by Katie Cross
There was no sign of Lorenzo or Fiona in the halls, which meant she could attempt to deliver the linens to Cecelia’s maids. It would give her a chance to see something, at least. Visions of finding Lucey in some obscure room instead of Carcere danced through her mind as she slipped down the empty hall.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to rescue her?
The circular layout of the castle led her past the servants’ hallway—marked solo coraggio, which she still hadn’t translated—and to the other side. According to gossip she’d overheard from the cooks, guest rooms populated the second floor, Cecelia occupied the entire third floor, the Defender trainees lived on the fourth with the East Guards, and the permanent Defenders inhabited the fifth. Carcere consisted of the sixth and seventh, she deduced, although no one had confirmed because no one spoke of it.
Like killing innocent Watchers, the inhabitants of the East seemed to think it easiest to act as if horrible things or events didn’t happen.
She passed velvety divans, tiny porcelain figures on curved shelves made of driftwood, and breezy curtains. Every few steps waited a new standing screen covered with elegant paintings. Some historic, no doubt. Outside, crashing waves stretched onto the shore in a foamy line.
The shouting continued, louder now. No, it wasn’t shouting.
Cheering.
Isadora slipped into a nearby staircase she’d found the day before and headed up—all the less likely to run into Ernesto, who never left the first floor. The sounds of celebration continued once she left the winding stairwell on the third floor. Open windows let sunshine into the halls. Three aquilas circled overhead, calling out with shrill screams, morphing from burgundy to white to sky blue and nearly disappearing.
Isadora stopped and peered into the circular courtyard. The gold sheets she carried slipped to the floor.
Her blood ran cold.
Six witches, likely Defender trainees wearing black, stood in a circle in the middle of the courtyard. Cecelia walked amidst them in an elegant gown with a skirt like a bell. Its layers of fabric rustled in the breeze. She stood next to a prostrate, crumpled body. Thin through the shoulders, with a frail frame. A woman, for certain. Her coppery hair shielded her face. A metal manacle glinted in the sunlight where it clasped her willowy neck. She rested on her knees, her entire body trembling.
“Finding a Watcher with your powers is a simple matter of darkness versus light,” Cecelia said in the common language. Her shoes clicked on the stone floor as she walked a lazy circle around the prisoner. Rumor had it that Cecelia recruited Defenders from all over the world—her use of the common language seemed to confirm that.
Some of the trainees clutched whips, but others stood by whips that lay on the ground, next to scattered shards Isadora thought had once been porcelain vases. Untouched vases perched on benches not far away. The Defenders had been practicing, no doubt. Lucey had told stories about those whips—and bore a few scars herself.
“We are the past,” Cecelia continued. “We are that which knows all. Who can hide from what is done? No one. We see what witches have chosen, and what they have not. That power resides within each of you. It is a gift. A defense. An honor. Be worthy of it.”
Most of the Defenders stood stock-still, only their clothing flapping in the wind. Cecelia stopped to sneer at the witch on the ground.
“With such power comes a calling. We protect others from the power of the Watchers. From their interference with fate. We are that which protects the future from the greedy eyes of those who would alter its course.”
Cecelia paced away from the girl. She was no different here at La Torra than she’d been when Isadora first saw her at Chatham Castle. In fact, she was every bit as terrifying. Cold. Calculating. Elegant and refined in a gaudy way. The gems she wore—eccentric earrings that dangled all the way to her shoulders—felt out of place against such a simple, serene backdrop.
The prostrate witch glanced up through her curtain of hair while Cecelia circled.
“Ages ago, beyond memory, Watchers and Defenders worked together, in pairs. They used their powers to bring justice to a failing world, to foresee difficult times, and to stop wrongful tyranny and oppression. As often happens, the power went to the heads of the Watchers that held it. The Watchers began to murder their matches in their sleep. Thanks to the unusual connection between us, Watchers began to exploit our abilities. They would anticipate our moves, what protective lies we would tell to keep ourselves safe from their power. Imagine that ability in the hands of the power-hungry.”
A ripple of voices murmured back. Animosity ran thick in their accented tongues.
Cecelia cast a disgusted glance at the girl.
“We underestimated their talent and overestimated their goodness. We gave too much to our Watcher matches. Watchers are ruthlessly intelligent and cunning, but one should never expect them to be trustworthy. They are steeped in the light—blinded by it. All they know is interrupting fate and bringing about their own will. We, the Defenders, preserve fate in all her righteous causes. We use the past to allow fate to take her course unrestrained.”
The Watcher shifted, revealing scabbed blisters along her wrists. Her hair parted in the back to show chafed skin along the neck manacle, flecked with dark, dried blood. What appeared to be clumps of hair had fallen—or been torn—from her scalp, leaving bloody patches behind.
Isadora dug her nails into her palm. “No paths,” she murmured, distracting herself from the overwhelming desire to enter the magic. “No paths. No paths.”
Outside, one of the Defenders growled.
“Now, milady!”
“Hold yourself!” Cecelia barked. The crack of a whip followed a subtle motion from her wrist. Seconds later, one Defender reached for his face. A bright-red slash marred his cheek.
“I alone speak right now.”
Isadora clenched her teeth. The magic beckoned, taunting her with a swirl of light. She could save the girl, couldn’t she? Her mind raced. Likely, it wouldn’t work. So many possibilities would converge on the path.
But maybe …
A snap broke the air.
The Watcher lay sprawled on the ground, Cecelia’s foot pressed into her back, a length of whip around her neck. Blood oozed from its edges. The Watcher screamed. Cecelia used the whip to lift the girl’s head off the ground and then drop it again.
Blood sprayed.
The Watcher stilled. Her eyes closed. Cecelia grinned, alight with pleasure and passion. Her diamond earrings glinted. Below her feet, the Watcher’s life bled away onto the cobbled courtyard floor.
Terror overcame Isadora, but she forced it down. Fear drove terrible decisions. She forced the panic back so she could think clearly. If she could just distract Cecelia, the Watcher had a chance—albeit a slight one. Jumping out of the window would draw their attention. While falling, she could use a spell to cast a protective bubble. No—she might be too late.
The hiss of the ocean caught her ear. She brightened. A wave. If she could bring a wave onto the beach and—no. A spell powerful enough to bring a wave over the castle would cost her too much energy. A horde of bees? Unlikely out here. With no one else using magic, they would surely track it back to her. Only one thing would get their attention for certain.
Another Watcher.
Just as Isadora called for her own magic, Cecelia reached down. Her thin, pale fingers gripped something on the back of the manacle, then twisted. A strangled sound emitted from the girl before she slumped forward.
Dead.
A clatter startled Isadora. She shoved away from the window and whirled around. One of Cecelia’s personal maids appeared. She frowned.
Isadora pasted on a smile. “Goffo,” she said, scrambling for the cloth she’d dropped on the floor. “So … ah … clumsy.”
The maid rolled her eyes, muttered something about idio lavanda, and strode away. Once clear, Isadora rushed back to the window. Blood pooled around the Watcher, blending with her bright hair. Her eyes lay
closed.
“Unless we continue to defend fate and our own lives, the Watchers will take over,” Cecelia continued. “They’ll create whatever glorious hell they choose. Who is to say that isn’t why our world is at war?”
“That is our mistress, The Great One.”
Isadora jumped and squeaked at the same time, sending the sheets toppling back to the ground. Fiona stood behind her, lips pressed in a thin line as she peered past Isadora into the courtyard.
“You scared me!”
Fiona sent her a dirty scowl. “That’s your fault.”
Isadora’s hands trembled as she tried to collect her scattered wits. “Er, right. Sorry.”
“Cecelia,” Fiona said, her voice low and brow furrowed. She shook her head. “Nasty business.”
“A Watcher, is it?”
Fiona folded her hands behind her back. “Yes. New Defender recruits. They come from everywhere.”
“How often does this happen?”
“Monthly. Depends on how many Defenders she finds and how many Watchers she has from the raids. She collects Defenders often, trains them, and sends the weaker ones back to their own Networks to be available when she needs them. The more powerful stay here, with her.”
Something lingered in the words, the more powerful stay here, with her. A thousand questions assaulted Isadora at once, jumbling in a tangle. How did Cecelia find the trainees? How many Defenders were there? How long had this magic been around?
Isadora forced her thoughts back to the present. “You’ve watched this happen before?”
“Cecelia forced us to watch in the past. With a more … rowdy staff.”
“But … why?”
“Control, of course. She cannot lose discipline on an island such as this. Besides, it’s just a Watcher. They are dangerous. Very dangerous. Some think that a hidden Watcher is responsible for all these wars. They like to pull the strings of fate, you know.” Fiona shook her head. “Not good.”
Isadora wrestled back the words she wanted to say. Instead, she maintained eye contact through sheer force of will.
“So I’ve heard.”
“Anyway, what can be done? They believe that Watchers must be culled for the greater good; they act on that with the full support of the High Priest. It is the way of things.” The words sounded wooden and strange and too easy all at the same time, as if she’d detached from what they meant long ago. “And, as you see, The Great One is known for strong emotions.”
“Her temper?”
Fiona said nothing. Isadora hugged the sheets to her chest.
“Is she gone much?”
She shrugged. “What is much?”
Isadora blinked. She’d never realized how nuanced language could be until she’d tried to learn a new one.
“Does she live here?”
“No.”
“Where does she go?”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“I wish I had her dresses—and a place to go in them—that’s all. I’ve never worn something so elaborate or beautiful before.”
“The lavanda girl wants more than laundry?”
Fiona seemed amused but also waited for a response. Maximillion had described the balls that Greta, the old Central Network High Priestess, had thrown once. Extravagant. Lavish, well-planned events with elaborate menus and countless scores of witches in silk and linea and sparkling gems.
“Perhaps just to try a life such as that. Only once.”
Fiona nodded toward the linen room, then motioned to the pillowcases. “Well, you are not The Great One. You only wash her clothes. Don’t mistake yourself. I will take these from here. Do not attempt to leave the lavanda again without permission. It is not for you to roam these halls.”
Isadora cast one glance back at the dead Watcher and her copper hair.
Fiona stepped back, tsking. “Sad that it must be done for the good of all. We are better without them.”
“I am proud of the work you do every day as you learn control of your magic,” Cecelia said to the trainees as Isadora stepped away from the window. “Continue to do so, for my reputation is at stake as much as yours. Welcome to our family. You are here to do a beautiful work.”
Isadora scowled at a half-burnt apron, set a tablecloth aside to deal with in the morning, and left the lavanda for the spiraling staircase that led to her small room.
Her weary eyes shut against the fading light that ebbed as the sun sank into the ocean. The vision of the young Watcher, lying on the ground with blood blooming around her, popped back into her head.
Isadora opened her eyes again.
“What am I doing here?” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. “Nothing.”
The days here had already blurred into a mindless routine. How could she help Lucey while scrubbing the sweat out of East Guard uniforms? When Watchers were tortured to death with whips and fear by Cecelia? There was no information to glean on La Torra. No one visited. Cecelia, despite her own edict, transported in and out. And ever since Isadora had ventured out, unauthorized, Fiona had watched her like a hawk, anticipating when she’d finish laundry. Except for meals—to which Fiona escorted her—Isadora didn’t leave the lavanda.
Once she shut her bedroom door against a brisk breeze, warmth enveloped her. Her head snapped up.
Maximillion glared at her from the other side of the room.
“You’re alive, for one,” he muttered. “A hopeful sign.”
Candles bounced on the small, round table, revealing an array of food that made her stomach grumble. Good, old-fashioned Central Network food! Warm chicken pie with a flaky crust. Hearty bread with plump flecks of brown—most likely figs. A jug of what must have been mulled cider, if the slight tang of orange in the air meant anything. The scents of home choked her. How did he get cider and figs? And chicken?
She rushed across the room, abandoning her apron.
“You brought me food?” she cried. “Oh, it smells so wonderful!”
He said nothing but pretended to be absorbed in a book titled, Basics of Ilese and All the Nuanced Details of Learning a New Language. He looked as imperious as ever—if a bit tired. Isadora sank into a chair, bone weary, and reached for the glass of mulled cider. The delicious zip hit her tongue with a little thrill, and she shuddered. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming her.
A chair appeared next to him. He sat in it, back ramrod straight. “Update me.”
Isadora tore a hunk of bread free without bothering to cut it. Wafer-thin crackers and soup that tasted like water had left her ravenous after so much physical work. She felt as if she hadn’t eaten in years. She ate until her stomach bulged.
Then the words slipped out.
“They killed a Watcher yesterday.”
His gaze narrowed.
“Go on.”
Isadora fumbled through the re-telling, leaving out her plan to stop the death, and ended it feeling more exhausted—yet also more relieved—than ever. At least the story wasn’t just hers now. At least he knew.
Maximillion’s expression didn’t waver. “Of course Cecelia killed her. What did you expect? It’s what Defenders do.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. “Your lack of compassion doesn’t make it less horrible. She was a young woman. She was … she was my age.”
He studied her, his expression all angles and sharp lines, then stood up to pace. He clasped his hands behind his back, drawing out his surprisingly broad shoulders, while striding across the room.
“You can leave anytime,” he said. “You don’t have to be here if you’re going to sulk.”
“I cannot leave.”
“In fact, I encourage you to come home.”
“After that? No.”
“I’ve told you it’s not safe, and now you’re starting to understand. No one would blame you.”
Isadora met his gaze. “I would.”
He stared at her for a long time, as if debating what he wanted to say. “Whil
e unfortunate, that’s precisely the end one can expect to meet when one throws themselves on the mercy of someone like Cecelia.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Watcher turned herself in.”
Isadora straightened with a bolt of fury. “You already knew about all of this.”
“I did.”
Somehow, Maximillion and his Advocacy were everywhere. Did someone on the staff work for Maximillion? A second, equally stunning thought occurred to her. “Wait. You said she turned herself in. Why? Why would anyone do that?”
“A hope for mercy. A foolish one.”
“How did you know?”
He said nothing.
“I could have saved her!”
“And lost your own life in the process. We cannot stop all the deaths until the Eastern Network changes. You’ll have to come to terms with that.”
His lack of annoyance startled her. She reached for a piece of bread but lost motivation halfway to the bowl. Instead, she turned to him, hating the sound of defeat in her voice.
“Cecelia said something about a connection and matches. Do you know what she meant?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea.”
Isadora frowned. A long silence prevailed between them while she mulled over Cecelia’s speech. There had been such fervor in her voice. She truly believed she was doing the right thing by murdering Watchers. Isadora glanced up, studying the lines of his face.
“Why am I here if you already know so much?” she asked quietly.
He paused. “Extra assurance.”
“I’m not doing anything, Maximillion, and we’re no closer to finding Lucey.”
“That’s your own fault.”
“My fault?”
“There is information to be gathered.”
“Like what?”
“Have you had any other run-ins with Cecelia?”
A flash of irritation pulsed through her at his quick change of subject, but she let it go. “No.”
