by S. L. Prater
“Please trust me. Any law philosopher would encourage her to confess. They favor the church’s stance on issues of magic.”
“You’re wielding my trust like a weapon, you know.” After a moment, she nodded her agreement. Her mouth was warm and slightly swollen from their earlier exchange. She resisted the urge to touch her lips.
He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Then I’ll see you at Terra District in the morning. I have more work to do. Go get some rest. I will send for Jack.”
On her way to her chambers, Marnie was certain she would not be able to rest, no matter who ordered her to do so, emperor or not. But she had underestimated how exhausted she was. The instant her head touched the pillows, she fell asleep. It was a restless sleep, full of frustrating dreams about being trapped in a room full of locked doors.
***
Jack woke her, jumping on the bed. She felt groggy and dog-eared, and there was drool on her pillow. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, brown curls springing everywhere, so much so they put Jack’s wild, honey-colored hair to shame. She was a wreck: blotchy dark circles under her gray eyes and skin paler than usual by two shades.
Jack smiled a sunshine smile down at her, and she felt warmed by amity from the inside out. His bare feet were dirty. He left prints on her bedsheets.
She rubbed grit out of her eyes with a fist. “It’s still dark out.”
He plopped down on the mattress, legs crossed beneath him. “Not for long. We need to get going.”
“You have to help my mom—” And then the events of the night hit her like a brick in the face. She lost her breath, eyes filling with tears. She felt like a child abandoned in the dark, afraid of monster watchmen hiding under her bed. She fell back on the mattress and pulled the blankets over her head.
Jack dug her out. When she tried to hide again, he sat on her arm. As she panicked, he busied himself with her hair, picking calmly at the worst knots and smoothing them away from her face.
“I’m falling apart.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said.
“My mother needs a counselor.”
“Madam Becker needs us, not some law philosopher.” He patted her head. “Let’s not ever tell him I admitted this, but Bran is a great deal smarter than most people. I don’t like it, you don’t like it, but we have to trust that he knows best because, frankly, he usually does.”
Out her window, the sky had turned from pitch to dark blue. The stars were fading. Marnie decided that the best way to tackle the building problem was to move as quickly as possible without thinking on it, so she clambered out from under Jack.
She didn’t bother with the nest in her hair, rushing for the closet instead. The first clean item of clothing her hands touched, a simple cotton sundress, she threw on and pulled down over the nightgown.
“Let’s go.” When she turned around, Jack had her shoes in his hands: low-heeled ankle boots.
“I am going to tell you something that is hard to hear. Hold yourself together, please, or I will sit on you again.” He pushed the shoes into her arms. She clutched at them for comfort. “Madam Becker is not simply being questioned. The watchmen believe she had something to do with the curse last night.”
“That can’t be true!” Marnie slipped the boots on in a standing position, bouncing on one foot as she went, nearly overbalancing; Jack caught and steadied her. “She’s no witch.”
“I think we can explain that to them. I think that’s why she needs magic users as her counsel. Bran is already there arranging for the red-stolers to release Madam Becker to him, and he’s personally selecting the priest who will oversee her questioning. They won’t refuse him. It’s Bran we’re talking about, and he’s the emperor now.”
“They might. Even an emperor can’t pardon my mother where demon magic is concerned. Only the Church of the Cloth could do that, and the Beckers did a great job of making the priests hate her when my father died.” She took his hand, linking their fingers. She felt ready with his hand in hers, less frazzled and nervy.
He squeezed her knuckles. “Then if they don’t see things our way, we will curse them all.”
An offense punishable by the gallows. He would do it though, Marnie was confident. They would do it together. She assumed Bran wasn’t counting on that, or he never would have arranged it. Marnie wondered how much it would trouble him to have to sentence her to death so soon after she’d saved his life.
***
Within the estate grounds, magic had amazingly repaired most of the damage from the night before, although half of the gardens still smoldered. Jack fought against wearing boots, but Marnie won the argument in the end. He slipped them on begrudgingly before they hit the streets.
The roads, in the early morning, were littered with sun leaves. A large snake slithered into some nearby shrubbery, and Marnie shivered at the sight of it. Steam from a passing underground train whistled out of an iron grate in the walkway and sent frogs hopping for cover. She stepped carefully to keep from squishing a fleeing amphibian.
Steep-gabled houses lined the paved streets ahead of them, each with clay-tiled rooves, careful brickwork, and floor after floor of ivory-paneled windows. In the background, Loreley’s palace emerged, as large as a mountainside, like a great fist with turrets for fingers. Parapets shaped into spirals stretched toward the clouds. The image of the naked ceiba tree shined in pale-colored stained-glass windows, a symbol that honored God and celebrated the greatest spirits.
For a moment, Marnie pictured Bran looking down at his empire from behind those parapets, and her belly pinched. Suddenly, the palace, which for most of her life had sat like a massive lawn decoration in her backyard, now felt terribly far away. How often would she see Bran after his coronation? How often had she been in the same room as the late emperor?
She calculated the times easily enough—never.
Marnie and Jack headed east and followed the tunnels down to the underground trains. At that hour, the yellow snub-nosed one would carry them to Terra District. The district earned its name from all its clay architecture. They watched through the train windows as the bricks that formed the arching tunnel changed to terracotta.
As the train chugged slowly to a standstill, the colorful engravings in the clay came into focus. A merchant sold mud figurines for coppers on the platform. The figurines were images of spirit symbols like Ammon’s crossed hammers and Diridge’s great faceless ram, horns spiraling out of its bone-colored head. When the merchant attempted to solicit, Jack shooed him away with a flick of his wrists.
Every inch of Terra District told a story with vibrant pictures on walls, clay jars, and columns. There were images of epic battles between great spirits, demons in deformed animal bodies, holy priests, and people touched by a spirit and granted a great power. As Marnie and Jack climbed the tunnel’s smooth stone ramps toward the surface, they spotted even more depictions of ancient witches and their infamous quests.
Local pastors wearing brown stoles that draped to their knees handed out pamphlets outside the tunnels. They pressed one into Marnie’s uninviting arms. The naked tree symbol headed it. She skimmed the bold lettering.
Honor God by obeying the tenets of the Cloth. Spirits, born of God’s magic, are holy helpers worthy of our prayers. Preserve the family. Seek knowledge. Keep the faith. Avoid organic magic.
The pamphlet went on to lecture about the addictive, dangerous qualities of natural magic and how it inevitably attracted demons. She wadded it up and threw it on the ground.
“So like the Cloth to have pastors, who can’t even use magic, educating the masses about the dangers of it,” Marnie grumbled.
Jack grunted his assent.
In the daytime, the streetlamps lay in a pile at the foot of the tunnels. At night, they sprung to life and followed behind travelers to light their path because, unlike the other districts, which were powered mostly by smoke and steam and humming machinery, Terra District was powered by magic.
>
The lampposts put themselves to bed, falling in neat piles on the side street, as Marnie and Jack surpassed the bakery and the apothecary shop. The sun rose, clouds turning vibrant shades of red, orange, and pink. Each shop they passed buzzed or chimed or sang a song to entice them inside. The fog of magic building over the street smelled increasingly spicy, like hot peppers she could taste on the tip of her tongue.
At the center of Terra District was a cobblestone intersection marked with a heart-shaped clock Marnie would have enjoyed if it were not for the red brick building over which it sat. Watchmen dressed in short crimson stoles and knee-high boots moved in and out of the constabulary offices, regulating the streets.
Bran emerged from the building looking like a storm cloud. He was still wearing the same silk shirt from the night before. His black hair was starting to curl, and he hadn’t shaved. Stubble darkened his chin and cheeks.
They ran to meet him.
“The priest has already arrived,” Bran said. “You need to get in there straight away and talk some sense into your mother. She declared she is responsible for it all. The curse, the demon magic, everything.”
Marnie’s heart squeezed. “She can’t be well.” She touched her chest, willing her heart to work correctly. “Curses can impact people in all sorts of different ways.”
“It’s not me you have to convince.” Bran glowered at the nearest patrolling watchman. “She’s spouting off about making deals with a demon and possession . . .”
“She’s not even a witch. No demon would want her,” Jack said. “The constabulary can’t be taking her seriously.”
“Oh, but they are. I tried to convince her to keep silent on the matter, but she will not hear me. They’ll give you an hour before they bring in my priest. Marnie”—Bran’s hand on her arm pulled her from an anxiety-induced daze—“I’m more certain than ever you are the only one who can help her.”
She knew she needed to respond, but she forgot how to make words.
Jack squeezed her hand. “Take us to her.”
***
“Always avoid the appearance of wrongdoing,” Marnie’s mother had told her years ago as they strolled the markets of Gold District together. Marnie had been eight at the time. “When you see their crimson stoles, keep your eyes down. Do not put your hands in your pockets.” Her mother had tapped her forehead until her gaze fell to the walkway beneath them.
Young Marnie tried to ask questions, but her mother had cut her off. “Never mutter, dear! If you must speak near a watchman, do so loudly and clearly, lest they think you are trying to curse them . . .”
In the present, Marnie swallowed hard. She was about to step willfully into the watchmen offices, straight into the heart of the constabulary. Doing so felt like she was stuffing her face into a bees’ nest. Jack’s stiffly set jaw and pallor told her he shared her feelings.
Inside, the corridors were dotted with doors made of a strange opaque glass. A watchman who had forgone his stole led them through a maze of musty stone halls and scattered offices. Marnie was determined to be on her best behavior, gaze downcast, hands clasped in front of her, steps quiet. Her mother’s early teachings played on a loop through her mind. She tried not to look at the revolver in the watchman’s shoulder holster. The sight of it made her palms sweat.
The watchman had the dark brown skin and warm amber eyes of an Achean. Most of Marnie’s professors shared those features. This was welcome to her. Acheans were notably more accepting of magic users.
The watchman introduced himself briskly as Constable Alec. “While you are here, do not stare into the eyes of the other watchmen.”
“That’s horseshit,” Marnie muttered, and there went her determination to behave. Her temper had caught her completely off guard.
Her mouth suddenly had a mind of its own, and it kept going. “It’s a myth that I have to stare into your eyes to hex you. Seeing my hands won’t help you either, so don’t bother telling us to keep them out of our pockets.”
To her surprise, the lines near Alec’s eyes crinkled. “I know that.” He lowered his voice. “Most of the people in this building are old-fashioned. It is in your best interest not to antagonize them. Eye contact with a witch, or even a trained magician, will make them uncomfortable.”
The tour ended at a brightly lit room stuffed with mirrors. Her mother was there, seated behind a circular metal table. Alec left them with a warning to be brief.
Jack struggled with a heavy door that seemed to take ages to close. When it was finally shut tight, Marnie had to shake off a pang of panic. It felt like he had just sealed the door to their jail cell. There were no windows, no fresh air. A bulb overhead blinked on and off sporadically.
Madam Becker’s wrists were shackled in irons plated in solid gold, the sight of which made Marnie nauseous. A flush of anger started in her chest and rose to her face, coloring her cheeks.
Gold was the only known substance that could not be altered by magic or used in a spell. No natural magics favored it. The precious metal could even undo some enchantments when used correctly, Marnie had been taught, although she had always been too poor to try it out.
Annette Becker looked miserable, hair unkept, eyes bloodshot. Even her freckles blanched. Mirrors covered every inch of wall, mirrors with glass that quivered like disturbed pools of water the second Marnie entered the room. She realized why as Jack took a seat at the table.
“God help you,” she said to her mother, burying her face in her hands. “You actually do have a demon in you.”
Chapter 5
Madam Becker sobbed. Her nose ran. She rubbed at her face with the back of her hand. Marnie smelled the burning rot coming off her. Her heart dropped into her shoes, and her stomach clenched.
“Did you know, Jack?” she asked.
“I suspected something, but not this.” His eyes were wide and hopeless.
Annette sniffled, and he moved to comfort her. Marnie stopped him, catching his arm.
The mirrors would prove useful. She tried to focus on them instead of the strong possibility that she would be an orphan soon. Demons were vain creatures and had trouble not coming out to look at themselves when mirrors were around, or so she had read. Then again, she’d also read that a ring of salt on the floor and pepper tossed over the shoulder was supposed to bring luck, and that was definitely fable. It was apparently as fabled as the age-old wisdom that demons were only interested in witches dipped in their own tasty natural magics, not efficient, magic-less housekeepers.
Jack helped Marnie tilt the heaviest mirror, centering her mother’s reflection in it. Marnie chanted a common prayer to Sidra for help, and Jack joined in. Friendly witches could chant together to attract spirits or stir up extra organic magics. The more bonded the magic-users were, the better. The image of a star frosted the glass briefly, then evaporated.
Jack was practiced and talented. He finished the revealing spell. She felt a change in the atmosphere when he took over. Magic, gritty like sand, tickled her face. Jack once told her this was how he always identified magics. He felt it on his bare skin, whereas Marnie usually smelled it. His fingers and toes were the most sensitive to it—one of the many reasons he hated to wear shoes.
A demon appeared in the glass, naked and faceless. Taut pale skin stretched over a barren expression, no nose, eyes, or lips. It took the form of a thin, ghostly pale humanoid with greasy coal-colored hair that fell to its waist. Its nails were long, black edges, which it picked at, grinding them loudly against each other as though it were bored.
“It’s all my fault, Marnie,” her mother sobbed. “I tried to take it back. I tried to make it right, but . . .”
When the demon spoke, she cried harder. “But you can’t go back on a demon deal.” Faceless had a low, unassuming voice. “When this priest finds me, he’ll exorcise me out, and Momma Becker is going to hang by the neck in a mechanical grip.”
“Oh, Mother.” Marnie rubbed her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. “What cou
ld you possibly want to trade with this vile thing?”
Her mother’s tears splattered against the table. She didn’t answer. Marnie remembered her in the parlor the night before, talking to the painting of her father, and she didn’t need Annette to answer.
Jack shook his head somberly. “He promised you he’d bring Romulus back in exchange for possession.” He sighed, looking aged. “Demons are liars.”
“I didn’t ask for Romulus,” she said, her mouth trembling. “I wouldn’t want whatever repulsive, half-monster it gifted me instead of my husband. I’ve been missing your father so terribly. I asked for peace, and it gave it to me yesterday, but only for the briefest moment. It was all so cruel.
“I hadn’t thought to demand a timeline for peace. I thought: how much harm could it possibly do with me? I’m not a witch. I wanted to take the deal back the moment I had agreed. I’d do anything to take it all back! All those people hurt because of me!”
“She’s not a witch,” Marnie pleaded, like this knowledge could somehow undo the destruction of the night before.
Faceless sneered. “You silly creatures with your titles: witch, priest, magician . . . You’re all the same. Some certainly have more fuel than others. Nevertheless, when you’re a being as powerful as I, you can tap right into the very little bit a cow like Momma Becker has. Look at all the chaos and desperation I caused for my own joy. Imagine what I could do with someone like you, Marnie.”
“We aren’t here to make deals,” Jack said. “Annette, we’re getting you out of here.” He bent across the table and jerked on the golden cuffs. The bulky muscles of his arms coiled. Sweat appeared at his hairline. Annette winced as the cuffs pulled at her skin.
“How much time have we got left?” Marnie asked. The heavy table moved, scraping the floor, but the cuffs would not budge from Annette’s wrists.