Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)

by Harper, Molly

  I felt an angry hum sweep along the metal wings on my palms. I winced, rubbing a hand over the aching burn.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whined. “I could have helped you. I don’t know how you did it, but I could have convinced them that I’m magical, too. And I could be living with you in the lap of luxury, no more chores, no more work. I could be wearing a fancy lady’s dress and a bonnet that cost more than our whole house. I could be having breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Owen every day!”

  “Do you really think that’s what happened?” I demanded. “Mary, I didn’t fake anything. The thing with the vase just happened. I still don’t know what I did to make it float like that, really. Even after weeks at Miss Castwell’s, I couldn’t tell you how that worked.”

  Mary stared at me, for a good long while, her eyes lingering on the neckline of the silk dress I was wearing, as if she sensed there was something not quite right lurking under the material. She gave me a little smile, the smile that meant I was forgiven and everything was right again. But frankly, I didn’t know if I was interested in her “grace.”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah, you know I didn’t mean it. My temper gets ahead of me sometimes, but you know I’d never really be angry with you, yes?”

  I nodded, wincing a bit as her strong hands clasped around my wrists.

  “You were always the better-natured of us, anyway. Always the good girl,” she teased. “And you can keep being good to us. You can use your new place in the household to make life a little easier for us, yes?”

  “I don’t have any power here.”

  “We both know that’s not true, don’t we?” she sniffed, the bitterness creeping back into her voice.

  “I’m still as much of a servant as you are, Mary.”

  “Servants who don’t work aren’t servants. They’re pets,” Mary retorted.

  Darn it, if she didn’t have a point there.

  “And as their little pet, you will be able to change things in the household. Schedules, my duties, which areas of the house I’m allowed to enter,” she said, her voice far too casual as she toyed with the green ribbon that secured my bonnet under my chin. “And you can help me find ways to spend time with Owen.”

  “Mary,” I groaned.

  “He wants to see me, too!” she insisted. “I can tell by the way he looked at me the other morning when I snuck out to bring fresh towels to his bathroom. He misses me, Sarah. This new schedule – the one Mrs. Winter set to keep us from seeing you – keeps me from seeing Owen. So really, it’s your fault that we’re apart. Even with you away at that school during the week, she’s keeping up the new schedule so we can ‘accommodate ourselves to the change.’ But you, you can convince Mrs. Winter that you won’t try to see us. Then, she’ll lift these silly restrictions.”

  “So, to help you, I should pretend that I don’t care to spend time with you?”

  “Please, please, please, please!” she wheedled in a sugary-sweet tone.

  “I’ll try,” I sighed. “Now, would you please tell Mum and Papa that I miss them?”

  “Of course, of course,” Mary said, picking up her basket. “And you’ll talk to Mrs. Winter?”

  “I said I would try,” I told her.

  “Always such a good girl,” Mary teased, kissing my cheek and scurrying down the hallway.

  “Emphasis on the word try,” I called after her.

  I didn’t try.

  I felt like a horrible sister, lying to Mary. It went against everything in my gut to pretend I didn’t want to see my family. I also couldn’t help but feel that it was better for Mary to have less access to Owen. Her infatuation seemed to be spiraling out of what could be considered normal and into something desperate and dangerous.

  Overall, it was a lonely weekend. Now that Mary had tugged her promise out of me, there was no point in talking to me. I didn’t see my mother, who stayed in the kitchen under Mrs. Winter’s orders. And when I looked down from my windows and saw my father in the garden, he waved, and then turned his back on me. I ran onto the balcony and called out to him, but he hobbled away on his unsteady legs, ignoring me.

  To add insult to loneliness, Ivy was unable to make it for tea on Saturday. Her regrets appeared in the form of a note, scrawled in bright pink script on my vanity mirror after breakfast. My shriek of surprise brought Mrs. Winter bustling into the Lavender Room, where I babbled an explanation of someone sneaking into my room and writing on my glass with lip rouge. Mrs. Winter gave me a very amused smile, as she pointed to the note,

  “Dear Cassandra, I am sorry I will not be able take tea at your house as planned. My mother planned a series of visits with my Cowell cousins while I’m home without talking to me. Trust me when I say I would rather be taking tea with you. I’ll see you at school on Monday.

  – Sincerely, Ivy Cowell.

  Post-script – Alicia took ill just before I left Castwell’s and was not able to make the trip home. So I assume she will not be able to attend, either. I hope that we can make arrangements for a visit to Raven’s Rest at some other time.”

  Just as I read the last of the post-script, it disappeared and another glowing message appeared. Post-post-script – I just found out that Mother is planning to take me for a torturous dress-fitting while I am home. Send HELP.”

  “How does this work?” I asked, touching my fingertips to the glass.

  “Have you truly never seen a scrying message before?” she asked.

  “I thought scrying mirrors were for divination, seeking answers in meditation, that sort of thing,” I said.

  “They are, but when we need to send our close acquaintances a quick note, we just think of that person and use the tips of our blades to write a message on our mirrors. It will appear on which ever glass is closest to the recipient. Generally, they’re very private messages, so I suppose it makes sense that you’ve never seen one.”

  “But why do you spend so much time writing letters and invitations?” I asked.

  Mrs. Winter shook her head. “Well, as I said, scry-messaging is just for quick notes. Paper is necessary for formal invitations and correspondence. How else can you intimidate your friends and enemies with the quality of your stationery?”

  “You… can’t?” I guessed as she penned an elegant reply on my mirror.

  “Now, my question for you is, did you honestly think that inviting Miss Cowell here was a sound notion?” she asked, lifting a brow.

  I cringed. She was right. I hadn’t thought that through. I didn’t have the right to ask anyone to Raven’s Rest as my guest, particularly without asking Mrs. Winter first. I was not a member of the family. I wasn’t even a guest really. How exactly, did I expect to maintain my story, asking my classmates from Castwell’s here, where my family was serving as Snipes? Did I really think I could sit quietly and accept tea and cakes made by my mother? What if Mary passed through the parlor while Alicia and Ivy chatted about school? I wouldn’t have been able to stand that pressure. I would have blurted out the whole ugly story and ruined myself.

  “I should have asked you before I invited my classmates here,” I said. “I am sorry.”

  “Yes, you should have, but that’s not the point,” she said. “It’s expected that a girl from a prominent family would invite her classmates to see her home. We would have sent your family away for the afternoon. No, what I am telling you, is that you should aim higher than Ivy. Yes, she has a desirable connection to Mrs. Dalrymple, but she’s hardly top-tier material. The Cowells are a minor house at best. Alicia McCray is quite the coup, though. She’s not a very social creature, from what I understand. And from what I hear from Madame Beamis’s shop, you caught the brother’s eye, as well. So perhaps your strategy is more appropriate to the situation.”

  “Or it could be that showing kindness is the right thing to do,” I pointed out. “And sometimes, good things come out of that.”

  “Yes, very amusing, dear,” she said absently, glancing over my vanity. She picked up a sheaf of scr
ibbled, ink-blotted papers I’d abandoned before bed the night before. “What is this?”

  “A formal thank you note, to Gavin McCray. He sent me that beautiful arrangement of flowers, but everything I write comes across too flirtatious or too bland or too self-serving. It just sounds like I’m trying to ingratiate myself to him, and I get the feeling he sees too much of that already.”

  “That sounds like a noble intention, Cassandra,” she told me.

  “Thank you.”

  “But utterly stupid,” she added. When I squawked indignantly she said. “You are trying to ingratiate yourself with this boy, whether it’s for the purpose of personal gain or romantic interests. Just remember the Golden Rule of Flirtation, ‘Dignity before flattery.’”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “You can pay him compliments. Ask him about his interests. Make him believe that you find him to be terribly interesting. But don’t ever, ever let him think that you are scrambling to catch his notice. Don’t lose your dignity, while flattering his. He will lose respect for you. And then the game is lost.”

  I sighed. “I planned on saying, ‘thank you for the flowers. I think you are a lovely person.’”

  “And that is why you need my help. Take out a sheet of paper. I will dictate the note for you. Consider it a tutorial.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “Lest you forget an important entry on the House charts you were supposed to memorize, Gavin McCray is the scion from a fine old Yorkshire family that has scores of money tied up in potion supplies. Herbs, exotic animal parts, that sort of thing. He is interested in dragonboat racing, collecting rare ritual swords, and of, course, geology.”

  “And once every six months, he covers himself in marmalade and howls at the full moon,” I added in Mrs. Winter’s bouncy narrative tone.

  “Well, if it happens to come up in conversation, be sure to mention that you happen to know of the most charming shop in town that carries an array of extra-moisturizing marmalades.”

  I snickered.

  “Mr. McCray’s uncle is on several important committees. It wouldn’t hurt to encourage a connection between the families.”

  “I understand,” I said, nodding as I took out a sheet of paper and prepared my pen. “But I think I can do that without marmalade discussions, for now.”

  13

  Painful Lessons

  With my invitations unfulfilled and a polite, but warm, note sent to Gavin via messenger, Mrs. Winter had me spend a good portion of my Saturday practicing my scrying penmanship, tracing letters over the mirror with the tip of Wit while concentrating on a mental image of Mrs. Winter’s face. Trailing letters of golden light sputtered to life on her hand mirror, uneven and barely legible. By bedtime, I was able to manage, “somewhat more readable than chicken-scratch,” which I took as a compliment.

  On Sunday afternoon, I wandered out into the garden to spend some time with the Mother Book. For the past two days, I’d procrastinated, reading the journal of Calpernia McCray instead. It was comforting, reading the thoughts of another Translator, knowing that she saw it as a bit a burden along with the excitement of discovering new magic.

  “It’s a lonely life, seeing what no one else sees, knowing that no one else living experiences what you do,” she wrote. “Without the comfort of my friends, I would go quite mad.”

  I smiled, thinking about how Calpernia’s own descendant was keeping another Translator from going quite mad. I would have to come up with some sort of thank you gift for sharing this journal with me. Maybe Mrs. Winter would allow me to ask Mum for a batch of raspberry thumbprint cookies.

  Calpernia didn’t just write about the Mother Book. She shared funny descriptions of parties she attended, of her life at home with her husband, Liam, and her children. And while she had nothing to say about owl sigils or how to get hostile family members to stop hating you, she indirectly recommended the exact same thing Miss Morton had, stop trying to Translate the book and just let it happen.

  So now, I sat on the bench by the statue of Hecate, closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face. The book was open on my lap, my dragonfly’s wings barely touching the pages. I was applying Miss Morton’s recommended meditation techniques, but honestly, it was exhausting, sitting there, thinking of nothing. Not worrying about my family at home or who might figure out that I wasn’t who I said I was. Not mentally listing all of the things I had to do that day. Not questioning why I had magic in the first place.

  Phillip tittered as he perched on my right hand. My dragonfly warmed immediately, a signal I’d come to recognize as my magic responding to my call. My mind cleared. That same warmth spread to my arm, through my chest and up to my head. Without being told, I knew I was safe. I didn’t need to worry. I had purpose. For the first time in months, I felt my whole body relax. My magic flexed and filled the empty spaces inside me, the doubts I had about myself, the confusion I still felt about my family, all of the worries I had about school and the book and the Coven Guild.

  I opened my eyes, expecting to see an empty page. But it was filled with a detailed, horrifying illustration of a dead man, shambling down a street in tattered clothes. His face was skeletal, the skin sagging around a drooping jaw. His eyes were hazy and blank, but his hand was raised, as if he was reaching for me. I yelped and dropped the book on the bench.

  “Dash it all, book, I thought we were becoming friends,” I whispered, pressing my palm to my thundering heart.

  I skimmed over the page now labeled “Revenants.” Revenants appeared to be the undead creatures Alicia described in her story about the Grimstelles. They were humans, once living, who had been raised by a necromancer to do his or her bidding. Revenants had no will of their own, the book said, only the direction of their master, repeating over and over in their just-barely-active brain. The brain had to be intact for the creature to move. If the brain stem were destroyed, the creature would drop to the ground, harmless. Another way to remove the enchantment was to pierce the creature with a birchwood stake. Birchwood purified, removing the ill-intent of the necromancer.

  “That is disgusting,” I muttered. More than ever, I was glad that the writing in the book was only recognizable to me.

  A portion of the page was left untranslated. I supposed this was the spell necessary to raise a Revenant? I was grateful not to know. It seemed like a good idea to limit the number of people who knew how to raise the dead. I did not want to know what Mr. Crenshaw and his committee would do with this information.

  There was more text, about the length a Revenant could stay “active,” what personality types made the most effective Revenants. I was fairly certain that Guardians knew that Revenants were dangerous and all-around disgusting. Still, it was the largest portion of text I’d translated so far. And it came with an illustration. I considered this progress.

  “That can’t be my little Sarah.”

  I turned to see a tall, burly figure silhouetted against the sunset. His hair was more grey than gold now, the thick, blond hair Mary inherited barely recognizable in its windblown state. His broad shoulders were stooped by age and disappointment. His broad face, with its prominent brow and capillary-webbed nose, was weathered and permanently sunburnt.

  “Papa,” I sighed, closing the book and standing with relative ease. I stopped myself from throwing myself at him, remembering Mary and Mum’s reactions. But he stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around me and crushing me to his barrel chest. His scent, the earthy mix of fresh-cut grass and sour old whiskey, hit me full force, and I buried my face in his rough green jacket.

  “Oh, sweet girl,” he whispered into my hair. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Papa. They won’t let me see you.”

  “I know, I know. Can’t fight the Guardians. I know.” He pulled away from me. “Just look at you, dressed up so fine. I’m so proud of you.”

  Papa looked down and winced, dabbing at a streak of dirt he’d left
on my skirts.

  “It’s all right,” I told him.

  He kept dabbing.

  “Papa, it’s all right. Stop. Don’t waste our time together worrying about my dress.”

  He nodded. He pulled me to a nearby bench and we sat down. He kept his hands clamped in mine. “I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you about all those things you can do. I wanted to, but your mother said it would be better for you if we just pretended you were normal.”

  He stammered, looking up at me with panicked eyes. “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  I nodded, my brows drawing close together. “I know.”

  I saw him patting at his pocket, where his flask would usually be. Where was it? Had Mum taken it? I gave a pained smile. “It’s all right. I’m not normal. It doesn’t hurt my feelings.”

  He glanced down at the dragonfly mark, glinting in the sun. “Are they treating you nice? Your Mum said you had some sort of tea party? Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, sure. I was a smashing success. Made a big impression. I think I made some friends.”

  “Well, that’s nice. Just look at you. I’ve never seen you looking so healthy or so fine. Living with the Winters is good for you.”

  “It has its good points,” I conceded. “But I’ve missed you so much. You and Mum and Mary. I feel so alone, and I never know if I’m doing the right thing. In fact, I’m sure I’m doing the wrong thing most of the time. I just, I miss you so much.”

  “I told you, you were meant for greater things than serving, Sarah,” Papa said. “I just keep wondering, what if we’d let you go sooner? What if we’d given you over to the Winters when you were born? We discussed it, you know. Maybe it would have been better for you. You would have grown up as a little lady, without those poisons in your system. It would have been right.”