Her own condition was rather fragile. Since discovering that terrifying note in her book, Hazel’s life had changed. Sigga Fenn escorted her and Isabel everywhere from their general classes in Old College to their private Mystics lessons. She could not go anywhere without that lithe figure trailing like a shadow. Hazel wondered if the Grislander ever slept.
She glanced back at Sigga, who sat in one of the chairs by the door. If anyone could put the Red Branch to sleep, it was Master Montague. To Hazel’s horror, she found that her bodyguard was not only awake but had been joined by Dàme Rascha. At some point during the class, the vye must have slipped in to observe her pupil. Judging by her scowl, she was not impressed.
The master’s voice boomed out.
“Your Highness, if you would be so kind as to answer the question.”
Hazel turned to find the master staring at her expectantly. So were sixteen other girls, her sisters among them. Isabel looked hopeful, Violet detached. Hazel reddened. “Could you repeat it?”
“Of course,” said the master sarcastically. “Why should someone of my knowledge and experience expect young royalty to pay attention? Surely, Her Highness has all the answers.”
“I am sorry,” said Hazel earnestly. “If you would please repeat the question.”
The master resumed his customary pacing. “What are the Transcontinentals, where do their branches originate, and why were they founded?”
Hazel was mortified. She knew nothing about the Transcontinentals other than they were trains that presumably traveled long distances. Somehow, she did not think this would satisfy the master. Still, a bit of fluff could go a long way. She’d seen Uncle Basil talk for hours without saying anything.
“The Transcontinentals,” she began, “are locomotive trains. Specific branch locations are a matter for debate, but they almost certainly originate far away. The trains were created to convey people from one place to another. We should all be very grateful for their existence.”
The class laughed, but the master simmered. He cast a disparaging glance at Dàme Rascha as though she was to blame for Hazel’s ignorance. “I’m an old man,” he replied drily. “My remaining time is too precious to waste on such drivel. Who can provide a satisfactory answer?”
Isabel’s hand shot in the air. The master ignored it and turned his attention to Imogene Hyde, who spoke with languid superiority.
“Transcontinentals are colossal locomotives capable of traveling at one hundred miles per hour. There are five branches that converge upon Crossroads Station in Impyria. Their points of origin are Cey-Atül, Santa Mina, Navaché in the Archipelago Tropique, Ferropolis, and Saltmarsh. They came into being after the Rising of 648 when farmers demanded a cheaper way of getting their crops to market. In response, Empress Mina the Seventh authorized the Workshop to lay tracks and revive steam engine technology that had been lost to muir during the Cataclysm. By the early 900s, regional freight networks allowed the Transcontinentals to be repurposed as passenger trains to convey mehrùn and wealthy muir throughout the western empire.”
“And why are trains preferable to widespread highways and motorcars?” pressed the master.
Imogene lifted her chin. “They’re far easier to control. Mobility is limited to those who can afford tickets. As a result, few muir ever journey more than thirty miles from their birthplace. This reduces unrest.”
The master bowed his bald, shining head. “Excellent, Lady Imogene. I am gratified to see someone apply herself. Others could learn from your example.”
Hazel stared daggers at the master. This was Imogene’s third year learning this muirish gobbledygook while the Faeregines had barely begun taking classes at Rowan. Until this past September, Hazel had studied solely with Rascha, who had spent her entire life with mystics and witches. The vye knew little more than she did about the Muirlands or Workshop contraptions. Besides, the master was a Montague, a house dependent on Hyde patronage. It was shameless how he favored Imogene. So what if she’d been right?
Straight above them, Old Tom’s bells tolled five o’clock. A piebald homunculus, a man-shaped creature with bat-like wings, flew from its window perch and settled on the master’s shoulder as he wrote their homework on the board in meticulous copperplate. That was another reason to dislike him, Hazel decided. People with perfect handwriting never had a sense of humor. Violet had flawless penmanship. Hazel’s defied legibility.
“You’re making us look bad,” Isabel muttered as they filed behind their classmates toward the door. Violet had already left, gliding past Dàme Rascha and Sigga where Omani Kruger, another member of the Red Branch, was waiting in the hallway. As Heiress, Violet had her own bodyguard.
Hazel shifted the heavy book under her arm. “What do I care about trains? I’ve never been on one. Probably never will.”
“It’s not about trains,” said Isabel. “And you know that perfectly well.”
Before Hazel could reply, they had reached Dàme Rascha and Sigga. The vye handed the girls their coats and scarves from the nearby stand and managed a curt nod to the master as he swept past them to meet with his graduate students. It was common knowledge that the master viewed his time with the “court brats” as a distraction from his real work. But he had little choice in the matter. It was tradition that the young nobility should study under Rowan’s top scholars. The master would have to grin and bear it. Unfortunately, so would Hazel.
As this was the final class of the afternoon, Hazel, Isabel, Dàme Rascha, and Sigga walked down the portrait-lined hallway to the stairwell where older Rowan students conversed in little cliques. From their robes, Hazel could see they were fifth and sixth years. Most would hail from houses of lesser nobility; some would even be mehrùn born to muir parents in the outer provinces. All would be brilliant.
Only the very best students received invitations to study at Rowan. The rest attended other schools of magic scattered throughout the empire. The fact that children from the Great Houses received automatic admission triggered resentment from those who had to earn their places. It was evident in the stony looks as they passed. Even so, Hazel wished she could stay put. Rascha would not reprimand her in front of strangers, and Hazel knew a storm was brewing.
The storm broke once they descended Old Tom’s steps.
“. . . never been so humiliated,” the vye seethed, as the four walked toward Tùr an Ghrian’s gleaming white spire. “One would think you spend all day playing with dolls. What have you to say?”
“Nothing,” said Hazel, who was not in the mood to be lectured. An icy wind was swirling about the quad, whipping her white hair about. Pulling up her hood, she began planning her evening. If she mastered Anatovsky’s Spectrum on her own, that might appease Rascha. Afterward, she could send for cocoa and read a story while snowflakes melted on her window. If Uncle Basil were around, she might have borrowed one of his storybooks. Lord Faeregine collected Pre-Cataclysm texts and spent a small fortune to have them magically restored. Hazel cast a longing glance at Maggie, a sprawling gray building where he kept an office. To her surprise, a light shone in the window.
“Uncle Basil’s in!” she cried, darting past several professors conversing beneath a witchfire lamp.
Isabel groaned. “Come back. We’ve got Mystics now.”
“So?” said Hazel, hurrying toward the building.
“There’s only one Sigga.”
“Go with Violet,” said Hazel, pointing ahead where their sister was talking with the Castile twins. On Mondays, Isabel and Violet studied Mystics with their tutors atop Tùr an Ghrian. They would be in different rooms, but the rooms were practically adjoining. Surely a Red Branch would watch two princesses for a few hours.
As Isabel caught up with Violet, Dàme Rascha and Sigga followed Hazel into Maggie and down the long hallway where a pair of Impyrial guards stood outside her uncle’s office.
“I’m here to see Lord Faeregine,” said Hazel.
One of the soldiers shook his head. “I’m sorry, You
r Highness, his lordship is not to be disturbed—”
Her uncle’s cheerful voice crackled from an intercom. “Is that my niece? Send her in. Princesses don’t need appointments.”
Bowing, the guardsman opened the door for Hazel, but balked at admitting Sigga. The Grislander brushed past him.
“I go where she goes.”
Hazel always liked visiting Uncle Basil’s office. It was richly decorated in a masculine sort of way with dark wood, old paintings, and fascinating objects lining the glass-fronted bookcases. His work with the Bank of Rowan took him all over the empire, and there was always something new and unusual to be found: carved femurs from the witch ossuaries, a length of enchanted rope, or some taboo figurine from the Lirlanders. At the moment, her uncle was not cooing over a recent acquisition but pouring over ledgers with two junior ministers. He beckoned Hazel over with his unbandaged arm. She offered her customary peck and asked how he was.
“Physically, emotionally, or spiritually?” he quipped. “The arm is mending, thank you. And I flatter myself that I’m becoming less grotesque by the day.”
Hazel considered him. The whites of his eyes were no longer bloody and his nose had recovered its original shape. But despite his attempts at humor, his face betrayed the heavy toll recent events had taken.
“I think you look wonderful,” said Hazel.
Her uncle sighed. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.” He nodded to Hazel’s companions. “Nice to see you again, Dàme Rascha. Agent Fenn, I believe this is our first meeting, but I’m well acquainted with your reputation.”
Sigga bowed.
“Why aren’t you working at the bank?” asked Hazel.
He gestured with his good arm at the mountain of ledgers. “Can’t get anything done in the city. Reporters hounding me, crying questions from the street. ‘Have any arrests been made? Are the Lirlander Seals safe?’” A squiggly vein throbbed at his temple. “One had the temerity to ask if I thought nepotism was to blame. Insufferable little twit.”
Hazel peered at a sheet covered in cryptic names and numbers. “It all looks very complicated.”
Lord Faeregine laughed. “If only it was that simple. These aren’t accounts, my dear. It’s the lineup for the Impyrial Stakes.”
That ridiculous horse race, Hazel thought. She hoped he hadn’t seen her roll her eyes.
“It should be splendid, particularly if Hellfyre and Mistral remain unbeaten.”
Hazel knew nothing about racing other than it seemed fussy and anticlimactic. Such drama over an event that lasted a few minutes. This time her uncle read her disinterest.
“I take it you didn’t stop by to discuss Thoroughbreds?”
“No,” said Hazel. “I wanted to see you. And perhaps borrow a book?”
“Ah,” said Lord Faeregine. “The truth comes out. Where’s my Little Mermaid?”
“On my nightstand,” said Hazel coyly. “I’ll return it later.”
Her uncle scoffed and turned to his ministers. “Forget those vault imposters. My niece is the cleverest thief in the empire. Slowly but surely, she’s transferring my collection to her bookcase. Behold the evidence.” He pointed to the top shelf of a glassed case where a row of priceless books had several vacancies.
“Your collection is safe, Lord Faeregine,” said Dàme Rascha. “Her Highness will not be borrowing any more stories until she gets her studies in order.”
Lord Faeregine raised an eyebrow at his niece. “Which class?”
Hazel scowled. “Master Montague. He’s the worst.”
Uncle Basil gave an understanding nod. “I had him too. Prickly fellow. Rather uncompromising.”
“Exactly!” said Hazel, glancing triumphantly at Dàme Rascha. She wasn’t the problem—Montague was a beast!
The vye folded her arms. “Repeat your definition of the Transcontinentals.”
Hazel readily complied, knowing Uncle Basil was always one for a laugh. To her chagrin, he looked anything but amused.
“Dàme Rascha’s right,” he said sternly. “No more storybooks until you make a better showing. The Transcontinentals are critical, particularly with the Lirlanders threatening to challenge our agreement. If ocean travel is jeopardized, trains become more important than ever. You’re a bright girl, Hazel. Surely you see that.”
“She does not see that,” said Dàme Rascha stiffly.
Hazel regretted coming. Rascha was going to use this opportunity to air her grievances.
“Her Highness’s knowledge of everything but Mystics and fairy tales is negligible,” the vye continued. “Isabel knew more about practical matters at eight than Hazel does at twelve.”
“Come now,” said Lord Faeregine. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“I do not. Her Highness cannot even name the greater provinces of the western empire. Don’t even bother asking her about those in the east or Zenuvia.”
“I don’t need to know these things,” Hazel insisted. “Violet’s going to be empress. And Isabel will be a diplomat or something important.”
“And what do you intend to be?” asked Dàme Rascha quietly.
Hazel glanced about the office, at its sumptuous trappings and treasures. “A banker.”
Her uncle sighed. “I know you’re joking, but even bankers have to know geography, Hazel. Just the other—”
He broke off as a knock sounded at the door. A page entered the room wearing a chain displaying the Faeregine crest encircled by a serpentine dragon. The young man stood at attention.
“The Divine Empress requests your company for supper.”
Lord Faeregine groaned at the formalities. “She’s my mother for heaven’s sake. Of course I’ll dine with her.”
The page bowed. “The invitation is for Her Highness.”
Hazel stared. “For me?”
“Will you be joining Her Radiance?”
“I . . . of course,” said Hazel. What other answer could she give? One did not refuse an invitation from the empress. Not that Hazel had much experience weighing invitations from her grandmother; this was the first she had ever received. The day was shaping up to be a disaster.
Uncle Basil looked equally shocked. “What does my mother want with her?” he asked.
“The empress does not confide in servants, my lord.”
Uncle Basil frowned. “Will her sisters be attending?”
“I am required only to fetch Her Highness.”
Hazel’s legs felt rubbery. The Spider wanted to see her alone? Sitting across from those black, unblinking eyes would be terrifying. She pursed her lips.
“Well,” said Uncle Basil, “I’m afraid you’d better go. Thank you for visiting. When you’ve righted your academic ship, you may steal another book.”
To Hazel’s surprise, Sigga Fenn spoke up.
“Where is your guard, my lord?”
Lord Faeregine looked puzzled. “Just outside the door.”
“Not the toy soldiers,” said the agent bluntly. “Your real guard. Surely Lord Faeregine has proper security after what happened at the vault. It would concern me if you did not.”
A twinkle shone in Uncle Basil’s eyes. “You’re in good hands, Hazel. Let’s put Agent Fenn at ease, shall we, Harkün?”
A shadow materialized in the corner and solidified into a very tall, cadaverous man with ancient ogham runes carved into his black skin. He carried no weapons that Hazel could see, but she almost recoiled from him. He did not speak, but raised his hand upright. He also bore a Red Branch tattoo.
“Satisfied?” said Lord Faeregine.
Sigga nodded curtly. “Yes, my lord. Good night.”
Laying a hand on Hazel’s shoulder, Agent Fenn steered her out the door. She did not let go until they had reached the bottom of Maggie’s steps.
“What was that about?” asked Hazel.
Sigga glanced back at the curtained window. “I don’t like that he remained hidden. Harkün could have posed a danger to you.”
“Why?” said Hazel. “You’r
e both in the Red Branch.”
Sigga shook her head. “If Harkün’s assigned to Lord Faeregine, that’s his only concern. He wouldn’t hesitate to neutralize anyone he deemed a threat. Even you. I prefer to know when someone like that is nearby.”
Hazel shook off a shudder. “He felt like death.”
The Grislander eyed a group of passing students. “I’m not surprised. I’ve heard Harkün’s fond of graveyards.”
Dàme Rascha chuffed. “Nonsense. Necromancy’s illegal.”
This was true. The vye would not even touch upon anything to do with necromancy in their lessons, but Hazel knew that its practitioners sought mastery over death. The study reputedly involved all manner of grisly spellwork and experiments.
Sigga was less squeamish. “It’s hard to hunt necromancers if you don’t understand their practices. Everyone in the Red Branch has dabbled. Some more than others.”
The page was ahead, waiting at a respectful distance on the shoveled walk. They followed him through the ancient gates that separated Rowan from the palace grounds. Straight ahead, a turreted sculpture of reddish stone loomed against the cloudless evening. Lights shone in countless windows, including those in a relatively inconspicuous tower overlooking a courtyard. Hazel eyed it with dread.
The page led them into a Faeregine wing that was off-limits to visitors. Up, up the marble steps they climbed, past sculptures and portraits, reflecting pools and fountains. Their footsteps could not drown out the thumping of Hazel’s heart.
What did her grandmother want with her? She ruled out anything do with the master. The empress did not deal with trivialities. This had to be something bigger, something family related. Hazel reflected that the Spider had not even mentioned her in the succession announcement. Could she be sending Hazel away? Was she going to be disowned? Hazel had never felt or even looked like a Faeregine. Only Isabel and Uncle Basil had ever showed her kindness; the rest of the family—even distant cousins—seemed to endure her out of necessity. Now that succession was settled, what if she was expendable?
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