The Bone Charmer

by Breeana Shields

  I put my hand on his forearm. “Declan, you know how I feel about you. I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting lately.”

  “I just don’t understand what I did.”

  “You didn’t do anything. My mother …” I struggle for a way to tell him the truth without revealing too much. “She knew I didn’t want a matchmaking reading, so when she said your name …”

  He puts up a hand to stop me. “This story isn’t making me feel better.”

  I laugh. “No, not because I didn’t want us to be together, but because I wanted you to choose me.”

  “But, Saskia,” he says gently, “I already did.”

  Everything inside me goes soft, like butter in a warm kitchen. I’ve been so unfair to him. I run a hand from his shoulder to his palm and link my fingers through his. “Can we start over?” I ask him. “Please?”

  His expression is stony. “I just have one question.”

  A sliver of dread burrows into my heart. I swallow. “What is it?”

  “How many of those desserts do you think I can fit in my mouth at one time?”

  I smile, and my worry unwinds in one swift motion, like the string at the end of a kite reel. Declan never was good at keeping conversations serious for long. “Hmm. Four?”

  He puts a hand to his chest. “Your utter lack of faith offends me, Saskia.”

  “Five?”

  He shakes his head in pretend exasperation as he scoops up a handful of treats, unwraps them, and begins stuffing them into his mouth as we walk.

  One. Three. Five. Eight.

  “Stop,” I say. “You won’t be able to breathe.”

  He shrugs as if air—or lack of it—is inconsequential. Especially if a challenge is on the line.

  Ten. Twelve. Fourteen.

  He turns to me, his cheeks bulging like a feasting chipmunk.

  I giggle—softly at first—and then it’s as if a dam has burst, and soon I’m laughing so hard that tears are streaming down my cheeks. So hard that it’s me, not Declan, who really is having trouble breathing.

  “What’s so funny?” Declan asks. Or at least I think that’s what he’s saying. It’s hard to tell with his mouth so full. He tries again, but a bit of elderberry dribbles from his lips and lands on his chin.

  “Charming,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Really. You’ve never looked more handsome.”

  The corner of his mouth ticks up. He works his jaw up and down, chewing for several minutes before he finally swallows and lets out a contented sigh.

  “Very impressive,” I tell him. “It’s a wonder you weren’t matched as a taste tester. You could get so much done in so little time.”

  He grins at me. His teeth are purple.

  We’re nearly to my house. It’s so different from Ami’s—sprawling where hers is tidy, formal where hers is welcoming. A full moon hangs low in the sky, making the white stone luminous, and etching the leaves of the oak trees in silver. An owl hoots softly in the distance, and I imagine the bird catching and swallowing a nightmare.

  Declan walks me up the path to the front door.

  “Thank you for making me laugh,” I say.

  “Thank you for laughing,” he says. “It made me feel better.” His eyes are soft now, and all the humor is gone from his expression.

  “I’m sorry about today,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean …” I lace my fingers together and hold them in front of me. “I didn’t mean for my answer to come out quite that way. It’s not that I’ve been lying to you. I only—”

  “Saskia,” Declan says, “don’t apologize for telling the truth.”

  “I just don’t want you to think …”

  He reaches up and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “I can be patient,” he says, “as long as you promise I have a chance to become the person you trust with your secrets.” His thumb grazes my cheek. As he drops his hand back to his side, I notice the tiniest hint of pink that circles his wrist—a line so faint, it might just be a trick of the light.

  The events of the day weigh on me—my father’s bones going missing. The truth serum. The look on my mother’s face as she accused me with her eyes. None of it exactly conducive to romance. But somehow Declan has managed to cut through all that and make me feel completely safe. He loves me. Even with all my flaws.

  “I promise,” I tell him. And I mean it. It’s time for me to take control of my own destiny and trust my own heart. Declan chose me long before the bones spoke.

  It’s time I chose him, too.

  Saskia

  The Bone Charmer

  I didn’t walk into my lessons this morning intending to steal training bones.

  But several weeks have passed and my progress is painfully slow. Tessa is already healing complicated injuries; Talon has mastered canine sight and has moved on to controlling birds; even Ami’s letters suggest she’s quickly mastering her duties at the bone house in Midwood. But I’m still struggling with the basics.

  And Master Kyra doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

  After our lesson today—one where it took me most of the morning to discern what she’d just eaten for breakfast (dry toast, tea with one lump of sugar, and a bowl of berries)—she patted me on the shoulder and told me I was making great progress.

  Why then do I feel like I’m failing at every turn? Yesterday I saw Ingrid leaving one of the training rooms with a spell book tucked under her arm, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Being issued my own spell book is yet another milestone Master Kyra doesn’t think I’m ready for. I come from a long line of Bone Charmers. Shouldn’t it come effortlessly to me—the way my eyes are the exact same shade as my mother’s, or my laugh sounds just like Gran’s?

  When I was young, I could feel magic thrumming inside me like a pulse. That day on the prison boat it felt more like a tidal wave, so strong that it threatened to pull me under. So strong, it destroyed three lives. Afterward, I spent years pushing the magic away. But what if that made everything worse? Because now that I’m actually searching for my power, I can’t seem to find more than a drop. What happens if it surges again and I haven’t learned to control it? The stakes are so much higher now that I’ve been bound to bone magic. I’ll start getting responsibilities soon.

  What if someone gets hurt? What if I’m called on to determine the guilt or innocence of a prisoner and my vision is inaccurate? I could end up condemning someone to hang who doesn’t deserve it; or someone guilty could walk free and their future crimes would be my fault.

  Master Kyra might not be worried, but I am. I can’t afford to move so slowly.

  Now I stand in front of the cupboard at the back of the room, waging a war with myself.

  Going behind Master Kyra’s back feels like cheating. I’m sure she’ll introduce the practice bones when she thinks I’m ready, but at this rate it won’t be for months. Even though Latham thought I was ready the first day. My palms grow clammy and I wipe them on my cloak. Maybe Master Kyra’s teaching style is just too rigid. The thought feels like a breeze through my mind. Like a justification.

  I ease open the cupboard door and find shelves packed with plain brown boxes in various sizes. They’re each labeled with small, neat handwriting. Bones of a long-eared owl, full set, strength: 38. Bones of a spoon-billed sandpiper, cervical vertebrae only, strength: 52. Bones of a brown rat, tarsus and metatarsus only, strength: 5.

  An adjacent shelf holds a stack of small stone basins, lumps of flint, and bundles of incense wrapped with twine. And yet another shelf is lined with leather-bound books: Bone Charming: A Complete History, Basics of Bone Charming, Human Anatomy, Zoology: Animal Skeletons in Bone Charming Applications. But no spell books. Those are always stored under lock and key. My mother kept her own spell book carefully guarded even from me.

  And no practice bones either. I open every cupboard in the room with the same result. There are a variety of ordinary bones, but nothing like what Latham showed me when I first arrived. Maybe he relocated them to remove temptation. I’m just ab
out to give up, when a burst of sunlight floods through the window and, from the corner of my eye, I catch a glint of gold on the top shelf of one of the cupboards.

  The box of practice bones Latham found was silver, but maybe … I drag a wooden bench to the back of the room. The extra height is just enough for my fingertips to graze the top shelf. I stand high on my toes and reach blindly, pushing aside the boxes that feel plain until my hand closes around a metal one—something fancy, from the feel of it. My pulse spikes. I climb down and examine the box. It’s silver with clawed feet, and the top is adorned with a raised pattern of gilded vines and roses—it must have been the gold flowers that caught my eye in the light. It’s not the same box that I used earlier with Latham, but Ivory Hall must be filled with hundreds of sets of practice bones. Carefully, I turn the box over and examine the bottom. A small label is affixed to the underside. Bones of an adult female, phalanges only, preserved for study (First, Second, or Third Sight, general use), strength: 486. I unlatch the silver clasp. The box is lined in plush blue velvet.

  And the bones inside look just like Gran’s.

  I should have expected it, of course. One set of female finger bones is bound to look like another, but the sight still gives me a lump in my throat that I can’t quite swallow. I wonder who this woman was, what would compel her to donate her remains to be used like this. The thought of Gran’s bones tucked away in a cupboard somewhere, exploited over and over for strangers, makes me ill. I close the box and climb back onto the wooden stool. It’s not as if I even know what I would do with the bones.

  I open the cupboard and slide the box back inside. My fingers brush leather—what feels like the bumpy spine of a book. My breath catches. Why would someone put a book here, tucked behind boxes of bones, unless they were trying to hide it? I inch my fingers forward, nudging the book toward me until it’s close enough to grasp. And then I pull it from the cupboard.

  It’s a spell book.

  Maybe I’ll take the training bones with me after all.

  I try to stroll calmly back to the women’s dormitory, but the closer I get, the faster I move—it’s as if my legs are convinced I’m being followed even if my eyes are certain I’m not. The last few steps are practically a sprint. The stolen items feel like a lead weight at the bottom of my bag.

  My hands shake as I fumble with the doorknob.

  Tessa sits at her desk, a spell book open in front of her; she’s so absorbed, she hasn’t heard me enter the room. She rests her chin in her palm and her curly hair falls over her shoulder like a curtain.

  The sight of her sends a jolt of alarm through me.

  I clutch my bag more tightly to my side.

  “You’re back early,” I say. It comes out more accusatory than I intended, and Tessa looks up, startled.

  If she notices the bite in my voice, she doesn’t show it. She gives me a tired smile. “Actually, I think you’re back late.”

  I glance out the window. She’s right. The sun is high in the sky, and warm yellow light floods into the room without casting much of a shadow. The morning is gone.

  I sink down onto my bed and slide my bag off my shoulder, surreptitiously shoving it behind me. “I guess I lost track of time.”

  She tilts her head to one side. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You just look a little feverish,” she says. “Want me to take a look?”

  Sweat beads on my forehead, the heat suffusing my cheeks. The last thing I need is for Tessa to examine me and decide that I’m not ill but that I’m exhibiting classic signs of deception. “No,” I say. “I think I’m just tired.”

  She bites her lip. “Is it that you don’t trust me? Because I’m much more proficient than I was a few weeks ago.” She motions toward the book on her desk. “I’ve been studying like mad, and even if I can’t make you feel better, I can at least promise not to make you worse. Or I can get Master Dina, if you’d rather. She’ll have you feeling like new in no time at all.”

  A wave of affection washes over me. Tessa’s loquaciousness has grown on me, and now it’s as comforting as listening to the ocean lap at the shore. Which makes me feel even more guilty for lying to her.

  “Of course I trust you,” I say. “It’s just exhaustion. I’m sure of it.”

  “Maybe you should rest instead of coming down to the dining hall,” she says. “I can bring something up for you if you’d like.”

  Hope leaps in my chest. It’s the perfect solution—guaranteed time alone to study the spell book without having to explain away a conspicuous absence.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Maybe I will lie down for a bit.”

  Her expression is the same one my mother always wore right after she’d gotten me to swallow a spoonful of medicine as a child—a hint of exasperation just as it melts into relief.

  Tessa stands up to stretch, and I admire—not for the first time—the swirling tattoos on her arms. They remind me a bit of my father’s, but she hasn’t mentioned being an artist. Even though it’s considered rude to ask about the source of someone’s tattoos—they almost always come from experiences too personal to casually share—I’m still curious enough that I’m tempted. Maybe later, when we know each other better.

  Tessa shrugs her cloak over her shoulders. “I’ll tell the others that you stayed behind to rest,” she says. “I’m sure they’ll miss you.”

  I recline a bit to show her that I’m anxious to fall asleep, but I forgot that my bag is behind me. The corner of the bone box digs into my lower back and before I can stop myself, I wince. Tessa hesitates in the doorway. Bites the inside of her cheek. Studies me like she’s adding a series of large numbers in her head.

  And then she opens her mouth, no doubt to pummel me with a barrage of questions. But I don’t let her get that far.

  “You’re a good friend, Tessa,” I say. And then I roll onto my side and close my eyes.

  I lie frozen, feigning sleep, for what feels like an eternity. I’m half-expecting Tessa to burst back into the room at any moment to check on me one more time. It’s not until I hear the low burble of chatter floating up from the dining hall that I dare sit up and pull out the spell book.

  It’s covered in a dark blue leather—a color so deep, it’s nearly black—and accented at each corner with triangles of burgundy. On the front in gold swirling script is one word: Spells.

  I open the book, and a torrent of emotions bloom inside me, like a deadly flower—it’s the thrill of the forbidden, but the fear of it too.

  The pages are filled with diagrams of bones in different configurations, long paragraphs of explanations, and notes scribbled in the margins. One inscription reads: Heavy Heart Spell (First Sight): The sternum of any warm-blooded animal or human along with four ribs from the same source. Especially revealing for past deeds that have caused guilt or pain. Works as a bloodless spell, but blood and flame produce greater accuracy.

  I flip to the section on Second Sight. Prison Spell (Second Sight): The ischium of a flightless bird placed parallel to a femur of any four-legged beast. Particularly useful for detecting reasons a subject may feel trapped. In the margins is scrawled a note: Ostrich bones far superior to penguin. Chicken bones produce fuzzy vision.

  I skim through page after page of spells, patterns, and tips for making visions more accurate. An entire section at the back discusses the kenning—how it’s important to use the most powerful bones available, human if at all possible. And how the more closely related the bones are to the subject, the clearer the kenning will be. Bones of direct family members produce readings with the most pure outcomes. I run my fingertip over the words. It’s why my mother wanted Gran’s bones prepared in time for my kenning.

  Who does this book belong to? And why does it have information for all three Sights? Spell books are supposed to be highly individualized. They are the most valuable and closely guarded possessions of anyone who has bone magic. I search through the pages for a name, for any
sign of the book’s owner, but I find nothing.

  Voices outside the door pull me from my thoughts. I shove the spell book under my pillow and close my eyes just in time. Noise spills into the room—chatting and laughter, along with Tessa’s increasingly irritated shushing. “Saskia is trying to rest. Keep it down.”

  I roll over and open my eyes. Tessa holds a tray with bread and fruit. “You’re in luck,” she says. “Norah announced that we have the afternoon off, so you can keep resting.” Talon, Bram, and Linnea stand behind her, bags in hand.

  “Where are you all going?”

  Tessa sets the tray on my lap. “We decided it would be a good time to explore Kastelia City,” she says. “I wish you were feeling better.”

  Disappointment tumbles inside me. I would love nothing more than to get out of Ivory Hall for a few hours, but I can’t very well stage a miraculous recovery after such a short time. “Me too,” I say. “But I hope you have fun.”

  Bram is studying me with a dissecting expression. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing is wrong with me,” I say. “I’m just tired.”

  His eyes hold mine. “We’re all tired. There’s something you’re not telling us.”

  Linnea puts a hand on his elbow. “Come on now. No need to interrogate her.”

  Bram ignores her. “Your skin is all splotchy.”

  The comment makes my cheeks flame. I can almost feel the ruddiness creeping down my neck and chest.

  Talon laughs. “It’s the fair skin,” he says. “I get a bit spotty too when I’m ill.”

  “Saskia gets splotchy when she’s nervous,” Bram says. I press a palm to my neck. My skin is on fire.

  “And also when I’m ill,” I say defensively, which is true, though my voice trembles on the words. Bram’s gaze makes me feel as if I’ve been turned inside out for inspection.

  Tessa purses her lips and touches the inside of my wrist with her fingertips. “Your pulse is fast. Maybe I should stay here with you.”