Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)

by Harper, Molly

  Since my emergency tutoring had involved only the most basic dance instruction, I would be pleading a strained ankle.

  Parents were invited to observe their students’ progress in behaving like miniature adults. And since both Owen and I would be participating, Mrs. Winter would attend. Rather than looking forward to the party, as Mary or any other girl in my position might have, it hung over my head like a dark cloud. No matter how nicely I was dressed or how faithfully I remembered the etiquette lessons Mrs. Winter drilled into my head, I was sure the Guardian crowd would sniff out the imposter amongst them the moment I arrived.

  “Now, we must re-think your gloves,” Mrs. Winter said, carefully peeling away the charred remains of my gloves. “It’s a shame to waste all of Madame DuPont’s work, but it would be a greater shame to cover that mark. And, if you will notice, you don’t really need them anymore.”

  Gasping, I lifted my hands closer to my face. The fingertips were smooth and soft, like baby’s skin. It was as if the roughness of my skin, the callouses left behind by years of hard work, had burned away to leave these smooth, soft hands. Even the faded burns on my wrists from handling hot cooking pans were gone. Did that mean all of my scars were gone? My skinned knees? The mark on my neck where Mary had accidentally burned me with a pair of curling tongs? Somehow that made me sad, as if the last bits of Sarah Smith had been scrubbed away, leaving this new stranger.

  “I don’t know if I should show it off,” I said, rubbing my hands against my skirts. “Maybe it would be better to hide it, to keep the other girls from getting jealous.”

  “No false modesty, Cassandra. It would be unattractive and dull. That is a mark of prestige that women in my circle would give their eye-teeth for. That is the mark of great spellwork, when casting opens a Guardian’s magical core and uses iron from the caster’s own body to form the image. It is the price we pay for greatness, and is considered quite the magical accomplishment to achieve such a mark.”

  “But I’ve never seen this sort of mark on any of your society friends,” I protested.

  “Because they don’t have them. I don’t have one, myself,” she said, stroking an absent hand along her corseted ribs. “You must be strong, having a gift like that will set you even further apart from the students. When the magic inside of us gives us these gifts, it is not our place to ask why or whether a mistake has been made. It is our responsibility to make the most of them. I did not give you this life so that you could hide behind closed doors and library shelves. You, my dear girl, are clearly meant for more.”

  I didn’t have the nerve to tell her that she hadn’t given me this life. Magic had dropped it in my lap.

  “How is any of this possible?” I asked, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I’m not a Guild Guardian. I only know how to do the most basic magic, and most of that is accidental. I shouldn’t have been able to talk to the book, or whatever it is that I did.”

  For the briefest of moments, the pretense drained away from Mrs. Winter’s face.

  “I do not know. The uncertainty is as infuriating as it is frightening. This is not supposed to be the way the world works.” She took a deep breath and her resentful tone became light and breezy. “All I know is that you have been given a great gift. And, should you listen to me, you will be able to parlay this gift into a lifetime of security and comfort.”

  I nodded and cleared my throat. “Speaking of symbols, the celestial ceiling, in the library, there’s a strange sort of smudged mark in the glass. What happened there?”

  Mrs. Winter sniffed, “Oh, that. It was during my second year here at Castwells. We woke up one morning to a terrible fuss in the library. The faculty wouldn’t let us in for two days. None of the girls knew what had been done to the ceiling, only that Headmistress Chawton was highly displeased that one of her girls had vandalized a very expensive gift from the alumni. They spent hours questioning us, but never managed to find out who did it. They just hushed it up. I may have mentioned to Headmistress Chawton that as a descendant of House Benisse, Dora Lockwood would be more inclined to such a prideful display, attempting to add the Lockwood peacock feather quill sigil to the ceiling. While Headmistress Chawton assured me that the feather quill wasn’t the image added to the glass, Dora did not appreciate my pointing a finger in her direction. She may or may not have hexed my bed curtains to come to life in the night and slap me across the face whenever I was about to drift off to sleep.”

  Bernisse House Sigil

  “Headmistress Lockwood is related to House Benisse?” I gasped, remembering the headmistress’s severe, unflattering clothes and greying hair. The Benisse family was known for their ability to produce beauty glamours and love spells so convincing that the recipients swore they’d enjoyed a whirlwind romance in a single night.

  “I’m afraid Dora took my comments about her pride in her appearance a little too personally,” Mrs. Winter sighed.

  “So, you’re leaving me at a school where you have a lifelong feud with the headmistress?”

  “Oh, there’s no reason to worry, Dora couldn’t possibly interfere with you. You’re the Translator.”

  “Has someone told Headmistress Lockwood that?” I asked.

  As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. Miss Morton entered with my trunks levitating at shoulder level behind her. The luggage floated across the room and settled at the foot of my bed.

  Mrs. Winter seemed to be waiting for Miss Morton to leave, but Miss Morton smiled serenely, folded her hands at her waist and stared at Mrs. Winter. Mrs. Winter pursed her lips. “Well, I suppose I will be going, right after I have a word with the Headmistress about her faculty’s inability to pick up on social subtleties.”

  “I could come with you to see you off,” I offered, strangely reluctant to have Mrs. Winter leave me in this place. Sure, I’d been cut off from my family at Raven’s Rest, but at least I’d known they were there. At Miss Castwell’s, I had no one.

  Mrs. Winter glanced at my singed dress and shook her head slightly. “Not in that condition, dear. I believe you have caused enough of a stir for one day.” Her expression softened and she took my hands in hers. “You will do very well here, Cassandra. Now, settle in. And I will send a special treat for you on mail day.” I was shocked when Mrs. Winter pressed a kiss to my cheeks. “Good luck. Bring honor to your family.”

  I dropped a curtsy. “Yes, Auntie Aneira.”

  Mrs. Winter gave Miss Morton one last stern look and swept from the room. I rubbed my hands up my arms, peering out the window as the Winter carriage pulled in front of the school entrance, waiting for its mistress.

  Miss Morton clucked her tongue, placing a hesitant hand on my shoulder. “Do not fret, Miss Reed. This can be a wonderful place. Excellence can be a lonely lot in life. It doesn’t necessarily lead to the things we think we should want – marriage, family, wealth. But what you lack in gold, you can gain in accomplishments. In the pride of knowing that you can do what others cannot, and that you can teach their children to do the same. I’m quite sure that you will find your place at Miss Castwell’s in no time at all.”

  I gave Miss Morton a tremulous smile, the pity I’d reserved for myself leeching out for her. While Miss Morton seemed at ease with her place at the school, I had to wonder what life was like for her? What was it like to live her whole life alone, within these walls? Mrs. Winter clearly had some plans for my future, but who knew whether she would choose a path I could live with? What if I ended up a spinster teacher, hidden away at this school, teaching the ungrateful daughters of Guardian families?

  I felt a rush of guilt for pitying Miss Morton. Who was I to judge her life? Just a scant few weeks before, I’d been up to my elbows in dishwater, unsure of why I was so miserable.

  Another knock at the door revealed a Snipe maid in a slate grey uniform dress, carrying a domed tray. She placed it on my desk and walked out without saying a word or making eye contact. More guilt crept into that empty space in my chest, filling me with shame. Ho
w could I stand here feeling sorry for myself when I’d been given such an opportunity? If I couldn’t make my best effort on my own behalf or Mrs. Winter’s, I could do it for Snipe girls like that nameless maid, who didn’t think she had the right to look at us directly. I would find a way to make this work.

  “Now, eat your dinner, change your clothes and hop into bed and you’ll be right as rain,” Miss Morton told me. She pointed to a small cordial glass brimming with blue liquid. “The medicine on that tray is important, but a good night’s rest is better magic than anything the faculty can teach you.”

  “How lovely.” I nodded, sitting on my bed with a thump as Miss Morton glided from the room. The rolling of my stomach wouldn’t allow me to even glance at the tray. And I had a feeling I was going to be suspicious of medicines from well-meaning middle-aged ladies for a while. From the hallway, I could hear the faint patter of slippered feet and hushed conversation as the girls moved down the stairs to the dining hall. And the little bird tapped his beak against my window pane as if he was late for dinner, too.

  Tap tap taptaptap.

  I was alone here, so very alone, without even the comfort of Mrs. Winter. And that was very scant comfort indeed. No one here knew me. No one cared to help me cover my origins. I barely knew how to fix my own hair. And somehow, I was supposed to know enough magic to get through my classes without posing a danger to myself and others.

  I sat there, feeling frozen, as I stared out the window. The cloudy sky faded into night. Ignoring the long-cold tray, I shed my dress, washed my face and slid under the covers. I didn’t know what Mrs. Winter had Martha pack in my trunks, and I didn’t have the energy to go searching around for a nightgown. I could only hope there was not a fire, because I would end up running out into the hallway in my chemise and bloomers.

  Though the bed was even more comfortable than the Lavender Room back at Raven’s Rest, I had difficulty settling in. My hair was still pinned up, so I couldn’t find a comfortable pillow angle. My hands were achy and raw from the magical abuse they’d taken.

  I could do this, I told myself sternly. I could get a full night’s sleep, wake up refreshed and start my career as a respectable, ordinary student at Miss Castwell’s. I could get through school unnoticed and scene-less. I would do this.

  Tap tap taptaptaptap.

  Outside, that insistent little bird pecked at the window. The rapid beat against the glass seemed to echo throughout my large chamber.

  Tap tap taptaptap.

  I rolled onto my back, breathing slowly through my nose and staring at the ceiling. I tried to think restful, calming thoughts about kittens, rainbows, and the laughter of babies. But mostly, I thought, “If that bird doesn’t stop pecking at the window, I’m going to make it into a feather duster.”

  Tap tap taptaptap.

  I pressed one of the many fluffy pillows to my face, though I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to block the sound or smother myself. But I could still hear it, tap tap taptaptap.

  I bolted up in bed, shouting, “You stop that right now!”

  The bird recoiled, as if I’d reached through the glass pane and slapped it. It hopped up and down and then bolted away, flexing its little aquamarine wings in a flounce. I giggled, pressing my lips together to prevent my neighbors from hearing hysterical laughter from a girl in an otherwise empty room. The impression I’d made this afternoon was dramatic enough.

  I snorted one last time, punching my pillow into shape. I rolled onto my back and waited for my eyelids to flutter closed. But my eyes were drawn to a strange silver light reflecting on the ceiling. It wavered and danced like moonlight on water… and it seemed to be coming from my bed. I glanced down at my hands. The new metal in my skin was glowing, lighting the room like a cray-fire candle, making it that much harder for me to drift off.

  “Oh, come on now.”

  Falling into the dream was like tripping over my own feet, descending so suddenly that I didn’t even realize it had happened until it was over. The feeling was so familiar, being back in my family’s tiny, smoke-stained kitchen, barely lit by the hurricane lamp. I sat on the bench near my father’s chair, cracking walnuts into a dented enamel bowl, my fingers scraped and raw at the tips as I pried open the tough shells. Mum stood at the stove, stirring watery cabbage soup. Mary had her head bent over a dress she was re-making into something suitable for the upcoming Harvest Celebration dance on the Rabbit’s Warren square.

  “It wasn’t always like this, you know,” Papa said quietly, sipping from a cracked porcelain tea cup. I didn’t know why he bothered trying to hide the fact that he was drinking whiskey. While sorting through the dirty clothes, I pulled his hip flask out of his work pants more often than not.

  “Before the Restoration, when we non-magicals had real jobs, real lives,” Papa slurred slightly, slumping in his chair. “We were the teachers, the builders, the healers. My people were engineers.”

  The firelight cast an orange glow over Papa’s craggy features, the deep, unhappy lines around his mouth. His thinning, grey hair was sticking out in all directions, as if he’d licked a crayfire lamp. His dirty, scarred hands trembled slightly as he lifted the cup to his lips.

  “Engineers of what?” I asked, continuing with my work. I’d learned that giving my father my full attention during his nostalgic musings tended to spur them into full rants. Mary ignored him completely, tuning him out by humming some random melody. But I was intrigued. Papa had never revealed this little tidbit before. And I wondered how much he’d had to drink in order to loosen his lips this much.

  “Your great-grandfather, Elias. He was a mechanical engineer. He helped develop steam engines for trains. Back before crayfire. Before we used magic to drive trains down tracks, non-magicals used their brains to find solutions – steam, coal fire, machinery.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re afraid of us, you know,” Papa whispered, leaning over the arm of his chair. “The Coven Guild, they’re afraid of what we can do. And we don’t need magic to do it. That’s why they rose up. They were afraid that we would become more powerful than they are. That’s why they keep us pinned down in these slums, telling us to be happy with what they give us. We could have been so much more. I could have been more. And you, Sarah, you’re the one who can change it all. You’re not like us. You never have been, not since the day you were born. You can –”

  “That’s enough, John,” Mum snapped, turning from the stove.

  Mary’s golden head rose, a pout quirking her lips. “What do you mean, Sarah can change things?” she sniffed. “Sarah can’t even change the sheets on the bed without help. I had to do all of the beds on the second floor myself today.”

  Mum laughed, just a little too loud for it to be genuine. “Yes, yes, Sarah’s lucky to have a sister who will help look after her, Mary. What are you working on?”

  I frowned at the pair of them as Mary held up the lace trim she was adding to her neckline. Yes, she may have done more physical labor, but if anything, I kept her from getting into trouble. I was the one who snuck Owen’s handkerchiefs back into his room when Mary stole them. I was the one who kept Mrs. Winter from seeing that Mary had doodled her name in Owen’s school tablets. If anything, Mary needed me to protect her from herself.

  Papa ignored their over-bright chatter, adding under his breath. “Your choices in this life won’t be easy, child.”

  My head felt fuzzy and disconnected from my body. Was this really a dream or a memory? I remembered this particular evening at home with my family. My father hadn’t spoken after my mother changed the subject at my expense and insisted we all sit down to enjoy our cabbage soup. He slumped dejectedly into his chair and refused dinner in favor of finishing his bottle.

  Why did it seem so different, remembering it now? Why hadn’t I noticed before, the way Mary complained about me, or the way Mum cowed my father into silence? I’d always assumed that the house was quiet because we didn’t want to provoke Papa’s “headaches.” But
how much of that repression had to do with Mum and her attempts to keep my secret?

  “What sort of choices?” I asked him quietly.

  Papa simply stared at me. “Choose wisely.”

  My eyes fluttered open. I sat up in bed, confused by yet another darkened and unfamiliar bedroom. In terms of fatherly advice, “choose wisely” was not exactly helpful. Then again, while Papa was generally the parent I went to when I was in need of a hug or understanding, he wasn’t exactly brimming with life lessons. And there was no pressure at all in knowing that every decision I made would affect all mankind. I hoped that the dream version of my father was just being grandiose.

  Something he said niggled at the corner of my mind, a relatively harmless turn of phrase. He said that I’d never been like anyone in my family, not since the day I was born. And I was born with magic. Was my subconscious trying to tell me something? Was there something wrong with me from the day I was born? Or was it possible that whatever it was that was happening to me started even before then? Was it was possible that I possessed magic because I was never a Snipe in the first place? What if my parents weren’t really my parents?

  I remembered ancient Irish folk tales about changelings, about fairies stealing plump human babies from their cradles and replacing them with their own spindly-limbed fairy children to be nursed by human mothers. Most of the tales focused on the human mother’s attempts to regain their children. I wondered now, what happened to the fairy children, caught between two worlds, belonging to neither? As I recalled, things didn’t work out so well for changelings in fairy tales, uncaring mystical parents, mistreatment and the constant threat of being eaten.