I added another zero. What did it matter? Once people were this rich, numbers weren’t real anymore. Prices were just ideas.
Least the sums in my ledger were all right. Coline was terrible at mathematics.
There were other classes too—music and art, architecture and room decorating, flower arrangements and conversational Thornish, the business etiquette of Vertgana, and even the whole final year could be devoted to poetry, literature, and translation. I knew none of it.
And after four days of crawling from bed to breakfast, suffering through the silver room headaches and lessons with Isabelle and Coline by my side, nothing seemed even remotely better. If anything, I was getting worse in the silver room.
Only seven other students in the whole school could use magic. Isabelle’s tuition, I learned, had been lowered because she could, making her a prize. Coline wasn’t the best at it, but passable and rich.
Seven of us, drowning in divined futures and scryed presents, and only I had a ringing in my ears and white spots in my sight. Even my nose hurt.
“You glow with it,” Isabelle muttered to me at breakfast one morning, her hands shaking as she ignored the silver tray before us. “You sure you can’t divine? You gather magic without even trying, and I’ve never seen someone do that.”
Scrying, observing present goings-on from afar, was easy, and really good artists like Estrel Charron could even scry the past. Divination—seeing the future—was like herding fainting goats.
There were dozens of futures, each one as fickle as the next, and not all of them came at once. Some showed up when an artist wanted them, but they weren’t the right future. Other times the future an artist needed faded before they could so much as catch a glimpse of it. Finding the right future—and holding on to it until they could see what they needed—required more channeling and precision than any other midnight art. Every time I tried to divine, I ended up sick.
The future I wanted was always just out of my grasp.
“I can’t divine.” I squinted at her. “I was never trained in the midnight arts. I’m probably just not used to it, is all.”
That evening before supper, Coline had passed a folded-up poster beneath the table as we waited to be served. I peeked at it, glad to look at something that didn’t hurt, and almost laughed.
HIS MOST BRIGHT MAJESTY
HENRY XII KING OF DEMEINE
WEARS DOWN THIS NATION LIKE MAGIC
WEARS DOWN HACKS—
TO DEATH
Isabelle winced when she read it and passed it along. “You shouldn’t have that. What if you get us in trouble?”
“I would rather get in trouble,” Coline said. “At least then I know I tried.”
“No point in being nosy about things that don’t apply to us,” some girl down the table said.
I did laugh at that. “Must be nice to be so rich, laws and death don’t apply to you.”
Coline shot me an odd look. I shrugged. Right, I was Emilie des Marais. Here, I was so rich that laws didn’t apply to me.
“If you don’t know why you should care about other people, especially the people who are dying for you,” I said, not looking down the table, “then you shouldn’t be in charge of anything, much less people.”
After that morning, a stifling silence filled the silver room before breakfast. Mostly when I entered. Coline loved it.
It exhausted me.
I crawled back into my bed that fourth evening—a whole bed to myself!—and ran a hand along the soft pillows. The quilts were too heavy for summer, but I pulled them over my head anyway. The dark eased the ache in my head, and the thick cloth muffled Coline and Isabelle’s whispers. It was evening, well past supper, and my stomach had finally settled. I’d managed a whole bowl of soup tonight. The fuzzy feeling of half sleep fell over me.
“Emilie?” a soft, musical drawl trickled through my quilt.
I turned my nose into the pillow cover, inhaling lavender and barberry. “One second, Alaine.”
“You’ve slept in the same room as me for nearly a week, and I held back your hair as you dry heaved.” A hand touched my back. “How could you have already forgotten my name?”
I jerked up, more awake than getting dumped in the Verglas would make me. Fool—my sister Alaine was long gone.
“Sorry, sorry.” I leapt to my feet, chest cold and belly dropping, and wiped my face. My sleeves came away damp. “What’s wrong, Coline?”
Coline was leaning against my headboard, one hand on the wall and one still outstretched to me. She was in a different dress than the one she had worn all day, this one a pale spring-green like fresh mint and spotted with little opalescent beetle wings. I hadn’t bothered changing.
None of them fit anyway. Vivienne had brought a tailor to the school to have me fitted for new dresses, underthings, and even a new corset. At least Emilie seemed to have worn only stays like me before this.
“You’re not getting better at ignoring the visions,” Coline said, no trace of kindness in her voice. “You’re only better at hiding your exhaustion from Vivienne, which may very well be part of the training given our expected comportment, but you need to eat real food, not only soup, a handful of crackers, and a sticky bun the size of your head.”
I finger-combed my hair and smoothed out the wrinkles of my dress. “You gave me that bun.”
“It was the bun or nothing, and so I picked the bun,” she said. “Isabelle, please ally with me.”
“Yes, Emilie,” said Isabelle, not raising her face from her mathematics notes and probably unaware of what we’d been talking about. “Coline is correct. Listen to her.”
Coline patted Isabelle’s shoulder. I rolled my eyes and stretched, back creaking. If Coline’s arrogance were rain, there’d never be a drought again.
“I’ll go find the kitchens,” I said. “Let me do it alone. I need quiet.”
I tapped my head, and Coline nodded. “Fine. Go eat, or I’m asking Germaine what to do about you.”
I wandered out of our room and down to the grand foyer. At night, the white marble was ghostly white, and walking across it was like gliding over ice, the cool breeze spilling in from the open windows the burst of air from pushing off. I checked the door for guards or servants, even though Vivienne said we were allowed onto the grounds so long as we didn’t try to leave the estate. Outside, there was only the night and me. I raised my hand to the dark.
“Mistress,” I whispered. “Please let tomorrow go better.”
Light flickered overhead. A moth smacked into my hand. I lurched, palm stinging. The moth bumped into me again, feathery black feelers rapping at my knuckles, and the midnight blue fluff of its body pressed into the little crack between my thumb and first finger. I turned my hand over, and the moth settled there, spreading out its wings in a crown of pale moonlight. The wings were as deep blue as its body on the underside, but the tops were pure magic, smears of trapped power. A creature of clear night skies.
A Stareater.
“Aren’t you a pretty thing?” I pushed on down a path I knew led to the kitchen buildings. “Hungry?”
Most moths were attracted to flames, but these went after magic. They fed on the power of midnight artists, churning the blood from their prey into pure power that glowed in them like stars. I’d only ever seen one before, and it had nibbled at Alaine’s fingers till she flicked it away.
“I’m not much of a snack,” I said to it. “You’ll have to find someone else.”
It folded up its wings, unfurled a single, long tongue from its head, and the light surrounding it faded. The tongue pricked the skin of my hand.
“Fine. Don’t bleed me dry.”
The dark had sunk beneath the leafy canopy and blanketed the whole of the grounds in the chilled smudge of night, rustling leaves and my soft breaths blurring the line between sound and silence. I gla
nced up at the starlight picking its way through the leaves in shaky slits. It was like Mistress Moon had reached out and run her thumb through the sky, smearing dark gray clouds across the purple night till only a dim moon remained behind. The yeasty scent of fresh bread hit me, and I followed it to a large, domed kitchen. The butter-yellow light of candles and fires leaked out the opened windows, steam dancing in the glare. I peeked through the cracked door.
Empty.
The kitchen was a small slice of chaos, bread proofing on one side and a whole course of things bubbling away above coals on the other side. There were five doors, three shut, and I crept inside enough to see. On one of the tables near my door was a basket full of vials that made my ears hum. My moth shuddered against the back of my hand.
Alchemistry.
There were a dozen different vials in the basket. The arts were complicated little alchemical things, not something I was familiar with. Objects full of magic broke down as quick as bodies.
It was the channeling that killed artists. We had to channel the magic through us to make it do our bidding, but the longer it was in us or the more that went through us, the more damage it did.
I picked up a small jar of honey infused with dandelions for protection, lavender for sleep, and a speck of magic to make all the ingredients last. I’d never met a real alchemist. They weren’t as rare as artists but mostly worked in larger cities with physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” a lilting voice said. “Mademoiselle Gardinier should’ve told you that.”
I put the vial back. “Sorry. I didn’t—well, the moth, and then these were interesting and…”
I trailed off, blushing, and shook my head.
Let the sky swallow me up, Mistress. Please.
“That’s new,” said a chef dusted in flour. She grinned, tongue between her crooked front teeth, and bowed her head to me. “I’m Yvonne.”
I swallowed. It was the twin in purple, the one who’d been selling sage water the day Emilie and I had swapped places. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen but walked like she owned the place. She might’ve for all I knew, and I stayed near the doorway, glancing round at the pot bubbling on the stove, and still-fresh greens scattered about the counters and cutting boards, and nets hanging from the rafters. Yvonne busied herself with the pot, brown sleeves of her blouse rolled up to her elbows, and brushed one broad smear of something from her skirts. The warm, black skin of her forearms was peppered with dark little oil-burn scars. Cooking wasn’t the only thing happening here. The basket was hers.
“You’re an alchemist,” I said. “A proper one.”
Alchemists could gather magic and store it in objects—using that power to extend the life of herbs, improve a coughing syrup, or bolster the powers of a poison—but not channel magic to use the arts. Most sold their creations in apothecaries or worked for physicians and surgeons. I’d never met one. Their wares cost too much.
“Yes, though that’s the first time someone’s called me a proper one.” She cleared her throat, and I realized she’d been waiting for me to share my name.
I bowed back and smiled. “I’m sorry—Emilie.”
“Well, you better come in and shut the door, Sorry-Emilie. I need the heat to stay the same.” Yvonne beckoned me inside and froze. “You’re Madame Emilie des Marais.”
“No. Well, yes,” I said. “But you don’t have to call me ‘Madame’ or anything. You can just call me Emilie.”
“Of course.” She bowed her head again, shoulders stiff. “As you like.”
I did not like this odd, new wall between me and maybe the only person who’d grown up like I had.
“May I ask what the magic you stored in these is for?” I gestured to the basket of vials, and the moth hopped from me to one of the vials, my blood staining its white wings spider-lily pink. “I can see the magic, but I’ve never been good at alchemistry.”
There was nothing worse than being sick enough to take medicine but not sick enough to have lost your sense of smell.
“You can see the magic in this?” Yvonne reared back slightly, eyes widening and lips pulling into a grin. She pointed at the basket. “You can tell I’ve put magic in it?”
I nodded. “It’s like looking at heated iron. Looks the same but the air around it’s different. You can always tell.”
“You know most people can’t always tell, don’t you? Not after the art’s been worked?” she asked. “It took me an hour to convince the apothecary in Bosquet this was actually alchemical and I wasn’t scamming him.”
“Apothecary’s a fool, then.” I peeked at the other little vials. “They’ve all got a bit of the midnight power in them. Not a lot and not doing anything. Have you ever used a hack? If you did once, maybe they could prove it for you?”
She glanced at me over her shoulder, wide eyes a bright amber in the light. “I have not. I wouldn’t even know how to go about hiring one. Mademoiselle Gardinier is very particular about hers, and they’re not allowed to work with anyone but her students to limit the damage.”
“I’ve never worked with one either,” I said. “Was it one of the fancy apothecaries?”
“Very,” said Yvonne, smiling now. “What can I do for you, Madame?”
I shook my head. “The silver room makes me sick to my stomach and then not eating makes it harder to sleep and being tired makes it harder not to get distracted over breakfast, and I was wondering if I could get something to eat. Nothing fancy.” My stomach rolled at the idea of pigeon pie or heavy red wine–braised lamb, which had been the meals for the last few days. “Less fancy the better, probably.”
“Of course. Allow me a moment.” Yvonne vanished into another room or pantry and returned with a little bowl and small loaf of bread in her arms. “There’s a clean stool to your left if you’d like to sit. Unfortunately, this isn’t the main kitchen. Mademoiselle Gardinier is allowing me the use of this building in exchange for some recipes and alchemical work. It’s not as well stocked as the main kitchen, though.”
“That’s fine.” I folded myself onto the stool. “Do you need help?”
“No, but the offer is appreciated.” Yvonne focused on her pan, the violet tucked into her left hair bun bobbing. The familiar sound of sizzling egg hit my ears, and she flipped it with all the grace of a juggler before the king. In no time, she presented me with a small plate of bread with a fried egg in the middle. “Madame.”
“Thank you!” I shooed the moth away from my hands. “You sure there’s nothing I can help with?”
Yvonne’s pleasant facade shifted.
“Actually, Madame,” she said with a wide, tense smile. “I would like to ask a favor of you, since you are apparently very gifted in the arts.”
No one had ever called me gifted. “What’s the favor?”
She ducked her head in a half bow. “If you are willing, I would very much appreciate it if you could be witness to the fact that my alchemistry is real and sign a short note attesting to it, so I can have proof for the apothecary.”
“What’s the point in being noble if I can’t do something like that?” I looked around. “Do you want me to do it now?”
Emilie wouldn’t mind. Probably. And Vivienne was always going on about our responsibilities to the Deme people.
I wrote out a quick note with some paper and a quill Yvonne had nearby and signed it with a neat little signature far smoother and straighter than anything I’d ever written.
Looked like the words of a proper lady of Demeine.
I’d been practicing Emilie’s signature in case I needed it for Vivienne or Emilie’s mother.
“Good enough?” I asked.
She nodded, distractedly tucking it into her pocket. “Thank you very much. It is harder than I thought to start an apothecary.”
“Can I ask why you’re working
as a chef, then?” I finished off the last of the toast, and she took the plate from me. “And in Bosquet? I saw you selling tea with your sister.”
“Oh. Yes, that’s Octavie’s thing. She’s saving up to travel with some cartographer to map the world before someone else does. Our parents were merchants, and our mother’s from a small city-state north of Kalthorne. They have a shop in Lily-in-the-Valley.” She waved off my question politely, and part of me relaxed now that she had. It was nice just talking to a person. No rules. No Vivienne judging. No lies. She talked with her hands too, great passionate gestures as if she were painting a picture. “I have some of her family recipes. We moved here before the Empire got huffy about worshipping the Lord and his Mistress. Mademoiselle Gardinier asked my mother to help with some Kalthorne recipes, but my mother wanted to stay at her shop. She’s enjoying having Octavie and me out of the house. So I took the job instead. It’s not a full job and doesn’t pay much, but it’s a job.”
She didn’t say they’re a bit hard to come by, but I heard it in the way she paused and her jaw tightened.
“I’m glad you did.” Listening to her be happy made me happy, and the alchemistry looked fascinating. “Thank you.”
“And you, Madame,” she said. The tone was light enough to be a joke to test the line.
“Really, I know folks say it all the time and don’t mean it, but I would like it if you used my name. If you want,” I said quickly. “I’ve never really used the title before.”
“Emilie.” Yvonne lifted her head. “Thank you.”
* * *
I woke up the next day to the moth, scarlet and fat, fluttering near my head, and at breakfast there was an extra place set beside Vivienne. The other girls whispered to one another, and to me, even though I heard none of it. Coline shook her head to some question Isabelle asked. The mirrored comb in her hair sparked and caught my gaze. I froze in the doorway.
Shaking, bloody hands knotted in gold hair. The slack-jawed stare of death in storm-gray eyes.
The vision snapped. A shock, white hot, shot through me like someone had lit a match right before my eyes. I squeezed them shut.
Belle Révolte Page 7
