by S. L. Prater
“Do you remember the last time we danced like this?” Bran’s grin was crooked.
The memory had her smiling so broadly, her cheeks hurt. “You asked me to teach you the 4/4 time signature of Soshua’s Canter, then you crushed my toes! You’ve vastly improved since then, though. You haven’t stepped on my feet once. Well done.”
“You danced much too quickly for me.”
“Someone had to lead.”
Lights in their sconces buzzed and flickered. The curse poured through the door, thick like gray blood. The wooden floors groaned beneath it as though tortured.
“Shit,” they shouted in unison.
Marnie and Bran sprinted for the balcony, into chaos. The humid night air filled with shouting voices. Fire licked up patches of garden below. Billowing smoke blacked out the stars, and scrambling servants pulled down flaming shrubbery with rakes to try to stifle the fire’s spread.
Marnie shouted for help, flailing her arms at the staffers below. Bran joined her.
Jack shouted back from the ground. He was muffled and far away, and in the chaos his words were lost, but Marnie could guess what he was saying. He was demanding she grow some confidence and transport out. Transportation was a very rare organic skill, something a brainy witch with no instinct for spells should never have been able to manage.
But she did once.
Jack and Marnie were young then, just tall enough to steal pies off kitchen counters. For a laugh, they skipped Silk District school and climbed high into the rafters of an old barn in a fishing village outside the capital’s walls. It was the dry season, and the sun was out in force that day. The old barn caught fire and burned fast, and in the panic, she managed to transport herself and Jack to safety.
Marnie hated thinking about it. The fire was so hot, so consuming. Then suddenly, inexplicably, she and Jack were free. She had ridden natural magic into the sunlight and brought Jack along with her. They sat safely on an empty feeding trough, just outside the flaming barn, smelling like wet leaves and pumpkin seeds, not a scratch on them. Sometimes, Marnie had dreams about that day. Sometimes in her dreams, they made it free, but then watchmen hauled her away, blaming her for burning down the barn.
Sometimes in her dreams, she was alone on the feeding trough and Jack never made it out and the watchmen still came. Still hauled her away. They called her “street witch” and declared her dangerous.
Bran wrestled with a stone which had come loose from the masonry. His grunts brought Marnie out of her reverie. He dragged the stone toward the doors, propping them shut.
“If I touch this foul magic, whatever it is, it will get what it wants and stop there. Stay behind me; there’s no sense in letting it have you too.” He dusted his hands off on his slacks.
“You can’t reason with curses.” She smiled at his kindness. Soshua, a spirit who favored such things, would be pleased by him. She wished the spirit could help them now, but she had no idea how to garner their favor.
Jack could do it. Why couldn’t the curse have chased after him?
Marnie peered over the balcony at the ground too far below, wishing she could pull the earth in closer. She had nothing useful for a spell and no idea what to even cast. The balcony was made of stone. Stone wasn’t good for much. Stone, spit, the silk in Bran's shirt . . . She took quick inventory and tried not to cry.
“If we jumped,” she said, “we would die for sure, don’t you think?”
He chuckled ruefully. “We would.”
Desperate, she threw her arms around his middle, hugging him so tight he gasped. He held her back, his posture alert and rigid. She breathed deep, briefly comforted by the warm feel of him.
“If this doesn’t work,” she muttered into his shirt, “I’m really, really sorry.”
Marnie threw her weight against him. They toppled together off the balcony, screaming obscenities.
Chapter 3
Marnie heard her mother whispering to someone. She blinked her eyes open. The gas lights in the parlor burned too brightly, and she had to close her lids again.
What would her mother say when she saw her ruined dress?
Then she remembered the ballroom, the magic, the curse. Marnie wanted all of that to be a bad dream from Diridge, a spirit of sleep and death. Everything was so still and quiet, it all really could have been a nightmare. She felt her forehead with her fingers. A painful knot bulged between her eyes, and she remembered a lawn fire, the barrier. Her skin was hot to the touch. She thought she might vomit.
Carefully this time, she opened her eyes, blinking until her vision cleared. She found her mother staring longingly up at the picture hanging over the mantle, a large glass of red wine in her hand—odd for her. She didn’t usually drink alcohol and certainly not in those quantities.
Marnie imagined the fight they would have when the madam saw her rumpled state. Annette would remind Marnie she was a noble Becker and could not be seen looking disgraceful. Marnie would remind her mother she was only half Becker, by her father, and half the daughter of a pot scrubber who married above her station. Because she was far prouder of her pot scrubber portion, she would venture to look as disgraceful as she pleased while washing salad plates. As punishment, her mother would send her to help in the gardens because she knew how much she hated it there.
Marnie decided to avoid the argument altogether by doing her best impersonation of a dead person.
The picture above the mantle was an oil painting of her late father, Romulus Becker. He had been claimed by a fast-working influenza when Marnie was fourteen. Bran’s parents had hung the portrait in Romulus’s honor before they later too succumbed to the disease. Marnie had her father’s hair—coffee brown and full of loose curls—his touch of olive in her light skin, and his gray eyes. Her mother shared her lean height and soft complexion.
They were beauties; everyone said so. But beauty was not a luxury for a witch. For a witch, beauty promised trouble and alienated Marnie further from others unlike her.
The madam murmured to the painting, “Bran’s birthday party was tonight. He is the youngest master in Loreley now, and he’s doing so well managing the LaFontaine Estate, you’d be proud. He takes good care of us.” She toasted the fireplace like Marnie’s father was there to toast it with her. “I did not know what we would do when you left us, Romulus. I thought we’d be on the streets.”
Marnie watched her quietly for a time, not wanting to interrupt her. It felt like an intrusion to be in there at all, but seeing her mother like that, vulnerable and affectionate, grew a new kind of fondness for her. She recognized the pain coming from the woman who frequently felt like an intruder to her. That pain mirrored her own. Her heart scaled up into her throat. She fought not to sniffle and give herself away.
Her mother crossed to the mantel and rose up on her toes to kiss the painting. “. . . miss you . . . I’m so sorry . . . wish you were here to help me fix things.” Her soft murmurings turned into gentle sobs, and Marnie’s throat tightened.
Bran.
Her head cleared, and her memories of the evening rushed back. While she had been certain of their impending deaths, she remembered shoving Master LaFontaine off a balcony in a mad attempt to ride natural magic to safety. Since she was alive, surely, he was too, but to feel content she would need to see him for herself.
“Ugh!” She fell out of the lounge chair trying to stand. Thick carpet fibers tickled her cheek. Her head throbbed, and bile burned the back of her throat.
“Marnie!” Her mother rushed to her side. “Master, she’s awake!” Her hands were everywhere suddenly, brushing back Marnie’s hair, poking at the bump on her head. “Master LaFontaine! Jack! Please come quickly!”
Marnie’s eyelids were so heavy. She caught a glimpse of Bran’s rich shoes and the cuff of his gray slacks as he rushed into the sitting room.
“You owe me for my tobacco,” she said to his feet, relieved he was alive, a little jealous he was able to stand. The blackness returned.
; ***
The ground was spinning. When Marnie’s eyes opened, she discovered it felt that way because she was being carried up the servant’s spiral staircase. Her neck was painfully stiff, and her head ached. Bran was so tall, in his arms she felt more acquainted with the vaulted ceilings.
“Hell’s balls,” she groaned. “My head is trying to explode.”
“Watch your tongue,” he quipped. “Madame Becker's hearing is astounding, and I don't want to be scolded in association.”
She tried to sit up and lost her balance. His hands dug into her back and thigh to steady her.
“She can't scold you.” Marnie rubbed her forehead. “You're Master LaFontaine. You can get away with all kinds of swear words—my m-mouth feels slippery.” She tried to touch her lips and accidentally poked herself in the eye.
“You're intoxicated.”
“Wha . . . ? Am not!” she shouted without meaning to. Her injured eye watered, and she hiccupped so hard it hurt her throat.
He chuckled. “Truly. You’re drunk on magic. Jack told me so. Healing spells are not his forte, he said, and he had to lay it on thick to fix you up. The room didn’t have a lot of windows, so you absorbed a great deal of the magic. It about took forever to get the furniture to stop floating. I apologize if you’re uncomfortable.”
He carried her into the nearest sitting room while she busied herself with the intricacies of her own fingers. She never realized how fascinating her appendages could be. He spilled her gently onto an ornate rug, and she quickly lost interest in her hands. An image of a frenzied unicorn was woven into the fabric. She poked at its many colors.
He squatted down cross-legged on the unicorn's head beside her, close enough their knees touched. Neither made an effort to move.
“I need a breather. You are sturdier than you look,” he teased.
“You need a breather because you smoke too much.”
“Fair point.” He coughed into his fist. “I have forgotten where I was taking you anyway.”
“If it was my bedroom, I think we're in the wrong wing of the house.” The struggle to stay upright made her dizzy. Her head felt like a top loosely balanced on her shoulders, and nothing about the room was familiar to help ground her. The curtains—thick, heavy, black pieces—hung long over the windows, the dusty fireplace appeared unused, and cobwebs were strewn over the antique tobacco pipes on the mantle.
“Huh. I've lived here for five years”—she covered her mouth and hiccupped—“and I didn't know this room existed.”
Bran looked around, briefly eyeing the glass knickknacks decorating the corner hutch. “Neither did I, and I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“What happened to us?” More hiccups.
“You can't remember? I shouldn’t be surprised—you hit your head rather hard. Well, first, you transported us into a tree somehow, which we promptly fell out of—I fell on you, to be exact. Then Jack, a group of watchmen, and a priest cleared out the demon magic with a spell that set most of the gardens on fire.” He shuddered. “Gruesome stuff, the demon magic. It killed a watchman before it dissipated. He went quickly, but—” As he spoke, his olive skin paled. Grunting, he clutched his side.
“My God, you’re hurt!” Marnie tried to reach for him, but her depth perception was unreliable and she missed. “Why haven't you been tended to? What sort of fools are you employing that they don't tend to their own master?”
"You mean Jack?” He managed a smile, a weak one tinged with discomfort. “I instructed him to focus on you. Smart man, he didn’t even argue.” He took a long breath, eyes closed tightly for a moment. “His spell to dull pain is wearing off for me, but I’ll manage fine. Jack did mention a quick trick for easing internal injuries, but frankly we both preferred I was left wounded.”
A well-known healing trick for internal injuries included a dose of natural magic and a witch’s deep kiss.
“I see.” Her cheeks warmed.
Bran licked his lips. She realized she was staring at his mouth and pointedly looked away. Then she hiccupped so hard she toppled over. Her face hit the carpet, and her vision swam.
Sitting back up was a struggle. She couldn’t convince her knees to take their place beneath her. Bran offered his hand. She took it, straightening, and then she forgot to let go of him. He seemed to forget too, and that pleased her more than it should have.
“Marnie, are you capable of being serious for a moment?” He scooted closer, squeezing her palm.
“I can be s-serious for several moments,” she promised. Then she burped, which should have stolen her credibility, but Bran pretended not to notice. Her burps tasted like sour magic—in this instance, fermented cider.
“The priest believes one of the members of my household created the curse. They say a demon-dealing street witch is amongst us.”
If Marnie wasn't half-rats on enchantments, she would have protested vehemently, but all she could manage to do was shake her head. Shaking her head made her dizzy and nauseated, and she had to shut her eyes.
“Jack agrees with them.” His grimace came through in his tone. “He told me as much after the priests and watchmen interrogated him. They were not kind to Jack. They will not be kind to you either. You were barely lucid, and I had to shout them off you. Even on my property they wouldn’t heed me easily. I won’t let the Cloth corner you while you’re injured and intoxicated, but for my peace of mind, do try to stay alert.”
A staccato of sound drew their attention and silenced her protests before they could fully form on her tongue. She turned toward the doorway, in the direction of rushing footsteps on hardwood. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest and then beat so hard against her ribs she thought Bran would hear it.
“Are you well enough to come with me?” he asked. “I don’t want to leave you in here by yourself if another watchman is still snooping around.”
She nodded. He helped her up, holding her hand delicately. She followed at his heels, careful not to trip over her own feet.
“What if it’s not a watchman?” she whispered.
“Hmm.” He grabbed two iron fire pokers from a ceramic stand near the door. He passed one to her. Marnie took it in both hands, and it was surprisingly heavy. Too heavy.
She toppled onto her backside.
Bran sniggered. She erupted into giggles. They shushed each other loudly, and the resulting hiccups were crippling.
“Are you magic drunk, too?” she asked.
“No,” he breathed, clutching his side. “I'm drunk, drunk. The Spirit Soshua—or whoever it was—favors wine for healing spells, or so I am told. Jack insisted I drink a great deal to please the spirit while I played his assistant.”
He helped her off the floor, doing all the heavy lifting because her pleasantly warm legs had gone to rubber. She brandished the fire poker like a sword and nearly fell over again. Bran snatched it back for safe-keeping. Marnie pouted at him, though it was probably for the best. She followed, trying not to step on his heels.
She was amazed the halls held no evidence of the curse, no blackened wood or bent frames. The priest’s work, perhaps . . .? Several priests?
She heard a thump and paused. Stabilizing herself on Bran’s shoulder, she peered around him.
Jack lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the hall, spread-eagled, trousers missing, snoring boisterously in a cloud of wine. Marnie laughed until she was coughing. She hugged a burning stitch in her side. Bran’s laughter bent him in half, and he dropped the fire pokers. At the sound of the clattering irons, Jack snorted loudly, and Marnie fell apart anew, shaking with giggles. She clutched Bran’s arm to keep upright.
A screeching siren erupted through the quiet dark of the manor halls, shocking them silent. It startled Jack upright and half awake. The wail repeated in a pattern of three high-pitched bells, loud enough to leave Marnie’s ears ringing. The siren was echoing all through Loreley, waking every sleeper, alerting every watchman and palace guardsman. When the wailing faded, they stared
at each other in troubled silence. Outside, the gardener’s hounds began to howl.
“It’s not typhoon season,” Marnie whispered, unsure why she felt the need to whisper. “The emergency siren only sounds for typhoons, and there’s been no hint of a storm.”
“There is one other reason it would sound.” Bran’s face drained completely of color. In the moonlight he was entirely blue, ghost-like. “The emperor is dead.”
***
The magical intoxication took hours to wane. As soon as it was gone, Marnie missed being inebriated and carefree. She had been making a fool of herself, but at least she did not have to reflect on the horrors of the night and the dreaded watchmen interrogation to come.
If I was the guilty street witch, why on earth would I endanger myself with my own curse? That was the first point she planned to make.
Jack had promised that the interrogation was not so bad, but she could always tell when he was lying to spare her feelings. There was no hiding the ghost of fear in his eyes. After a long talk and some sobering coffee shared between them—and a new pair of pants for Jack; apparently his had caught fire—Bran left the manor with his house magician to meet with the other royal councilors at the palace.
Jack would play the part of a witness to the events of the night. Marnie suspected Bran had planned to ask her to fill this roll, but she’d stared at the floor while he discussed what needed to be done next. He must have read something in her expression and spared her the trouble.
Marnie awaited their return in the west wing drawing room because its massive windows faced the main gate. She wanted to know the moment they arrived, craving news and assurances Bran and Jack were well—Bran healthy and handling his injury, Jack not in a prison cell at the whim of a prejudiced constable. Pacing, she smoked through several cigarettes before switching to a pipe. She poured a cup of tea she never touched, chewed her nails down, and fogged up the room with tobacco smoke.