Chantress

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  “Moonbriar?” Deeps said. “Yes. She’s going to sing—”

  “No,” I said to Deeps. The lure of Wild Magic had faded. “I told you I can’t. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”

  “I should think so, after what happened last time,” Nat said, but his manner toward me gentled.

  “Just because she had a bit of trouble when she went into Scargrave’s mind,” Deeps began.

  “A bit of trouble?” Nat repeated incredulously. “She nearly died, Master Deeps.”

  Deeps suddenly looked rather ill himself. “Nearly died?” he said to me. “Dear lady, I did not know. Sir Barnaby told us only that there had been unforeseen difficulties.”

  “He thought it best not to discuss her weaknesses in too much detail,” Nat said.

  “He hasn’t wanted to discuss her at all,” Deeps said, and there was real grievance in his voice as he turned to me. “We are to leave you alone for six months, he said, so you can learn proper magic. As if you weren’t doing proper magic already! It’s a waste, a dreadful waste.”

  “I thought the IC told each other everything,” I said to Nat.

  “The details of every mission? No,” Nat said. “We could not survive that way. And you, particularly, are a well-guarded secret. Only a few of us even know where you are. Deeps is one of them.” He gave his colleague a reproachful look. “We thought you could be trusted.”

  “Of course I can be,” Deeps said heatedly. “To the last breath.”

  Nat pointed to the vial again. “Then why have you brought that stuff here?”

  “I wish only to ascertain the whereabouts and condition of my cousin Josiah. Nothing more.”

  “I heard he’d gone missing,” Nat said. “I’m sorry. But you know as well as I do that such things have happened before, without us looking to magic to solve our problems.”

  “But matters are so much worse now,” Deeps argued. “Have you noticed how many more Watchmen Scargrave has on patrol? And how many people he’s sent to the Feeding Room this month alone? He’s drawing his net tighter and tighter around London. If he captures Josiah, we’ll be the ones netted next, and the Shadowgrims will feast on our every secret. We have to keep my cousin safe.”

  “Not at Lucy’s expense.” Nat’s voice was quiet, but there was iron in it.

  “But surely there’s no real risk,” Deeps said. “It’s Josiah we’re talking about, not Scargrave. And we know it’s his hair on the brush, and his handkerchief, so there can be no mistake there.”

  “And what if Josiah is dead?” Nat asked. “Or what if he’s been captured? What if he’s become one of the Ravens’ Own? What happens to Lucy then? I tell you she could die.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as we all contemplated this.

  “She’s the only Chantress we’ve got,” Nat said.

  “Poor Josiah,” Deeps said with a sigh, but without another protest, he tucked the moonbriar back inside his cloak.

  “How did you get hold of those seeds, anyway?” Nat asked. “It’s hard to believe Sir Barnaby would allow you to bring them here.”

  “They aren’t his. They’re mine.” Deeps blushed. “I, er . . . kept a bit back after one of our expeditions.”

  “What?” Nat looked aghast.

  Tugging at his rumpled lace, Deeps defended himself. “I was curious. And it was only a very little bit, you understand. But then my cousin disappeared, and—”

  “I can guess at the rest,” Nat said.

  “I was quite careful with it,” Deeps said, still red-faced. “And as you see, no harm was done.”

  “And no harm will be done,” Nat said, “because we’re going to give it over to Sir Barnaby right now.” He went to the door.

  Deeps looked flustered, but he reluctantly followed Nat’s lead. At the door, he bowed to me. “Madam.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hated how feeble the words sounded. He’d come to me hoping for help, and I was turning him away with nothing. “I hope your cousin comes home safe.”

  “I hope so too,” Deeps said mournfully. “But we can’t risk your life on it, dear lady. I do see that.”

  Nat put a hand to the latch. “I wish I could come again this week, but I can’t,” he said to me. “I have to go out again right away. I should be back before the month is out.”

  Away again, so soon? I tried to cover up my disappointment. “Lady Helaine is sleeping,” I said. “If you can get out before she wakes . . .”

  There was no need to finish the sentence. Nat was already ushering Deeps out the door. Just before he closed it, however, he looked back at me.

  “The seeds didn’t hurt you?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Another searching look, and then the flash of his smile. “Good.”

  The door shut, and he vanished from sight.

  † † †

  Minutes after Nat and the others had left, Lady Helaine strode into the room, her manner as regal as ever. Despite her nap, not a single silver hair was out of place. “I heard voices.”

  “That must have been me.” It would do no good if she found out what Deeps had asked of me.

  “It sounded much lower than your voice,” Lady Helaine said suspiciously.

  “I was . . . practicing my low tones. And doing some extra breathing exercises.”

  Practice. Exercises. No words were more magic than these, not for Lady Helaine.

  Her harsh voice lightened. “Indeed? Let me hear what you have been doing.”

  I didn’t please her that time, or the next. “Very close is not good enough!” she scolded. “You must be flawless.”

  The day after that, she became more irritable still, for Samuel Deeps disturbed our morning practice, saying he had come to check the firebox was operating properly. Although Lady Helaine did not let him linger, on his way out, he managed to whisper in my ear that his cousin Josiah had returned to London unharmed.

  The news buoyed me up, for Josiah’s fate had been preying on my mind, and I went back to the drills with renewed determination. Aboveground, people were risking their lives to oppose Scargarve; I wanted to try and match their dedication. When Lady Helaine, still visibly annoyed by the interruption, demanded that I run through the full set of exercises, I attacked each one with vigor.

  Three very long days later, I executed all the exercises perfectly. What’s more, I managed to repeat the feat not just once but every time Lady Helaine called on me to perform it. Elated, I beamed at her.

  “You have mastered these, it seems.” From Lady Helaine, the dry words qualified as warmest praise. “I think we may perhaps attempt a song-spell next. A very simple one, for kindling flame.”

  Proven Magic, at long last! Yet something worried me. “What kind of flame?” I asked. “Is it anything like the Shadowgrims’ fire?”

  “Absolutely not.” Lady Helaine looked insulted. “Even if it were within my means, I would not teach you such a thing. The songs I know are for kindling ordinary, useful flame, the kind that lights a candle or a hearth.”

  I was so relieved that I forgot to modulate my breathing as a Chantress should.

  Lady Helaine noticed the slip. “Do not grow lax, goddaughter,” she warned. “When a Chantress sings, she must strive for exactitude in every measure, down to the smallest tremor or the slightest breath. Otherwise, the song-spell will not work—or worse yet, it will work differently than she intended.”

  “I will be diligent, I promise,” I said, subdued.

  “Very well, then,” Lady Helaine said. “We shall begin.” She set a candle on a wide shelf of stone. “Let us see if you can light this.”

  “How?” I began.

  “I am about to tell you. Listen.” She raised her hand as if to hush me. “Stand before me, and clear your mind.”

  I took up the position I had been taught, feet slightly apart, arms resting at my side. Lady Helaine took up this stance too, and within seconds, we were breathing in tandem.

  “Here is the first line of the spell
.” Lady Helaine eked out a melody, her rough voice harsh on the ears but precise. “Sing it back to me.”

  “I don’t understand the words.”

  “There are no words, at least not in the way you mean. All you need to remember is this: Each sound is part of the whole, and the whole is worthless unless every part is there.”

  “But how can I learn the spell if I don’t understand what I’m singing?”

  “You learn them by rote, like every other Chantress before you,” said Lady Helaine. “Song-spells are many-layered and complex, and even a gifted Chantress may take years to understand them fully. Most never do. But the song itself is enough to work magic, even with imperfect understanding. So listen again, carefully, and sing it back to me exactly as I have sung it to you.”

  For the second time, her rough notes grated on my ears. My voice wobbled as I repeated them.

  “Your breathing needs work,” Lady Helaine said. “Try again.”

  The kind of singing she wanted from me was nothing like the Wild Magic I had done before. It made my head buzz, my eyes smart, and my throat burn. But I persisted, singing the phrase again and again and again, as many times as she ordered me to.

  At last Lady Helaine’s face lit up. “Sing it exactly that way. Again!”

  I sang gingerly, straining for the same intonation.

  My godmother’s pale lips split in a smile. “We’ll make a Chantress of you yet.”

  † † †

  Lady Helaine’s words gave me confidence that day. In the fortnight that followed, however, that confidence dwindled to nothing. Despite countless hours of practice, I failed to master the kindling song-spell. By late January, Lady Helaine and I were both growing desperate.

  “Again,” Lady Helaine said grimly, four hours into our fortieth lesson. “Again.”

  I sang the spell once more. Resonance and intensity and intonation: I knew everything had to be correct for magic to happen. But there was a quaver in my breath, a shortness to my phrasing, that I couldn’t seem to fix.

  “I don’t understand it,” Lady Helaine said. “It is the simplest spell in the repertoire. This ought to be child’s play.” She shook her head at me. “You aren’t really trying.”

  I flushed. “I promise you I am.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. And if it is true, then we are lost. The song-spells we need to accomplish the task before us—the song of concealment, and the song that will destroy the grimoire—are far more challenging.”

  I avoided her eyes. “I know.”

  “Be more resolute,” Lady Helaine commanded. “More forceful.”

  I tried again to plow through the song. But the truth was that this kind of singing did not come naturally to me—and the harder I tried, the more alien it felt, as if I were forcing my body to do something it wasn’t meant to do. My throat was rubbed raw, and even the most delicate notes scorched my chest.

  Lady Helaine’s mouth was rigid. “You must work harder! Again!”

  I tried again—and failed.

  The silence that followed was more frigid and awful than ever.

  “You are holding yourself back,” Lady Helaine accused. “You are deliberately holding yourself back.”

  “I am not.” Exhausted and near tears, I tried to keep my voice even. “I am giving this everything I have.”

  “So you say.” Lady Helaine twisted her bone beads so tightly I thought they would snap. “But if that is so, I can only conclude I was wrong about your gift. You don’t have the promise and power I thought you did. Perhaps what power you had has been used up already.”

  I looked at her, horrified. “Is that possible?”

  “Anything is possible with Wild Magic.” She shut her eyes, as if the very sight of me disgusted her. “Whatever the reason, it is clear my training is wasted on you. Our lessons are over.”

  “But—”

  “No pleading. You are a grave disappointment, a sad end to a great family. And I am done with you.” She stalked to the door that led to her bedchamber and slammed it shut behind her.

  I stood by the fire, shaking. How could she walk out on me like that?

  Because she knows you’ll never be worth anything, my mind whispered. You’re the last of your line, an utter failure.

  No. I could not afford to listen to such thoughts. I will succeed, I told myself. I will practice again and again until I succeed.

  But the sentences sounded hollow as I said them. What echoed more loudly were Lady Helaine’s words:

  You are a grave disappointment.

  I am done with you.

  I paced the room, trying to drive the sound of her voice away. But the smoky walls seemed to close in on me like a coffin, smothering me until I could hardly draw breath . . . .

  I had to get out. I had to. I had to.

  I snatched up a lantern, scrabbled at the door latch, and ran off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  At first, the running itself was all I was aware of, that and the sheer relief of escape. It was a while before I realized where my feet were taking me: to the meeting chamber of the Invisible College.

  As good a place as any, I supposed. And since it was well hidden, perhaps better than most.

  I slipped into the deserted chamber, set my lantern on a table, and looked around. I had come here several times during my explorations with Nat, but it felt strange to be here alone. The room was built for a crowd, and the chairs were arranged so that it seemed as if I had an audience before me. I remembered the mind-reading I had done here, and where it had led, and I shivered.

  Not a comfortable room, in any respect. And to make matters worse, there on the table before me was an unlit candle almost exactly the same size and shape as the one I had been trying to light with Lady Helaine. Norrie would say it was a sign. At least, she would if she were able to bear being here.

  But a sign of what? Of my failure? Of my shame?

  Was it a sign that I should keep trying?

  I gripped the table. What if I were to sing right here, without Lady Helaine standing over me, carping and criticizing? Could I make the song-spell work?

  A ghost of a hope, but it put new heart into me. Before my resolve could fade, I focused on the candle and started to sing.

  Nothing happened. Three times I tried, but the candle sat cool and lifeless before me.

  I covered my face. Was it true, what Lady Helaine said—that my magic was gone? Would I never sing an enchantment again?

  I could think of only one way to find out. My hand went to the ruby around my neck. If I took it off and heard no music, then I would know my magic was gone indeed.

  But did I truly dare to take it off? The stone was my one protection against the dangers of Wild Magic—dangers that seemed all the more perilous after these long weeks where I had lived safe from its influence. What if I did hear Wild Magic? What then?

  Mouth dry, I eased the ruby over my head. I won’t listen for more than a second, I promised myself. But I have to know if there’s any magic left.

  The chain cleared my head. For a desolate moment, there was nothing but silence. My heart fell.

  An instant later, the world burst into music—encircling me, charming me, delighting me.

  Only a second, that’s what I had promised myself. But the joy of hearing Wild Magic consumed me. It was as if I had buried half of myself alive, and only now was whole again.

  The songs pulled at me and played with me, begging me to give voice to them.

  I will not sing, I told them. And I meant it. But what harm would it do to listen? I let the ruby drop beside the candle as I listened to the melodies flying around the room. Perhaps it was only an illusion, but I felt as if I half understood what they were saying to me. Had I become a better listener because of my training? If so, perhaps those endless drills had been worth it.

  As I stood there, wondering, a soft and sparkling melody caught my attention. It spoke of flame and heat and lig
ht and warmth, and it came from the candle—or more precisely, from the air above the candle.

  It was a song for kindling flame.

  Or so my mind told me. Unless it was the song itself that spoke to me? Either way, it was impossible not to notice the kinship between this song and the song-spell I had been trying to master.

  I listened to the song again. It was cheerful and bright, like a candle in the window on a dark winter’s night. There was nothing of terror in it, nothing of the raven’s fire. It seemed as safe as a song could be.

  I hummed one note, and then another. One song. How much could it hurt to sing one song?

  It was daytime, so the Shadowgrims were asleep; if I worked a very small bit of Wild Magic now, they would not smell it. And if it worked, then I would know I could still make magic. Surely that was worth something.

  I let the song take hold of me. It couldn’t be sung in my godmother’s style, with my breath rigidly controlled. Instead, it needed me to bend and curve around it, nurturing the music and the spark within.

  A last trilled note, and a flash of heat shot through me—nothing like the Shadowgrims’ scalding terror but instead a dancing, golden light.

  The candle ignited.

  I stared at its glowing wick. Fire. I had created fire from song. After the first shock, jubilation coursed through me. I was a Chantress, and my power still burned bright.

  “What in Hades was that?”

  I whirled around. Nat stood a few feet behind me, bristling like a wildcat.

  I took a step back, hiding the necklace in the folds of my skirts. “What are you doing here?”

  “I got home last night. I was coming to see you.” His eyes swung from me to the flame and then back again. “Why aren’t you wearing your stone?”

  I didn’t want to tell him, but I didn’t need to.

  “You’re doing Wild Magic,” he said an appalled second later. He made it sound like murder in cold blood.

  I lifted my chin. “And what if I am? It’s my business, not yours.”

  “What you do is everyone’s business. Our lives are tied to yours. And here you are, playing with fire.” Anger blazed in his face, and he stepped toward me, so close that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes. “Who put you up to this? Your godmother?”