The Gleaning, Spellspinners Series #2 (The Spellspinners of Melas County)

by Kling, Heidi R.

  “Do you wish to turn the carriage around and take me home,” I said, disappointment haunting my voice, “if I’m not dressed properly?”

  I held my breath. I didn’t want him to take that bait.

  This boy was a bit of a snob, but I wasn’t having a terrible time. In fact, compared to my normal evenings of helping mother with her mending, it felt like a dream. A bit of a frosty spider-webbed dream, but a dream nonetheless.

  “Now that would be a shame wouldn’t it?” William responded. “To waste that pretty dress on a dull evening at home?”

  At the compliment my lip raised at the edges.

  His lips almost did the same, but then his eyes iced over again. He held his palm out. “Please.”

  He took my small hand in his palm, cradling it almost. My heart stood still, and I didn’t dare breathe as he slowly peeled the silky fabric from each of my fingers, gingerly, as if he were unwrapping a bandage.

  Heat rushed like a volcanic river from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.

  I was frozen to my seat. I thought of a million things to say, yet could say nothing.

  Time stopped.

  When he was finally finished with the artful untangling, he dangled the limp glove from his two fingertips as if it was a rotten fish, then he balled it up and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Aware of the distaste on his etched face, I sat quietly for the remainder of the journey.

  I had never seen so much beauty in all my life.

  As our wheels crunched up the long, graveled drive, I watched stunning couples escape their carriages and stroll up candle lit paths that intertwined like a labyrinth before disappearing through wide open doors into the ballroom of a majestic mansion. The gowns sparkled and glittered as they swirled around the ankles of angel-lovely creatures, eyes hidden behind masks attached to little wands over their eyes. I turned to my escort with a question in my own eyes.

  “It’s a Masquerade ball,” William said in a cloying tone. “Let me guess, you are not prepared for Bal masque?”

  “Masquerade?”

  The boy sighed, but I could see amusement in his eyes. “Where did Father dig you up?” he drawled with his almost Southern lilt. I wondered if his family had moved north recently. I made a note to ask him later should he be willing to talk. “A Masquerade. Disguise your eyes?”

  I shook my head. I knew not of the term, and I hated how his tone made me feel inferior.

  “Worry not, pretty girl. I’m nearly positive they will have extras once we are inside,” he said with a smile.

  I let out a slow, cool breath.

  “You’ll have to stop doing that,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. “You are giving me the chills.”

  He stared at me knowingly, and then licked his lip quickly. My heart raced, and electricity coursed through my body.

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “My blood runs cold.”

  “Yes, in the cab you mentioned that you prefer summer months. Perhaps dancing will warm you up,” he said thoughtfully as if thinking about something else.

  Had I thought that out loud?. I met his eyes then. “Perhaps,” I said with a confused blush.

  Nothing but the direct heat of the sun ever seemed to warm me, but perhaps dancing with this boy would. We sat in thick silence until the door was opened for us. The boy gestured for me to exit the carriage first. I bit my lip and half stood, not wanting to trip over my long gown, and lifted the bottom of it up into the air as I started clambering out of the carriage, none too gracefully.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the boy, still leaning back with that same mocking grin on his face, as if he couldn’t believe where he was.

  I was starting to think he was not a nice boy.

  Or at the very least a spoiled one.

  But when I faced forward again, bracing myself to land on the gravel, his outstretched hand caught mine, and he was helping me out of the carriage.

  “How did you do that?”

  “You aren’t the only one with secrets, Rose.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, he tucked my arms properly through his, and I felt, at once, safe and thrilled, tucked by his side.

  I was aware of the many stares as we walked up the center, mutters and sighs and brilliant colored eyes peered over their masks.

  It was clear to me from the looks and stares that my escort wasn’t just any warlock. But I couldn’t determine whether he was popular or hated.

  I gasped as we entered the room.

  Inside, festive music of violins and horns filled the air. Smiling boys so handsome in their top hats, ascots, and long coats bowed to girls, positively effervescent in their ball gowns, dipping under their gold and silver masks, with the most alluring and confident of expressions. Princesses all of them, fairy creatures of storybooks, dressed in creams and apricots, lavenders and pinks.

  I embraced the perfume of flowers, the harmony of music, the composition of song.

  Like tumbling into a symphony; a garden of petunias and roses and irises and lilies, the Bal masque smelled like mom and auntie and grandmother, like me. Except we were like a small bouquet in a glass vase and this was a jungle of flowers, an enchanted forest, a chorus of music. A kingdom of magic.

  “Subtle,” my handsome escort said, as if he read my mind. “The smell of a witch.”

  The smell of flowers? The smell of flowers is the smell of a witch?

  “How dare you!”

  “It’s daring to speak the truth? You are a strange one, Miss Rose.” Infuriating boy. We were a lot of things, but we were not a family of witches. Witches were upper class, wealthy, privileged. To insinuate that I, a poor girl, could be one of them was an insult to the magic class in general, and insulting to me. To get my hopes up like that. To make me think I could be one of them.

  “You should stop speaking like this, I am an outsider, and while I’m proud to be here on your arm, I wish not to cause a scene.”

  “I apologize. You just…continue to surprise me. I thought you knew.”

  “Knew?”

  Suddenly the crowd of eyes enveloped us. Soon we’d be dancing, too. I was pushed from him, and he easily reached a hand out, weaving my arm back through his own. It was a kind gesture, and I felt a rush of gratitude.

  That was the moment reality ceased to exist and in its stead Magic took over the room.

  Like nothing I’d ever seen before, the room itself and everything in it, was bewitched. Flower petals floated through the air, sparkling candelabras hovered above every surface, as if dangling from invisible strings, and the dancers? They floated two inches above the floor as they spun.

  “I’m guessing you’ve never been to a ball?”

  “Not one like this.”

  “Ah, you are in for a treat, then! I’ve been to dozens, and they never get old. It’s the one time we’re allowed to display our magic in public.”

  “How does that work?”

  The warlock shrugged slightly. “There are just too many of us to stop,” he said with a confident grin. “Honestly, from the human point of view, it’s only a ball. All you see is people dancing, correct?”

  Was I not to notice the floating candles? The rose petals traipsing through the air?

  “Dancing, yes.”

  At that his eyes narrowed. Did he know what I saw? “There’s a great deal you don’t know about the power of magic,” he said. “Then again, why would you, being an average human girl and all?" His words felt weighted with unspoken meaning.

  I felt exposed, and not a little bit concerned. Magic was a quiet word in my house, something whispered behind closed doors— not a word used in polite conversation. Though Mother didn’t discuss it with me, I knew magic somehow played a part in her life, and maybe even in mine. From the time I was a little girl, I’d known I was different, but nothing was ever explained to me. I knew magic was practiced openly in some circles, but it was for others, not for ordinary girls like me. Magic was something taught in elite, seclu
ded schools, whereas Mother taught me ordinary lessons at home with a little chalkboard. I learned my letters and basic sums. Nothing was special about me.

  Except…when it was.

  Like the fact that I could cool my too-hot bathwater with the wind of my breath. The fact that I could warm my ice-cold room with the flick of my fingers.

  I knew nothing about how to control it, but I did have some sort of strange power, and I knew Mother found it dangerous, frightening. I asked her about it once when I was young, maybe six or seven. We were walking home in a snowstorm. Bitter cold, the snow crunched under our feet. I rubbed my arms to stay warm, my coat so worn it did little to fight the chills. “Stay close, Rose,” Mother warned.

  Not wanting to lose her in the blizzard, I obeyed, tugging on the back of her own worn coat, trying to keep up. But then my eye caught something in the snow. I let go of Mother’s cloak, only for a second, and reached down for the round, glassy object. It was a watch, with a black leather band. The most beautiful object I’d ever seen, and it worked. Even though I knew stealing was wrong, I slipped it into my pocket. I would give it to my father when he returned from the war.

  When I looked back up for Mother, I was greeted by a fierce blast of snow. Biting my nose, stinging my cheeks and eyes. I feared icicles might grow on my eyelashes and blind me.

  “Mother!” I cried. “Mother!”

  Nothing but howling storm.

  I searched in every direction. My young stomach burned with panic, like lava preparing to burst from a volcano. “Mother!”

  I closed my eyes, focusing on the heat, focusing on my voice.

  “I’m here!”

  I knew, from walking this road on clear days, that houses surrounded us on either side. Warm welcoming inviting houses, but mother said I was never to talk to strangers so I didn’t dare knock on one of their doors. In the window of one of the houses I saw the flickering of light. Candelabra.

  Though I couldn’t see well because of the blizzard, I could See it with my inner eye. It glowed in the window between thick, red curtains, and I thought how lucky the people must be who lived there. Just then, a little girl appeared in the window holding a porcelain doll fashioned in her likeness, with blue eyes and thick, plaited golden hair. The girl’s dress was rich velvet and lace. Even the doll’s velvet frock was finer than any dress I’d ever owned.

  As she stared out, I felt as if I could read her thoughts. She was wondering what it must feel like to be too poor for a warm coat. To be caught in a storm without a fur hat and mittens.

  Open the window. I whispered the words in my head.

  My eyes focused on the flame of the candles that burned in front of her. Help me.

  I stared, not believing my eyes, as the little girl paused, then leaned forward, and pulled the window up, letting the snowflakes flutter in from the outside. She leaned her head out the window and looked up into the air. Tongue sticking out, she let gentle snowflakes fall across her face, dance across her golden hair. I could feel her smile, her happiness. I could taste her freedom.

  It was then that I borrowed her fire.

  “So, Miss Rose, do you now believe in magic?” William looked down at me with a sly smile.

  “I always have,” I said, retreating back to the present.

  He cocked his head, and I observed again how very handsome he looked in his top hat. “I’m surprised.”

  “Are you? Why?”

  “I didn’t think many average humans believed,” he said with a rise of his brow.

  “What is there not to believe? I find it is only a fool who doubts what can not be proven untrue, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course.”

  “There is so much…unexplained in this world. I cannot imagine one saying, ‘I believe this to be true without an inkling of doubt but I have no proof!’ It goes round the same way with the opposite. With the not believing.”

  He leaned in. “And if something is proven true?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t necessarily need proof, sir. But this…is certainly delightful to see.” I opened my palms up to show off the floating roses, candelabras, dancing magic.

  “You surprise me, Rose.”

  “I do. How?”

  He paused as if carefully considering his words. “How are you able to self-deceive like that? I don’t mean to be rude, but human girls tend to not be as interesting as the girls who practice magic. And you Rose, are an interesting girl. May I confess something to you?” Before waiting for me to answer, he asked anyway. “I didn’t want to come out with you tonight.”

  “I understood that from the moment we met.”

  “You knew?” William’s face reddened and his brow knitted with what looked like guilt. “I apologize. It’s just that Father had sent me on so many of these dates lately. You see, he insists I marry a mortal girl. It’s entirely out of the question. Warlocks marry witches, it’s how it’s always been.” He lowered his voice. “I’m telling you this, Rose, because something about you makes me trust you. I can trust you, can’t I, Rose?”

  Why would his father, a powerful warlock, encourage his son to marry a magic-less woman? It made no sense. It was equally nonsensical for him to ask me. But for some reason I felt compelled to listen to this warlock’s confession, never mind flattered that he wanted to share something so personal with me, in that moment, a total stranger.

  “Yes,” I said. “You can trust me.”

  As if reading my thoughts, the warlock leaned forward. “It would be a shame to let all this wonder go to waste. May I have this dance?”

  I sucked in a breath, nodding as he leaned forward, close, so close to my chest that I could feel his warm breath on my throat as my chest rose and fell.

  “You may,” I said.

  He bowed to me, and I curtsied, with the full of my skirt, and in this room I felt confident and strong.

  The magic filled my heart, my stomach, and my blood with dancing faeries and though the night was cold, I felt the content flush of lying in freshly cut grass. The deeply relaxed feeling of melting deep into soft silky strands of brilliant green under an intense summer sun.

  The waltz began, and he breathed into my ear, “Do you know the steps?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Ah, wonderful.”

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  The journal entry fascinated me, though I couldn’t quite interpret Rose’s message. She told the story of how, as a young girl, she’d received an invitation from an aristocratic young warlock, to be his companion at a ball masque. She’d never met him, and as a poor seamstress’s daughter, she felt unworthy to attend such an elegant event. She was not a member of the elite Spellspinner community, who were trained in ancient magical arts at secluded academies around the world.

  Rose’s own foray into magic was a carefully guarded secret—something she and her mother acknowledged only in glances and never discussed outright. So when her handsome, yet peculiar, escort, William, confessed that his father had chosen her to be his companion because she was an ordinary human, Rose grew even more perplexed about what was expected of her. Charming one minute, intimidating the next, William made her feel as though she was walking a tightrope.

  But as I read further, I realized William already knew she was far from ordinary. In her description of their first dance, it seemed clear to me that their attraction was fate.

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  When the driver opened the door and waved me inside, my escort glanced up for only a second, a small sardonic smile playing on the corners of his mouth. I was immediately self-conscious that I’d become the butt of a private joke. After smoothing my heavy skirts beneath me, I entered the cab without the aid of his hand, and sat on the plush leather seat to his right.

  When he greeted me, his voice was low but much like his lips, it curled at the edge, as if he might be disguising a friendlier voice behind this purposeful gruffness.

  Suddenly, I was aware of my inadequacies. He was surely judging me. And why shouldn’t he? A boy of stature and wealth escorting me, the daughter of a seamstress, to a ball?

  Perhaps, with these ill manners, he is not my intended companion after all? Perhaps he is only a stable boy and my real escort is tied up in a stall full of horse droppings waiting to be rescued.

  As if hearing my thoughts, he smiled wider, the polite smile of a gentleman greeting a lady, a tiny dimple curved into his cheek.

  “That’s better,” I said out loud.

  But his eyes didn’t match his smile. They were hard; even in the dark, I noted the ice shivering on the surface of the blue. Not blue, really. An almost lavender, if that could in fact be a true color for eyes. The violet irises were iridescent, translucent almost, and polished like the ribbon of his top hat, like the crystals that hung over Mother’s bed frame, dancing in the light.

  In comparison, the sleeves of my dress felt crumpled and tight. My skirts so thick they felt foreign.