by Robyn Bachar
“Speak quickly then,” I said.
“I’m so sorry, Em. I know this has been difficult for you. I never meant to hurt you, but I was afraid of losing you.” Michael stepped closer and then caught himself. With a frustrated sigh he flexed his fists and stepped back.
“But you will lose me. You’ll lose all of us one day. Except for Simon, I suppose,” I said, and he winced. “The two of you will be together forever.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No one is more aware of that than I.”
“That’s not what I meant. You know that I would rather have an eternity with you. Every day I live without you is a torment. That’s why I chose to undergo the ritual now. I wasn’t prepared to lose you, and I nearly did. I need you to understand that. The midwife warned me that you wouldn’t survive another childbirth.”
“We could have continued keeping separate rooms.”
“Ah, yes, because that worked so well for us before,” Michael replied with a dry smile. I blushed as Robert tugged on a tiny fistful of my hair, an apt reminder of how my husband and I had failed at avoiding sharing a bed in the past. Michael slowly approached us and knelt next to my chair. He took my free hand in his and ran his thumb across my knuckles, and I shivered in a reaction that had nothing to do with the chill of his skin.
“We are much too addicted to the pleasure of each other’s company. Knowing that, I thought it best to undergo the ritual now, rather than later.”
I squeezed his hand with a sigh. “I understand that, but it does not mean I have to accept it, or like it. When I first heard that you survived the ritual I was so relieved that I hadn’t lost you. But now I realize that wasn’t true. I did lose you. I just didn’t know it yet.” My throat tightened and my eyes stung, and I struggled to hold back the tears. If I started sobbing I would set Robert off again, and neither of us would get any sleep.
“That’s not true—”
“Yes, it is. I can see the change in you, more clearly than anyone else ever will. I can’t pretend that nothing is wrong, that things will go back to the way they were before. I think it would be better if…” I trailed off, unable to finish that statement.
“Don’t say that. I won’t give up on us so easily,” he insisted. “I need you to know, and you mustn’t tell anyone this…I tried to leave the Order.”
My jaw dropped in complete and utter shock. In a sense, Michael had been married to the Order since before we had met. “What? When?”
“Before the ritual. I was afraid that I wouldn’t survive, and I didn’t want to risk leaving you and the children alone. I asked Simon to release me from my oath, but he couldn’t. It’s not within his power. I had to go through with the ritual. My only other option was to desert the Order, and if I did that I would be considered an oathbreaker, and we would be left with nothing. No home, no money, no chance at a decent life.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.
“I don’t care about the money. We would have managed without it,” I assured him, and he shook his head.
“It’s more than that.” He gently stroked Robert’s hair. “I know that you hate what I’ve become, but this was the best choice for our family. The only choice. We would have been outcasts if I had left. It would have been a stain on our family’s honor that would have affected our children, and their children. I want the best for them, and for you. I love you. It’s my duty to provide for you all. This may not be an easy path, but it is the most rewarding.”
“I would gladly starve if it meant having you alive,” I said.
His brow rose as he looked from me to Robert and back again. “Would you?”
Could I let my children suffer if it meant having their father with us, alive and mortal? What would we do if we had no fortune and no home? At the moment we still lived with Simon, and he would have been under no obligation to continue providing for us if Michael was no longer his apprentice. We had nothing saved to start a new life with. He was right that the Order would provide for our family.
I sighed. “Perhaps not.”
Michael sat back on his heels. “Em, you come from a good family. I don’t. You haven’t known hardship as I have, and I don’t want you to. I never want our children to suffer as I did. I want our family to have a good life. You may never forgive me for this, but it was the best decision.”
I looked at him as I struggled with the urge to attempt to read him. Michael never mentioned his childhood—he avoided speaking about his parents, and answered questions about his past with an easygoing shrug and the assertion that it wasn’t important. Yet it was. Perhaps it was the most important piece of this puzzle, and I had never considered it.
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I understand.”
“Thank you.”
I looked away, my heart heavy with grief for the things I could not change. When I looked up again Michael was gone, and I tried to console myself with the fact that everything was for the best, even if that truth was painful.
Chapter Seven
The next morning brought a cold rain that prevented me from hiding in the garden, but thankfully I was also spared from further depressing dealings with our resident chroniclers for the majority of the day. I suspected that they were plotting something, and my fears were confirmed when Simon appeared in the hallway after supper and swooped down upon me like a scowling bird of prey.
“The Scrivener has summoned us,” he announced.
“I’m certain you’ll have a lovely visit. If you’ll excuse me—” I said, attempting to pass him. He moved to intercept me like a persistent, unwanted dance partner.
“He wishes to speak with you.”
I paused, gaping up at him in shock. “Me?”
“He asked for you specifically.”
It was a bit like a mortal being summoned to Mount Olympus to speak with Zeus, and that never ended well for the mortal. “Oh. I see. Allow me to fetch my wrap then.”
Though I would rather have had a set of armor to prepare myself for this battle, or at least a clever parasol like Justine’s, I was armed with only the dubious protection of my black silk gloves and a sturdy shawl. When I returned downstairs I found both Michael and Simon waiting for me in the foyer, and we left together, a less-than-united party headed into the lion’s den.
There was something bothersome about the rain in London. Not merely the inconvenience that it caused for our travel, but it held an additional factor that irritated my magic. Normally I found rain to be a cleansing element, but here it seemed to stir the city’s energy, as though the rain was filled with whispering spirits. I closed my eyes, trying and failing to ignore the phenomenon.
“Are you unwell?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” I replied, and left it at that.
As the carriage progressed I attempted to formulate a list of crimes that the Order could accuse me of. My visit to the necromancer gathering was first and foremost, but there were many things I was certain that the Order would find fault with. It seemed unfair that they could censure me without allowing me into their ranks. Then again, there was little fair about my relationship with my soul mate.
If only I had been born a librarian, I could have become a chronicler as well, and we would never be parted. A librarian would be allowed to assist in Michael’s research—or in my family’s research, which I had never been included in. Instead, I found myself on the outside of their circle, looking in, wondering if the lot of them would find my person more interesting or my insights suddenly valuable if I printed them in a leather-bound book.
When we stopped and alighted, I stood in front of an enormous stone building that was heavy with age and surrounded with magic so thick I struggled to breathe. I stumbled back, nearly falling as I collided with the carriage steps. The short amount of distance eased the difficulty a fraction, and I gasped for air.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Most likely it is the wards. She is invited, so the barrier should not harm her,” Simon s
aid.
He took my arm and propelled me forward, and I cried out at the sensation of colliding with an invisible wall. The moment passed as he hurried me onward, and I could breathe again. I glared at him, wishing my spiteful thoughts could set the ends of his chestnut hair on fire.
The building was some sort of church. Most magicians, or at least to my knowledge most English magicians, were not Christian, because we worshipped aspects of the Lord and Lady. In general magicians knew enough about Christianity to recognize the holidays and make polite conversation when interacting with nonmagical individuals. I wondered why the Scrivener would reside in such a place, but the simplest answer was likely the cause—no one would ever think to find one of the oldest chroniclers in existence living beneath a church. It was odd, but I was grateful that the Order had the good sense not to meet in a brothel.
The church was silent and dark as we moved through it, the tightly packed rows of wooden pews empty at this late hour. We descended several floors via hidden passages and ancient, crumbling stairs. My heart raced and my pulse pounded in my ears as my anxiety grew with each step.
Though it was my seer’s nature to be curious about our surroundings, I did not want to examine the magic around us. I had only met the Scrivener once before at an official Order gathering, and I found his presence overwhelming despite his chronicler’s nature, for the centuries of his existence hung heavy around him. If Simon St. Jerome was a glacier, then the Scrivener was Antarctica, and I hoped I would not have to read his aura. I wasn’t certain what would happen if I did—he had over a thousand years’ worth of memories to spark any number of visions. The Scrivener was almost a seer’s nightmare.
After we had gone through enough of a maze that I lost my sense of direction we entered a dark, damp, dungeon-like space. Four weak lanterns cast a dim glow over the room, each hanging in the center of a rough stone wall. There were no seats, no desk, no bookcases. Only the Scrivener standing in the center, his features shadowed in the poor light. Considering the severity of his frown, he was not pleased to see me.
On the surface, he appeared younger than all of us. Barely a grown man, in fact, with a slight build, short-cropped dark hair, and a scar that marred the left side of his face. An old war wound, likely some sort of blade judging by the thin slice.
“What did Lady Brigid offer you?” he asked without preamble.
“I declined her offer,” I said.
“That is not what I asked.”
I squared my shoulders. “Lady Brigid offered to mentor me if I wished to become a master necromancer.”
The Scrivener folded his hands in front of him while he studied me, and the gesture reminded me of Simon. “What reason did she give for offering this?”
I hesitated, for her opinion on the Order had seemed as sour as my own, and I doubted that they would appreciate her words. Then the Scrivener’s frown deepened, and I decided that honesty would be the best course of action.
“She said that the Order were fools for not taking advantage of my abilities. That you had forgotten that the Lady was both a mother and warrior, and that she would be appreciative of my magic if I became her apprentice.”
“And you believed her?” he scoffed.
“No. She is a necromancer, and therefore not to be trusted. As I said, I declined her offer. But she was not wrong that my magic is being wasted.”
“We are not about to change our structure based on the needs of one initiate.”
“I don’t expect you to. Is there a reason for this summons?” Despite my attempt to sound brave, my voice was thin and reedy.
“I want you to stop aiding Guardian Dubois. Immediately.”
“We’re all aiding her now,” Michael said. Simon blinked at him and coughed, looking as though he had swallowed an insect.
“What my apprentice is attempting to say is that I have combined our investigation with that of Miss Dubois in order to gain access to her guardian resources,” Simon explained quickly.
“Then you will cease doing so. Mrs. Black’s involvement in this investigation is causing concern among the councils.”
I gaped at him, surprised. “How so?”
“Your visions revealed the identity of a master necromancer who was guilty of murder before, at Lord Willowbrook’s ball. If you uncover a second guilty necromancer, people will begin to wonder if you have an agenda, because your soul mate is a member of the Order.”
“But I am not. You have made it quite clear that I am not welcome among you. My actions are my own, and why aren’t the councils more concerned with the trend of murderous necromancers instead of my visions of their crimes?”
“Because murderous necromancers are to be expected. They are ever present throughout our history, and will continue to be so. Seers are unexpected. There is no way to predict what secrets you will uncover if you charge about through London at the side of a guardian.”
“Such paranoia is unnecessary. Mrs. Black’s involvement with the investigation will be under our close supervision. I can ensure her discretion in her findings,” Simon assured him.
“You did not ensure it in the past, Lord Wroth,” the Scrivener argued. Simon did not react to the use of his True Name, but I sensed a flutter in his energy.
Simon’s chin rose a fraction. “I was found innocent of any wrongdoing regarding my actions in dealing with Mr. Farrell.”
The Scrivener tilted his head as he studied Simon. Though Simon didn’t flinch under the elder chronicler’s gaze, I felt another shift in his energy. Stronger this time, with an undercurrent of concern. There was still more to this story than he had shared with us. “You took up a sword and beheaded a master necromancer at a social gathering. Your exploits may not have been officially censured, but that does not mean you are considered to be free from responsibility for them. You have brought discord into the Order and suspicion of our actions by the necromancer council.”
“Would you have preferred that I did nothing?” Simon asked.
“Yes,” the Scrivener said simply. He turned the weight of his gaze to Michael. “From now on it is our wish that you keep your wife on a shorter leash, Mr. Black.”
I scowled and interrupted with a retort before Michael could manage a reply. “I am not a lost puppy, sir. I do not need a keeper.”
“Judging by the damage you leave in your wake, I disagree.”
“What damage? I did not kill two people, Mr. Farrell did, and he suffered the consequences. Isn’t it the business of the Order to record magician history? Why are you afraid that I will unearth knowledge? That is your purpose.”
Anger flashed through him like a sudden burst of flame. “We record. We observe. We share information when it is to the benefit of the Order and other magicians. But some information is not meant to be shared. It is also our responsibility to ensure that we don’t incite disharmony.” Annoyance crept into the Scrivener’s tone. “And you, Mrs. Black, cause chaos.”
“I prefer to think that I am finding justice for the victims of a terrible crime.”
“Justice is often in the eye of the beholder,” he argued.
“Justice is a guardian’s purpose, and one has sought my aid. Who are you to deny it to her?”
The Scrivener snarled. “Justine Dubois is a mewling, impudent child playing at being a guardian.”
“Better than being a moldering fossil playing at being a politician,” I said hotly.
He reached for me, and Michael snatched his arm before the Scrivener could grab me. We all gaped at my husband in surprise.
“Don’t you dare lay a hand on her,” Michael warned. “This has gone far enough. I understood the Order’s desire to keep membership restricted to librarians, but that does not mean that my wife—my soul mate—is not worthy of your respect.”
Though my heart raced like a frightened rabbit’s, it soared at the sight of the husband I had missed—the man who braved the dark to protect me from a murderous necromancer and who would charge into hell and back to kee
p me safe. He put himself between us, shielding me from the Scrivener. It awed and terrified me.
Simon separated them. “I would have a word with you in private, sir. Michael, please escort Mrs. Black outside and wait for me in the hallway.”
My husband obeyed without argument, and I was grateful for the escape as I took his arm. The heavy wooden door shut behind us, and though I knew I shouldn’t, I immediately embraced him.
“I love you.” I buried my face against his chest.
Michael held me close and stroked my hair. “I love you, too, darling. I hope you believe that.”
“Of course I do.” Though, admittedly, I did feel more secure about that after having witnessed him stand up for me in the face of the most powerful member of the Order in England, perhaps even in the entire hemisphere. But I also knew that any moment Simon would emerge from the room and part us as though we were naughty lovers engaging in a clandestine affair.
Several moments passed in tense silence until Simon finally joined us. He was displeased but unscathed, and I bit my tongue to prevent myself from asking what had transpired in our absence.
“We will continue as part of Miss Dubois’s investigation as planned,” Simon announced.
“Thank you,” I said, and he glared at me.
“Do not thank me for this. Let’s be on our way before he changes his mind.”
Chapter Eight
A note arrived the next afternoon stating that Miss Thistlegoode had gone missing, and that Justine and Dr. Bennett would meet me at the Thistlegoodes’ home. Simon glared after me as I left, but he wouldn’t leave Michael unattended, and Michael couldn’t brave the daylight. This was a matter that couldn’t wait for the sun to set, for every moment that passed was another missed opportunity to find Miss Thistlegoode alive.
Mr. and Mrs. Thistlegoode were so overwhelmed with fear for their daughter that being in the same room with them almost choked me. Thankfully Dr. Bennett rescued me from their presence and led me to Miss Thistlegoode’s bedroom, where Justine was already investigating.