“Yes, Uncle,” I said. He was right. Father had pushed me hard, when I’d been at the hall, but Jude’s tutors hadn’t had time to give me too much attention. “I’ll keep working on it.”
“A very good idea,” Ira agreed. “You really need to learn to think about what you’re doing, young lady. You are a competent brewer, at your level, but you don’t show much in the way of imagination.”
I winced. That stung, even though I didn’t want to admit it. “I was always taught not to improvise a recipe on the fly.”
“No,” Ira agreed. “However, you should always be looking for ways to improve your work, even something as simple as using chopped ants in place of crushed ants. Your tutors will be quite happy when you start modifying their recipes … if, of course, you are successful. Even a failed experiment can be quite informative, if you figure out what you did wrong and why.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said.
I took a breath. “What should I do?”
“Think about what you’re doing and why,” Ira said, again. “You need to bear that in mind at all times.”
He met my eyes. “I have to get back to my own work,” he added. “Do you have any questions?”
“Yes.” A dozen possible questions ran through my mind, questions I suspected he wouldn’t answer. “Are the wards really … are the wards really threatening us?”
Uncle Ira didn’t seem surprised by the question. Morag must have told him what had happened to me. Instead, he merely looked pensive.
“Kirkhaven Hall is old,” he said. “It was rebuilt twice, I believe; the histories make it clear that there were at least two fires, the second bad enough to leave the outer shell in ruins. The original wards were augmented with several more layers of wards, some of which were warped and twisted by the fires. There are things in the ward network that even I cannot remove easily. It’s quite possible that one subset of the network is unaware that we have a perfect right to be here, or simply cannot figure out why we were allowed to enter the main doors at all.”
I frowned. “Then why don’t we take the ward network down and start again?”
Uncle Ira laughed, humourlessly. “The magic has infused itself deeply into the stone,” he told me. “I don’t think the wards can be dismantled completely, not without destroying the entire building. I’ve never seen anything like it outside Magus Court itself. It’s probably better to simply go around any parts of the building you cannot access easily.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said. “But what about the ghosts? I mean … are the ghosts and the wards connected? Or are the ghosts nothing more than illusions …?”
“Good question,” Uncle Ira said. “And one no one has ever been able to answer.”
He stood. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”
I scrambled to my feet and dropped a hasty curtsey. “You too, Uncle.”
My mind raced as he left the room, closing the door behind me. Morag might be right, I supposed. A compulsion spell worked into a ward might be powerful enough to scare me - and push my imagination into doing the rest - without making it obvious. Subtle compulsions were often more dangerous than brute force, although the latter could be terrifying. It was harder to resist something when you didn’t know it was there. But Uncle Ira had warned me specifically about ghosts. I didn’t know what to make of it. He could have simply warned me about the wards himself, if he’d wished.
I sighed. I wanted to ask my father for advice, but I was grimly certain that no letter I sent would be allowed to reach him. And the Arbiters wouldn’t give me any advice themselves.
At least I managed to brew his potion, I told myself. I’d enjoyed his short lecture, even though it was clear he was no tutor. That’s something, at least.
Putting the thought aside, I went back to work.
Chapter Eight
I had hoped, despite myself, that Uncle Ira would be happy to give me more lessons - or even to watch as I worked my way through the correspondence course. But I was disappointed. I barely saw him for the next two days and only then at dinnertime, where he would grunt vague responses to my questions and then hurry back to his work as soon as he finished eating. Morag didn’t seem inclined to talk about magic at all, even though she was clearly a powerful magician. I found myself spending far too much time in the library when I wasn’t in the potions lab or charms workroom. It was the only way to get answers.
But it was an immensely frustrating experience. The books were so badly covered in dust that it was clear they had not been read by anyone for years. No one had reviewed the collection, let alone purchased up-to-date volumes from Shallot. The youngest book I found was older than Father and very much outdated. I read the first sections, noted all the areas in which magical understanding had advanced, then nearly threw the book out the window in irritation. I’d need a set of modern tomes if I had any hope of completing the theoretical half of my studies.
The library would have been impressive, I thought, if I’d had more time and freedom. There were a handful of books I’d never been allowed to read, resting on the shelves next to volumes that had been deemed suitable for little children. I picked up A Compendium of Curses and glanced at some of the spells, then recoiled in horror at just how unpleasant they truly were. Anyone subjected to one of the nastier curses would wish they’d merely been turned into a frog permanently by the time the spell was through with them. The next two books felt so unpleasant, when I touched them, that I couldn’t force myself to open the cover and look inside. I had no idea why they’d been shelved so openly. Perhaps Uncle Ira - or whoever had sorted the library - simply didn’t care.
It isn’t as if there are any children here, I thought, choosing not to consider that Uncle Ira and Morag might consider me a child. I was in exile too, just like them. They probably don’t care what I do.
I sighed at the thought, then turned my attention to a thoroughly outdated copy of Modern-Day Spells. It might have been modern, a few decades ago, but now … the spells were still usable, I believed, but the theoretical sections had been superseded long ago. I’d owned a copy of the book back home, one that had contained far more advanced spells … I wished, bitterly, that I’d thought to bring it with me. Spellbooks were traditional presents for young children, particularly those born to the Great Houses. My collection would have made life a great deal easier if I’d thought to bring it.
Perhaps I could write to Father and ask him to send it, I told myself. And then …
My heart sank. The Arbiters had clearly expected me to keep wearing the magic-suppressing cuff. I didn’t know why - I needed magic to do everything from cleaning my clothes to fetching and heating water for my baths - but Uncle Ira had warned me not to tell them. It didn’t make sense. Father wouldn’t have bothered to arrange a correspondence course for me if he’d thought I’d be unable to do it. A person without magic could do a great deal of theoretical work - I admitted, privately, that Cat was an absolute genius - but it wouldn’t be real magic. Cat hadn’t had a hope of passing the practical side of the exams.
And I can’t ask Father for the spellbooks, I thought. The Arbiters will ask too many questions.
I sat back and surveyed the bookshelves. Someone had crammed thousands of books into the room, all practically dripping with dust. I made a mental note to come back and try to catalogue everything, if only so I could find the books I needed when I needed them. There didn’t seem to be any cataloguing system, not as far as I could tell. The family librarian back home would have fainted dead away if he’d seen it. He’d threatened to maim anyone who put a book in the wrong place. I didn’t think anyone had dared see if he was bluffing.
Pointless, I told myself. I really needed newer books. Why bother?
I stood and swept out of the library, brushing the dust off my shirt and trousers as soon as I was outside. I’d gotten better at casting dust-repellent spells, although there was so much of it in places that the spells weren’t as effective as I�
��d hoped. The thick layer of dust on the uncarpeted floor was proof that no one had entered the library for years. It billowed up around me as I walked down to the stairs, making my skin itch. I wished, once again, for a proper shower. Perhaps I could rig one up, with a little magic, or perhaps I should just step outside in the rain. No one would care if I stayed outside long enough to get thoroughly drenched.
The stairs creaked ominously under my feet as I headed down to the kitchens. It was an hour until lunch, which meant Morag would be there. I didn’t know if she’d be pleased to see me or not, but at least she was company of a sort. I didn’t know how she’d managed to survive so long on her own. She might be older than me, but I doubted that made it any easier. A woman her age would normally be surrounded by friends and family - and children too, probably. Morag was certainly old enough to have children.
And her hair shows she’s married, I thought. But who is she married to?
I stopped outside the kitchen and peered inside. Morag was bent over the stove, stirring something that smelt strong and meaty. She looked up at me, then held up her hand to indicate that I should wait. I nodded and watched as she poured brown liquid into the pot, then put the lid on with an expression of relief. Cooking was clearly very different from brewing potions. I wondered, sourly, if I should have been studying cookery as well as potions back home. It might have come in handy.
Morag’s blue eyes bored into mine. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for something to do,” I said. It was a dangerous thing to say when my mother was around - she had a never-ending list of tasks to keep bored young girls occupied - but I had no idea how Morag would react. “Can I help with lunch?”
“Perhaps,” Morag said. She beckoned me into the chamber. “Have you peeled a carrot before?”
I shook my head, shortly. I’d never cooked anything before, save for my one attempt to cook eggs. I could do potions, but cooking? I wasn’t even sure where to begin. The principles should be the same, surely? And yet, they weren’t.
“Here,” Morag said. She passed me a pair of small carrots and a peeler. I’d used something like it before - some potion ingredients needed to be peeled before they were sliced, diced and dumped into the brew - but it looked different. “Peel the carrots, making sure you remove all the skin.”
I nodded and started to work. The peeler was old and felt as if it was on the verge of breaking in my hand, but it was sharp. I carefully peeled the first carrot, then put it down on the chopping block and started on the second. Morag watched me closely, her eyes cold and hard. I wondered if she had reason to worry. It wasn’t as if I was trying to cook with boiling oil. There was nothing particularly complex about peeling carrots!
“Good,” Morag said, when I had finished. “Now, get rid of the ends - both ends - wash the carrots under the tap and cut them up into pennies.”
“Yes, Senior,” I said.
Morag nodded curtly, but she never took her eyes off me. Her gaze made me feel uncomfortable, as if she was just waiting for an excuse to lash out at me. I wanted to tell her that I’d changed my mind, that I was going to go somewhere else, but some innate stubbornness kept me in my place. I chopped the carrots carefully, using the same precision I would have brought to a potions recipe. Morag even looked vaguely approving - if I used my imagination a little - when I had finished.
“Good,” she said. She took a piece of carrot and put it in her mouth, then nodded to herself and put the rest in the pot. “You’ll be able to eat lunch knowing that you helped make it.”
I didn’t have a chance to reply before she shoved a handful of potatoes at me. “Peel these, then chop them up into small pieces,” she ordered. “Try not to make any of them larger than a grape.”
“Yes, Senior,” I said.
I started to work, slowly peeling the potatoes. Morag didn’t seem quite so inclined to keep an eye on me, now I’d proven I could peel; she left me alone and went into the backroom, returning several minutes later with a large piece of meat. I eyed it, trying to decide what animal had unwillingly donated it to our kitchens. Morag caught me staring and pointed a sharp finger at the remainder of the potatoes, ordering me to continue. I sighed and did as I was told.
“Put the pieces in the colander and wash thoroughly, then put them on the side,” Morag said, when I had finished. She actually sounded approving. It pleased me more than it should. “And then you can go.”
I blinked in surprise. I’d actually enjoyed myself more than I’d expected, once Morag had stopped looking at me as if she’d expected that I’d do something stupid at any moment. I wanted to stay, to do something that felt like I was actually achieving something. It wasn’t something I could do with magic.
“I …” I swallowed and started again. “Can I … can I pick your brains a little?”
“Perhaps,” Morag said, forbiddingly. She picked up the kettle and placed it on top of the heating element. “But they had better be good questions.”
I watched as she filled the teapot with tea leaves and placed two cups beside it as the kettle began to boil. Morag turned making tea into an art form, something I hadn’t seen outside the handful of extremely formal afternoon teas Mother had made me attend. I hadn’t liked them, not really. She’d had me dress up in my finest, as if I were nothing more than a doll, and then sit quietly while the grown-ups wittered about matters I found incomprehensible. I’d enjoyed going to the emporium more, where Mother and I had taken tea in a fancy cafe …
And that will never happen again, I told myself, sharply. I might never see my mother again, let alone sit with her and make witty remarks about passers-by. There will no longer be any fancy teas, or fancy cakes, or sugar butterflies that flap their wings under their own power and fly right into my mouth.
I felt a pang of bitter homesickness and sat down on the stool, trying to keep my face under control. Why hadn’t I appreciated what I’d had? I didn’t need more, did I? I’d have graduated, perhaps undergone an apprenticeship, then married someone my parents chose - or at least approved - and had children. Who knew? Perhaps I would have married into power and position. There had been quite a few eligible young men in my year. I hadn’t needed to work with Stregheria Aguirre at all.
“I need more modern books,” I said, as Morag poured the tea. “Can I order them?”
“I’d be surprised,” Morag said, tartly. “Do you even have a spending account any longer?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I’d once been able to draw on the family’s limitless resources - I’d once spent a thousand crowns on a necklace I’d packed into one of my trunks -but now? I doubted I had any spending money of my own. Traditionally, a girl was given a private account when she had her Season, but mine had been at least four - perhaps five - years away when … when I’d been sent into exile. Father might have wanted to set up an account for me, but I doubted the Arbiters had let him. It would be a great deal easier to keep me under control if I didn’t have any money that couldn’t be taken away at will.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never … I never had a Season.”
“And a good thing too,” Morag said. Her voice was very sharp. “You’re far too young to have a Season.”
I scowled as I sipped my tea. “Are there no modern books here?”
“Ask the Master,” Morag said. “But make sure you work out a list of what you want first.”
“Yes, Senior,” I said. “Will he order them for me?”
“He might,” Morag said. “If he feels you need them, he’ll order them.”
I shook my head, ruefully. Once, I’d been able to get whatever I needed - or whatever I felt I needed. Now … I thought I understood why Rose had been so ill-prepared for Jude’s. Her family hadn’t been able to purchase the books she’d needed to learn. And now I was in the same boat.
“It won’t ever be the same, will it?”
Morag laughed, humourlessly. “I told you so, didn’t I?”
I looked down at my pale
hands. I’d known girls who’d been raised in Galashiels or North Cairnbulg or even the Princedoms of Ardrossan and they’d all complained that they’d never been allowed a proper Season. They couldn’t be presented there, not when they wouldn’t be staying in foreign lands, and they couldn’t be presented here until their parents returned home for good. It caused all sorts of problems for them, some of which I found incomprehensible and others I understood all too well. Not giving a girl a Season when she was old enough to stand on her own two feet didn’t imply confidence in her abilities.
“I’ll never have a Season,” I muttered.
“Be grateful,” Morag said, sharply.
I stared. “Be grateful?”
Morag pointed a long finger at me, so sharply I was sure she was about to cast a hex. “You see the lights and the glamour, the beautiful girls walking down the stairs and drifting into the ballrooms … you see young men vying for dances while parents sit and discuss marriage prospects in the backrooms. For one day, a girl is the centre of attention; for one day, everyone wants her. You see it as something to be desired.”
The bitterness in her voice shocked me, but she went on before I could ask her anything.
“It isn’t like that, not really. You are displayed to the world as if you are a fat cow to be sold to the highest bidder. The Grande Dames will poke and prod at you, just to make sure you’re healthy, while your parents will receive requests for your hand in marriage and, if they receive one they like, they’ll push you to take it. You’ll be lucky if you even know the boy. And woe betide you if you say no.”
“It isn’t that bad,” I said. Everyone had told me that a Season was merely the start of true adulthood. It was the greatest day of a young girl’s life. “Is it?”
Morag snorted, rudely. “How would you know? You’ve never had a Season. Or been married.”
I looked at her hair. “Are you married? To Uncle Ira?”
She surprised me by laughing. “Isabella … you do realise, don’t you, that I’m closer to you in age than his?”
The Family Shame Page 8