth from her nose. She gave it a hearty sniff, then, as Lady Winthrop had done, rapped on it with her knuckles before performing a few spells.
“Well, the wand itself seems to be in working order,” she mused when she was finished, handing it back to me. “I’d like to see it through your eyes, though. Why don’t you try performing a basic draining spell?” She indicated the glass of orange juice she’d just conjured. “The incantation is Siccare.”
“Okay,” I said nervously, gripping the wand and feeling it pulse in my hand. “But I have to warn you that you might find orange juice all over your office walls… if I don’t burn down the entire manor first, that is.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Winters,” she said with a light, tinkling laugh. “I assure you that I’m more than qualified to deal with some level one magic gone awry.” She stepped back and inclined her head. “Go ahead, please.”
I took a deep breath, jabbed my wand toward the orange juice, and said, in a clear voice, “Siccare.” The orange juice immediately began to drain from the cup, and I nearly dropped my wand in surprise. “It worked!” I gasped, my face lighting up as the last drop disappeared from the cup. “It actually worked!” I turned to Cordelia, feeling both triumphant and apologetic, then frowned when I caught sight of her. She was looking rather… pale.
Uh-oh.
The color was draining from her hair, her face—even her blue robes were fading until they, too, turned white as a ghost. Her eyes bulged as she stared down at her sickly-looking hands and legs, which were now pale and puckered, as though they’d gone a millennium without seeing the sun. She tried to speak but clutched at her throat as only rasping sounds came out—it seemed that my draining spell had sucked her vocal chords dry.
I aimed my wand at her again in a panic, desperate to fix whatever I’d done to her, but she waved her hands frantically and made more choking noises. Then she pointed out the door and, with considerable effort, managed to sputter out a word that sounded vaguely like help.
“Help!” I shouted, running into the hallway. “Somebody help, please!”
A distant door opened and footsteps began pounding toward me. Cordelia continued choking and spluttering, and so, without waiting to see who had answered my cry, I hurried back into her office to attempt to render some kind of non-magical aid. The footsteps grew closer, and I felt almost lightheaded with relief when Lady Amabelle appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily, her beehive hairdo sliding to one side. “Step aside,” she commanded, and I immediately complied.
“I accidentally hit her with a drain—” I began, but Lady Amabelle sliced her hand through the air, muting me instantly, as she hurried to Cordelia’s side and began examining her with a critical eye. She chanted a long string of words beneath her breath as she circled her wand over Cordelia, and slowly, as I held my breath, the color began returning to the witch’s cheeks. I exhaled, shaky with relief, when Cordelia was able to stagger over to a chair and lower herself into it. Lady Amabelle produced a glass of water with a snap of her fingers and held it to Cordelia’s lips.
“What happened?” she asked, rounding on me. When Cordelia opened her mouth, and then faltered with fatigue, I began relaying the events of the past few minutes, my words tumbling over themselves in my rush to explain that, no matter how bad the scene looked, I hadn’t actually intended to attack a senior coven member.
Lady Amabelle’s face softened as I finished telling her about the rogue wand, and, like Cordelia and Lady Winthrop before her, she t
ook it from me, sniffed it, and rapped on it with her knuckles before attempting a few perfectly successful spells. “It seems fine to me.” She frowned as she passed the wand back to me. “Maybe you just need more pr—”
“Practice,” I finished wearily. “So I’ve heard.” Perhaps I really was just losing my touch.
“What’s going on in here?” an all-too-familiar, all-too-cold voice asked, and I squeezed my eyes shut and held in a moan as Lord Macon swept into the room, his dark eyes taking in the scene. When they landed on me, they widened slightly in surprise.
Lady Amabelle stepped forward and plucked my wand out of my hand. “Here, Augustus, let’s see what you make of this. Wren thinks she’s having trouble with her wand and is wondering if there may have been an error during the selection ceremony.”
“Impossible.” Lord Macon narrowed his eyes but took the wand anyway. “Such a thing would be unprecedented.”
He held the wand in his narrow fingers, inspecting the wood from end to end, and slowly arced it around the room. A shimmer of silver light erupted from the wand tip, trailing his arm through the air, and when it soared over my head, I felt a warm, pleasant tingling sensation spreading throughout my entire body. Soon the entire room was bathed in the same pleasant warmth, and my eyes began to feel increasingly heavy. I looked over at Lady Amabelle and Cordelia, both struggling to keep their own eyes open, identical dreamy smiles on their faces.
Suddenly Lord Macon snapped his fingers, and the shimmering light, along with the warmth and sleepy sensation, immediately evaporated. Lady Amabelle jerked upright and shook her head, then patted her hair back into place. “Sleep of the dead,” she said to Lord Macon. “A very complex, difficult spell. The perfect way to test the wand’s endurance.” She looked at me. “And it holds up. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Winters, but your wand seems to be working just fine.”
“Perhaps Miss Winters would benefit from a little more time practicing her magic and a little less time running around the island trying to be a hero,” Lord Macon said silkily. He held the wand out to me, and when I took it, my fingers accidentally brushed up against his. He jerked back as if I’d hurt him, then adjusted his robes, turned, and left the room without another word.
I stood rooted in place for several long moments, a great debate raging in my mind, and before I could talk myself out of it, I charged out of Cordelia’s office after him. My footsteps were muffled by the plush red carpet that lined the long hallway, and so he didn’t register my presence until I was nearly upon him. When he turned and saw me, a look of shock flitted across his face, but he quickly replaced it with his usual sneer.
We stood there staring at each other, his chest rising and falling rapidly while I barely breathed at all, until finally, he said, “Is there something you needed, Miss Winters?”
Yes, there were a hundred things I needed. I needed to know why he’d tried to invalidate my magical status the day I’d stepped onto the island. I needed to know why he’d tried his hardest to banish me for using my training wand to protect myself. I needed to know why his eyes flashed with fear whenever they met mine. I needed to know why now, as he was looking at me here, in this hallway, I could see traces of sorrow beneath the cold, hard mask he always wore.
Lowering my gaze, I said, in a very small voice, “I need to know where the staircase is. I’m lost.”
I couldn’t do it. I just… couldn’t.
The barest hint of surprise, of relief, registered on his face before he flicked an idle hand toward our left, where I knew perfectly well the staircase would be. He looked as though he might say something more, but after one last, fleeting look, he turned on his heel and strode into his office, his back stiff, his shoulders straight.
And I had no choice but to turn and walk away.
Chapter 12
The following day, I had just enough time between the end of my housekeeping shift and dinner with Garnet’s family to make the trek to the centaur lands to track down Orion’s next-door neighbor Barak, who, according to the goblin at the Magic Island Royale, had some sort of disagreement with Orion before his death.
Like the last time I’d journeyed through the flat, grassy fields that stretched far into the distance, I followed the hoofprints down the dirt track that wound along the serene river and shed my sweater to allow the dazzling island sun to warm my skin. I nodded in greeting to the centaurs I passed along the way, but they remained aloof and unwelcoming to intruders in their peaceful lands.
Orion’s humble home was still shrouded in black mourning cloths, though one of the front windows had been thrown open to let in the light. I could see Vega and Lyra moving inside the house, but I put my head down and hurried past them, hoping they wouldn’t see me. I had no idea what information, if any, I’d uncover during my interview with Barak, and I didn’t want to give them unwarranted fear of the centaur who lived next door until I heard his side of the story.
Orion’s property was larger than I’d realized, and it took a good twenty minutes at a brisk pace to reach the delineation between his land and Barak’s, easily recognizable by the large wooden fence that had been erected. I frowned up at the fence as I approached it—other than the log cabins, this was the only manmade structure I’d seen in the centaur lands. None of the other residents had separated themselves from their neighbors, which gave me my first clue that the goblin at the casino had definitely been on to something.
I also noticed something else as I neared the fence—a horrible stench that rose up from the ground in putrid waves, causing me to gag and pinch my nostrils together at even the slightest breeze. The odor—somewhere between an ogre’s morning breath and rotting roadkill—seemed to be wafting up from rows of red cabbage-like plants that stretched along Orion’s side of the fence. As a particularly strong wave hit me, I doubled over and dry-heaved before regaining my balance enough to stumble past the fence until I reached fresher air.
“Awful, isn’t it?” a dwarf dressed in overalls and a dirt-stained button-down shirt said, patting me on the back as I let out the breath I’d been holding and began hacking up my lungs. “Barak was in a fury when Orion planted it, and I can’t blame him in the least.” He wiped the sweat from his deeply tanned brow and sighed. “I’m sorry Orion’s gone—he was a great centaur and an even better seer—but I won’t be sorry to smell the last of that.”
Noticing that the dwarf was lugging around a heavy bucket of vegetables and seeds, I asked, “What is that?”
“It’s for the unicorns,” the dwarf grunted, heaving the bucket onto his shoulder. “They eat fifty pounds a day—each. Takes me hours just to gather their lunch, which I’ll be late for if I don’t hurry. Barak doesn’t have any patience for tardiness, and this job’s the only thing keeping a roof over my head.” He began scurrying down the pathway, away from Orion’s house, and I hurried to catch up until I matched his stride.
“Don’t see too many witches in the centaur lands,” he grunted, bending down to pick up a tomato that had rolled out of the bucket. “And especially on Barak’s property. Thought the coven didn’t approve of the riding business he started.” He shrugged. “Not that I’m particularly keen on it myself, but mostly because of the way those beasts look at me whenever I’m near them.” He shuddered. “Those rainbow eyes… they’re a tad unsettling.”
I was just about to ask what he was talking about when we rounded a bend in the path and a vast circular dirt track came into view, one side lined with stalls covered by thatched roofs. Across from the stalls were a ticket counter, concession stand, and a line of people, mostly children swinging eagerly from their parents’ hands. The scene looked precisely like a pony riding track back in the human world, except the ponies had been replaced by the most gorgeous creatures I had ever seen.
Unicorns, dozens of them, their snow-white coats gleaming in the sunlight, their long silver manes trailing behind them as they pranced around the track, each with a rider on its back. They walked proudly, their sparkling
wings tucked at their sides, while the crowd waved and cheered, and a couple of rowdy young goblins threw popcorn at them.
As I took in the scene, I could feel my cheeks heating with anger. How could anyone stifle these beautiful creatures, force them to spend their days in servitude when they should be flying free? I’d already come to understand that unicorns on the island weren’t viewed as the magical, mythological creatures they were portrayed as in the human world, but to see them being treated this way made me feel sick to my stomach. The islanders were wrong, plain and simple.
Hearing my noise of outrage, the dwarf nodded sympathetically. “The coven has been trying to have unicorns classified as protected magical creatures for centuries, but they’re too lucrative—the leather goods, the food products, the blood and hair for creating potions. You can’t blame Barak for wanting a slice of the pie.”
He set down his bucket of vegetables with a groan, then plucked a carrot from the pile and began gnawing on it. “Barak treats them well, at least. Sets them free when they’re too old to ride instead of selling them to the apothecaries and factories.”
For all I cared, he could have told me that Barak tucked them into his own bed with a goodnight story and a glass of milk. Imprisoning them like this was a dirty way to make money, and I intended on telling the centaur that to his face. “Where can I find Barak?” I demanded. “I need to talk to him.” And give him a swift kick to the hindquarters, but that was on a strictly need-to-know basis.
The dwarf waved vaguely in the direction of a log cabin built on a small hill overlooking the unicorn track; unlike Orion’s humble home, Barak’s was a shameless display of wealth. It was at least four times the size of the other cabins I’d passed, and it boasted an enormous turquoise swimming pool, a bocce ball court, and a magnificent bronze statue of a centaur aiming a bow and arrow at an invisible foe. After thanking the dwarf, and turning down his offer of a raw turnip for the road, I turned my back on the unicorn track and headed for Barak’s cabin. When I reached the front door, I used the brass knocker shaped like a hoof to pound on it as hard as I could until it flew open.
