Fortunately, he had been able to trap it with magic before it could run away. Ember had no idea what would have happened if the shadow had run away—whenever she asked, her father gave a shudder and changed the subject.
“Lionel?” The door began to push open.
Ember jumped out the open window in one smooth motion, leaving the shadow staring after her.
She landed on a rosebush, which took its revenge by tearing her remaining sleeve. There came a scream from the office, but she was running again, into the twilight that enveloped Chesterfield’s mossy stone buildings. She looked back and saw that the fire hadn’t just burned her father’s office. There was a blackened hole in the roof, and the statue on the green below the window—Beatrice August, discoverer of Stormancy—was completely scorched.
Ember ran faster. She didn’t know where she was going. She just wanted to be far away.
Chesterfield sat atop an artificial hill in the heart of the city, on the Thames just west of the Tower of London. The hill and the university had been built at the same time, more than five hundred years ago—the hill offered Chesterfield’s Stormancers the perfect vantage from which to spot approaching storms. Ember fled through the rose garden and past the observatory, her feet silent against the flagstone path. Every stone had been painstakingly inscribed with Chesterfield’s crest: Magicae et Scientia, it read in Latin, over an open book out of which reared a dark cloud. Magic and Science—the two forces that shaped the world.
Ember preferred Science. She could spend hours gazing at motes of dust under a microscope, or studying the formation of canyons or the strange creatures that lived in the deepest parts of the sea. She wanted to be a zoologist, in preparation for which she had begun memorizing a new species every week from Takagi’s Compendium of Exotic Creatures. She tried not to think about how her flammability might affect her chances of keeping a job.
A group of students stood talking in the lantern light ahead. Normally, Ember would have gone around them, but today she simply pushed through, ignoring their mutters. One of her invisible wings brushed against a young man, and he batted at his arm, as if he’d felt an insect. For some reason, this made her tears flow faster.
Finally Ember stopped in the shadow of the ivy-veiled library. Then she spread her wings and leaped into the twilight.
The library had a steepled roof, and Ember liked to crouch at the very peak, one leg draped over either side as if the roof was a horse that might buck the earth and go soaring into the sky.
The night air was heavy with the smell of old stones and magic, which had a moist, purplish scent. Only Ember could smell it—humans and Stormancers, including her father, were all oblivious. She breathed it in—it was the smell of home. London stretched out below, halved by the silvery Thames and wreathed in tendrils of smoke. Kiteships drifted up and down the canals—though their decks were the size of an ordinary sailboat, each bore a half-dozen sails as tall as buildings, in bright colors that reminded Ember of butterflies. A row of glass-walled submarines waited to dock at Bankside Quay, ready to carry passengers to France or Ireland or beyond. The stars seemed so close she felt she could reach up and pluck them from the sky like berries.
She thought about the time her father had taken her to the mountains in Wales—the stars had been even brighter there. The two of them had made campfires and hunted for stoats and flown so high that a lacework of frost settled on Ember’s skin. Her father didn’t often bring her along when he traveled—chasing magical storms was a dangerous business—but when he did, they had a marvelous time.
She looked out over the university with a hungry sort of yearning, the spires and gabled roofs and cobbled streets shaded by ancient trees. Chesterfield had two colleges: Perseid College of Science and Owlworthy College of Magic. Between the two was a long promenade lined with statues of famous Magicians and Scientists. Her gaze roved over the professors’ residences, a row of stately stone buildings where she lived with her father in a cozy flat. Next she found the Bridge of Moans, the botanical gardens, and the Reading Wood, a grove of horse-chestnut trees where students lounged and studied and engaged in regular chestnut fights. Ember had secretly instigated several of these herself. She liked to scamper up the trunks to launch her own missiles at unsuspecting students, who invariably blamed each other.
The wood was her favorite place, for it was also where you could find foxes and hares and slowworms and at least ten species of birds. She could sit for hours in the treetops, observing owls chasing mice, mice fighting over burrows, and all the other small dramas that were part of everyday life in the woods. She liked animals—there was something restful about them, unlike people.
When she wasn’t in the wood, or curled up with her books, Ember spent much of her time gliding about the university like a sylph, taking advantage of its many nooks and groves and hidden passages—she preferred being unseen. It was safer to go unnoticed.
There came the sound of claws skittering over the eaves, then a strangled “Now!” as Puff sprang over a gargoyle and landed at Ember’s side.
“I don’t have any food,” Ember said as the white cat sniffed her pockets. Puff placed her paws on Ember’s leg.
“Warm!” she demanded.
Ember settled the cat on her lap. The breeze was cool, which was a relief, for Ember’s skin still tingled. The fire didn’t hurt her—apart from her hair—but that didn’t mean it was pleasant to burst into flames like an inconvenient phoenix. Ember was just as nervous about the approaching summer as the shadow in the corner.
Minutes turned into hours, and still Ember didn’t move. She gazed at the shadowy Tower of London, where her aunt Myra, Lionel St. George’s younger and only sister, had once been imprisoned. Tiny lights flared along the streets as the lamplighters finished their work. She wondered how long she could stay up there. Perhaps she would never go down—she would remain on the roof until the wind and rain hardened her into a gargoyle. The birds would land on her wings—birds weren’t fooled by magic—and make nests in her hair, and moss would creep slowly up her legs.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a strange flapping sound as her father floated into view. Lionel St. George was wearing his flying cloak, which was woven with raven feathers like a giant wing. His wavy hair was all over the place as usual, made worse by the wind he had summoned. At thirty, Lionel looked much the same as he had at eighteen, pimples and all, apart from the dark circles under his eyes. It was a common trait of Stormancers, who spent many of their waking hours chasing storms from one corner of the country to another. Like all Stormancers, Lionel also glinted slightly, like a coin turned toward the sunlight, while his eyes shone in the dark like a forest creature’s.
“There you are!” he exclaimed, settling beside Ember on the roof. Then his face fell, as he remembered he was supposed to discipline her for going up on the roof again. “Ember—ah, I don’t think—”
“I’m sorry,” Ember said quickly. “I shouldn’t be up here. I won’t do it again.”
He looked relieved. “Yes, quite. That’s it exactly. Good, good.”
“You’re back early,” Ember said as dread settled over her. Normally when her father returned from a trip, it was an occasion to celebrate. Not this time.
His face lit. “Yes, I caught up with the storm sooner than expected. It was a very productive journey.” Lionel St. George almost crackled with magic—it must have been a particularly powerful storm, perhaps one of those that lurked over the Atlantic. A moth circled his head, drawn by the energy. He eyed it suspiciously.
“I’m guessing you haven’t seen your office,” Ember said.
“I did stop by, yes.” His tone was mild and not remotely angry. For some reason, this caused Ember to burst into tears.
“There, there.” Her father drew her into a hug, earning a hiss from Puff. “Think nothing of it, Ember. It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it was my fault.” Ember wiped her hand across her face. “There weren’t any other drag
ons in your office today. Now you’ll get in trouble.”
Lionel gave a vague shrug. “I’m used to trouble by now, my dear. Besides, I had been wishing for more time to work on my next book. . . .”
Ember froze. “They fired you again.”
“Well . . . I believe that was the gist, though the rector didn’t exactly use those words. I’m afraid I can’t repeat the words he did use, but—”
“They fired you,” Ember repeated. She felt as if she was falling head over heels toward the lamplit city. “Because of me.”
“Because of the statue, specifically,” he said. “The only surviving likeness of Beatrice August. Personally, I think a little charring is an improvement—gives her a bit of flair, doesn’t it? Though the rector didn’t take my view of things.” He squeezed Ember’s shoulder. “The statue doesn’t matter, my dear. Nor does my job. They’ll hire me back eventually—particularly if I can ever perfect that cockroach-to-chocolate spell! What matters is that you’re all right.”
Ember bit her lip. She was all right. But what if she had hurt someone? What if, instead of a statue, she had burned Puff? What if her father had been in his office? This time, she had gotten him fired—what if worse happened next time?
She couldn’t let that happen. It was too terrible to think about.
“You were right,” she said. “It’s not safe for me here. Especially with summer coming. You should send me away. To Russia, or Greenland—I’ll go anywhere, as long as it’s cold.”
Her father blinked. “Ember, I will not send you away. Now, if I was able to travel, we could go somewhere together—I’ve always wanted to visit Canada, haven’t you? Polar bears! Northern lights! But as I’m not, at present, allowed to leave the country—a silly overreaction on the part of the police, of course—”
“We have to do something,” Ember said. She pictured the blackened statue. What if that had been a student? “It’s happening more often.”
Her father looked away, but not before Ember had seen the shadow cross his face. Lionel St. George wasn’t practical—that was the problem. She was going to have to be practical for both of them.
Ember gazed at the Tower in the distance. Lights flared in the battlement where her aunt had been imprisoned. She had an idea. “What if I went to stay with Aunt Myra?”
Her father blinked. “Myra?”
“Isn’t she in charge of a Scientific research station?” Ember said.
“Ember,” Lionel said, “your aunt Myra’s research station is in Antarctica.”
“But it would be perfect.” Ember hurried on. “There’s not much chance I’ll catch fire there. And I’d like to learn about her research.”
Her father winced. He did that whenever his sister came up, which was rarely. Ember had never met her—though she visited London occasionally, either she or Lionel always seemed to be too busy to see the other. While in prison, Myra St. George had earned multiple Scientific degrees by correspondence. Normally, a convicted thief would be an unusual choice to run a research station, but as Lionel had once said, there was a shortage of Scientists willing to spend months in the coldest, most remote part of the British Empire. “It wouldn’t be appropriate. Your Aunt Myra is a thief.”
“A reformed thief, according to her last letter,” Ember said. Her father had left it lying around, as he did most things. “She promised she hasn’t stolen a thing since she went to Antarctica.” Privately, Ember had thought that this wasn’t much of a promise, given that there was nothing to steal in Antarctica. But her aunt had sounded perfectly nice, even if she had used an odd amount of exclamation points.
“She isn’t afraid of me, is she?” Ember asked.
“Not at all,” her father assured her quickly. “She knows you aren’t like the stories.”
Ember chewed her lip. Dragons were said to be vicious killers—they hunted for sport, often tearing their victims apart. She was glad that she wasn’t like that, even if she didn’t understand why. The spell her father had cast had changed her form, not her essence. Her lack of interest in eating people or other dragonish qualities was as much a mystery to her as it was to her father, though as he often mused, no one really knew what dragons were like. Fire dragons were extinct. She was the last.
Ember felt a familiar pang, like an echo of a half-forgotten dream. She would have been terrified to meet a dragon. And yet something inside her always whispered, Who were they? And, Who am I?
She wrapped her arms around Puff. “Tail!” the cat yelped.
Her father squeezed her shoulder. “My dear, you don’t have to go anywhere. I’m still working on a way to stop this. I’m certain I’m close.”
Ember suppressed a sigh. Her father had been trying to stop her from bursting into flames for years, but no amount of magic had any effect. The flaw in the original spell was difficult to pinpoint. That spell had been imperfect in more ways than one, as evidenced by Ember’s wings, which had, for some reason, refused to transform with the rest of her. For the first few days, she had been a winged baby, which hadn’t gone over well with the midwife who had examined her. Finally, failing to find a way to correct the first spell, short of turning Ember back into a dragon (which he couldn’t manage either), her father had simply cast a second, making her wings invisible. They were still there, which made it necessary to avoid both crowds and hugs from strangers—neither of which Ember cared for anyway.
“That’s enough serious talk,” her father said. “Let’s get off this roof before the librarians raise a fuss.”
Ember followed him to the ground, her thoughts whirling. A heavy sort of resolve settled in her stomach like a stone. If her father wouldn’t take steps to protect himself from her, she would have to do it herself. One way or another, she was never going to burst into flames again.
Two
The Orpheus
Fire dragons have given rise to many legendary stories. Among these is the belief that these solitary beasts passed their lives in the clouds that gather on mountaintops, and would immediately perish upon contact with the earth.
—TAKAGI’S COMPENDIUM OF EXOTIC CREATURES
Two weeks later, Ember gazed up at the demiship looming over the Thames. Half submarine and half ocean liner, its glass hull allowed its passengers to gaze out into the depths of the sea. Men and women jostled past the dock, off to work or to errands elsewhere in the city, part of its smoky, rippling fabric. Ember felt a pang of homesickness, which made little sense, for she hadn’t left yet. She was even homesick for things she didn’t like, such as the raucous parties of the first-year student Magicians, and the cantankerous raccoon who lived in the roof of the banquet hall, which everyone thought was the ghost of the cantankerous chef.
“Well!” her father said. He had been saying that a lot recently, in a falsely hearty voice. He looked down at her and muttered, “Ember, are you sure about this? There’s still time to change your mind, my dear.”
He looked so hopeful that Ember almost relented. But then she thought of Beatrice August, and her father’s office, and the spring sunshine dancing on the Thames. “I’m sure.”
He sighed. “Your aunt’s letter caught me unawares, I admit. I haven’t heard from her in months. Now here she is, out of the blue, inviting you to Antarctica. She’s always expressed an interest in meeting you, of course, but I just thought we’d all go to a teahouse. . . .”
Ember said nothing. She had written to Aunt Myra herself, without her father’s knowledge, explaining the situation as delicately as she could, leaving out phrases like “burst into flames” and “burned down my father’s office.” It had been a gamble, but it paid off—Aunt Myra had written her father immediately to invite her to stay, and had seemed quite excited by the prospect, judging by the abundance of exclamation points in the letter, some of which even leaped into the middle of sentences. Her father, huffing, had finally relented—after much pleading from Ember—and agreed to allow her to stay with her aunt until the end of the summer.
Li
onel wrapped her in a hug. “At least you’ll be back in time for the start-of-term banquet. Perhaps we’ll have a celebration of our own! The shadow and I have a few ideas. . . .”
Ember smiled, though she couldn’t meet his eyes. She wouldn’t return to London while she was still dangerous. She wouldn’t risk her father’s life, or Puff’s. Or anyone else’s.
Which meant, in all likelihood, that she would never return.
She didn’t want to leave. Leaving felt like running away. But what else could she do? She felt a surge of helpless anger that was growing increasingly familiar. She didn’t know who or what she was angry at, which somehow just made her angrier. Would London change while she was gone? Would Chesterfield? Would her father be all right without her? He sometimes became so obsessed with his experiments that he forgot to eat unless she reminded him.
“Your aunt seems to think you’d like Antarctica,” her father said grudgingly. “She says it’s a fierce place—and quiet. That sounds rather like you.”
Ember smiled in spite of herself.
Her father’s voice dropped. “I will sort this out, Ember. It was my fault in the first place. If I hadn’t been so hasty in casting that spell—”
“That spell saved my life,” Ember said. She hated it when her father talked like this. It made her feel like he had made a mistake in adopting her, though she knew he didn’t mean that. “And it’s not as if it had ever been done before. You did the best you could.”
Lionel shook his head. “You shouldn’t be comforting me, my daughter. I should have taken more care when I found you. But I promise that when you return, I will have a cure.” His eyes sparked with excitement. “I think I’ve hit on something big.”
Ember and the Ice Dragons Page 2