by A. M. Hudson
“And?” I heard the smile in his voice.
“It was negative.”
A long moment of silence followed before his deep, whispery voice came down the line, distorted with a bit of static. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s always next time, right?”
“Right,” he said in an almost quick, insincere manner. “Now, what were you doing, exactly, when you broke my baby brother’s arm?”
I laughed. “I was running away so I wouldn’t have to kiss him.”
My ability to silence him surfaced again. “Okay, I’m going to assume there’s quite a story behind that.”
“There is.” I sat down on my bed and crossed my legs. “Remember when I threw that guy at training the other day?”
“Yeah.”
“Jase said it wasn’t my blue light that did it. It was telekinesis.”
“Telekinesis?”
“Mm-hm. Apparently I can snap bones with, too.”
“Okay, just . . . I need a second to get my head around this.”
I smiled, letting him have his second.
“So, you have telekinesis? You didn’t snap his bone with your bare hands, but with . . . your mind?”
“Yes. Because I thought he was the one that was hurting me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He told me I could move things with my mind, that the power had surfaced the other day out of necessity, and that if we could recreate a situation where I felt threatened, it would surface again.”
“So he hurt you?”
“No. He tried to kiss me.”
“Right.” He paused again, clearly seething on the other end of the line. “Just give me the full story from start to finish.”
“Okay, well, he was throwing stones into the ocean, and I was headed down to the beach. I asked him to show me how to throw them with my mind, and he said we needed high stakes to force my power out of hiding. So we agreed that. . .”
“The wager was a kiss?” David asked, but not in a dull, flat tone, more like he was laughing.
“Um, yeah. We were playing keep-off. If he got the stone, I had to kiss him.”
“And if he didn’t get the stone?”
“I—”
“Right. So he didn’t believe for a second that you’d actually use that power, did he?”
“Of course he did. But I guess that was my grand prize—the knowledge of power.”
“Fine. So you were running from him?”
“Yes. But, when he captured the stone and he was standing right in front of me, all geared up to accept his prize, I couldn’t do it. And I was holding the stone in my hand, and it got really hot.”
“Why?”
“I thought Jase—”
“Jason,” he warned.
“Jason,” I corrected, rolling my eyes, “was doing it to me, you know, making it burn to make me fight. But even he got scared when my hand started melting.”
“Melting?”
“Yeah. The stone got so hot my hand fused shut and I couldn’t get it out. Jason stepped in to help me, but I thought he’d make it worse. So I kind of, I dunno, I didn’t want him to touch me, and then he just fell to the floor. When the stone stopped burning, his arm was broken, and I don’t really remember doing it.”
“Do you remember how you got the stone to stop burning?”
“I melted it,” I said simply. “I felt it turn to cold glass in my hand, and then it just melted.”
“You . . . you melted it?”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded.
“Okay, I’m gonna need some time to process this,” he said distractedly, then came back into the conversation with a completely different tone. “On another note, did you go see Arthur about that rash?”
My hand went to my hip to scratch it. “No.”
“Why not?”
I inhaled to the deepest part of my lungs and let it out. According to the book Petey showed me, the one safely back under my bed, I already knew what the rash was. I just wasn’t sure Arthur could mix up a remedy to fix a Mark of Betrayal, and I wasn’t really sure what I’d done wrong, either. So, until I figured this out, the last thing I wanted to do was tell anyone about it. “He’s my uncle, David. I feel kind of funny talking to him about that stuff.”
“Don’t be silly, Ara. The fact that he is your uncle is exactly why you can talk to him about anything. And he’s seen it all, my love, not just every ailment known to man, but he’s seen your entirely naked body, too. Who do you think stitched your organs back in after you fell off the lighthouse?”
I cringed.
“So don’t feel embarrassed around him. Just go show him and let him fix you.”
“Okay.” I looked at the floor just under the corner of my bed. “I’ll go see him now.”
“Thank you. And call me as soon as you’re done.”
“I will.” I hung up and stuffed the phone in my pocket as I landed on my hands and knees and lowered my face to the ground, peering under the bed. The book was still there, undiscovered. Clearly the maids didn’t sweep under here often.
I reached in and pulled it out, sitting with my back against the mattress after. There was only one sure-fire way to find a cure for anything, and that was to find the cause. But no matter how many times I studied this book, I never really found anything other than one conclusion about my role as this ordained goddess: I was an open book, and all my secrets were painted in cryptic ink on my body for all to see. None of the Marks I’d read about seemed to be anything more than images that told stories; each one shaped differently according to what I liked to call its ‘genre’. I knew there were Marks that could cause the bearer damage, heartache, all kinds of things, but none of these fit that category. Not even this so-called Mark of Betrayal. Far as I knew, it was harmless.
I flipped through the pages again, taking mental notes, and when I came to the page Petey showed me, stopped and ran my hand over it. There was only the one English translation, and I hadn’t yet learned enough words of the Ancient Language to decipher anything other than what I already knew. But I knew a few people who could. Only problem was, that would mean involving other people.
I lifted my top and checked the Mark. Just like the drawing in front of me, it was snakelike, wrapping my waist and hip from my rib to the soft patch of skin just above my pubic bone. It was red, raised, itchy, and black on top, like an incomplete tattoo.
“Betrayal.” I read the word aloud, smudging the ink slightly with my fingertip. I hadn’t done anything that would betray anyone, as far as I knew, unless Mother Nature considered falling off the lighthouse a betrayal.
I closed the book, shrugging. Maybe She did. Maybe, in Her opinion, being careless enough to be on a lighthouse and fall in the first place was betrayal. Who knew?
The only solid conclusion I had was that I’d done something to betray someone or something and, as an Auress, I couldn’t hide from it—like every secret thought or act that betrayed my crown would be catalogued physically. And that thought made me look up, even though the answer wasn’t above my sliding glass door. But something in my own words clicked: betrayal to the crown. There were things I could do as queen, decisions I could make to my own free will, provided I always had the peoples’ best interests in mind. So maybe that was it. Maybe I’d made some decision, committed some act that I hadn’t realised was going against my crown. If I could figure that out and put it right, maybe I could get rid of this Mark myself. But, to figure it out, I’d have to think carefully back to everything I did the day I fell off that lighthouse, and check that against my notes on the laws of the Lilithian reign, and maybe even against some of the known laws of Nature.
I snapped the book shut and stood up. I had a lot of study to do.
The flames burned low in the open fire across from me, their golden glow flickering against my hands and my books, lighting the words on the page. I could see now why Arthur lit the fire when he came here to read at night. It really was quite a lonely place, but
not so desolate with those sparkling embers, and the smoky smell of burning wood kind of ‘took me home’ in a sense.
I sat down with another book in hand to cross reference, but the lure of Jase’s diary was calling me in a voice louder than the one seeking the answer about my Mark.
“Okay, okay. Just a little look,” I said to myself and shoved the giant Book of Shadows aside, its dusty pages snapping shut like an iron door. Jase’s book was small, no bigger than a short novel, with the leather having been bent so many times the spine was wrinkled and looked almost dirty between the cracks. I determined, as I gently unfolded the pages, that it must have been about a hundred years old. And I got a very sudden sense of respect for the wisdom Jase must have collected over that time.
The first page was titled by its date: 1914. There were scribbles and lines in the margins—notes taken then corrected, some in different inks, as if he’d come back to this page many times. In fact, all the pages seemed to be in the same condition, and I guessed he’d experienced signs of his telekinesis long before he actually knew what it was. I scrolled down through the curvy text, looking for keywords, since I really didn’t have time to sit and study the entire entry. When I spotted the words accidental and David, I narrowed my grid and read that passage:
My brother, David, staring back at me. He wasn’t supposed to be there. I hadn’t seen him for some months now, and to aim my gun right in his face and almost pull the trigger, well, let’s just say that’s not the happy reunion either of us expected. Our meeting was purely accidental, coincidental, who knows? But I was mighty glad to see the guy. For a while, I thought he was dead. I know that’s not possible, but I worried anyhow.
“This must have been from the war,” I whispered to myself, so awed by it that myself turned the page. “No.” I slapped my own wrist and closed the book. “Stay on track.”
“Okay, okay,” I replied and slid the giant Book of Shadows in front of me again, using a bit of might to pry it open and a bit of skill to stop the heavy pages on the right from flipping over and covering what I was reading on the left: the title page. Just the same as human parents once did in their family bibles, the names of each child in this witch’s bloodline had been scribed on the first page, a sort of naming ritual. And there, at the bottom, right under Callon LeFay, was Morgana.
I held my breath. She was real. And this could be living proof that she at least grew old enough to read. Perhaps this book was passed down to her. Perhaps she knew all the spells by heart. Maybe she was wondering what ever happened to the book.
As I went to turn the page—take a little stickybeak at some spells—a certain combination of letters in a very unusual name stood out at me from the list: Anandene.
“Anandene?” My nose crinkled. Anandene and Morgana were related?
There were no lines connecting the names. None that even connected Callon to Morgana, so there was no way to know if Anandene had been directly or distantly related to Morgana. The names were simply listed like required ingredients in a fancy dish.
Typical. I’d opened this stupid book to find answers, and all it had done was create another bloody mystery.
I dropped my head into my hands.
As if I needed any more mysteries right now.
“Ooh, what spell are we doing?” Eve said, sitting on the desk beside the book—her legs crossed like a lady, an eager grin on her dead face.
“We are not doing any spells.” I gently turned a few pages until they balanced equally on each side. “I was hoping to find something that might get rid of unwanted ink.”
“Try the back of the book,” she muttered in a hateful huff and vanished.
I scowled at the empty space. “Thanks for your help.”
As the coals in the fireplace burned to embers and the early morning chill of an approaching autumn settled around my nose and ears, I flipped past hundreds of spells that healed broken or sick things, potions mixed for ailments and hopes, and when I came to the end of the book, found a stack of notes and spells stuffed in between the last page and the hard cover. One was a love spell. I tossed it aside. Did not need that. One was a sleeping spell. I tucked that into my pocket for the next time I needed an easy escape. But the last one I unfolded was written in another language, the page so thin and delicate I wasn’t sure it was actually ever paper.
I laid it beside a sheet parchment and scribbled down the symbols and words exactly, copying the pictures and the diagrams, then stuffed it all back in the book and closed it. I wasn’t sure what the spell did, but I knew of some translation books that could help me figure it out. And, also, I had Jason. He could read that language as well as Arthur could. I knew he’d help if I asked.
“The Aide-Memoire de l’Auress, an encyclopaedia of Lilithian law, and several books on magic,” Arthur said. “What could our young queen be searching for?”
“Arthur?” I gasped, flipping the books closed and most certainly losing my pages. “What are you doing up so late?”
He pulled out a chair beside me and sat down, moving a few books upward to make room for his elbow. “I’m not much of a sleeper.”
I felt the weight of being sprung bare down on me, making my whole face go hot. My fingers wrung the hem of my dress tightly and my eyes wouldn’t shift from the books. I needed to come up with an excuse for having these titles checked out, but I couldn’t think of one. “I—”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, princess.” He reached across and patted my hand. “I was just teasing, but,” he said as he stood up. “If you need help with anything, you know you can come to me, right?”
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the books.
“Very well.” I saw him bow his head once in my peripheral. “I shall leave you to it. Just don’t stay up too much longer.”
“I won’t,” I said, then spun in my chair to look at him. “Arthur?”
“Yes, my dear.”
I took a deep breath, still considering my words. “I . . . I have a rash.”
His eyes squared off a bit under a furrowed brow. “What kind of rash?”
“Um, this kind.” I stood up and lifted my top. “I already know it’s a Mark of Betrayal,” I said, and Arthur’s eyes met mine. “I just can’t. . .” I motioned to the books behind me. “I can’t figure out why.”
He looked away, slowly exhaling. “I may know why.”
“Why?” I stepped closer. “What have I done?”
“It’s. . .” He seemed to be considering his words very carefully, looking from the books to me, and back again. “Eventually, you will figure it out. Eventually, it will not be a secret I can keep but, for now—” He bowed once. “I must ask you not to seek the answer.”
“Why?”
“Because I fear the truth could bring you more harm than a little rash on your flesh.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but took a second and let the words simmer through me instead, considering them, taking them for every ounce of meaning I could hear in his undertone and thinking long and hard in that second whether or not I wanted to challenge him. “Okay, so, maybe don’t tell me the truth right now, but at least tell me how it could bring me harm.”
“You’re going to lose your husband in a few short months, Amara. Any time you have with him is precious, and any memories you have from your past should only be happy ones.”
“And what’s that got to do with my rash?”
“That fact that it has anything to do with your rash is exactly why you should leave it alone. And I’ve told David the same.”
“What does he know about it?”
“He knows it’s not a rash, my dear. He wasn’t born yesterday.”
“But he doesn’t know what kind of Mark it is, does he?”
“No. Which is why he’s been looking for that book.” He nodded to the table.
“The Journal of the Auress?”
“Yes, and you must keep it from him at all costs, Amara.” He used a tone of ‘grave warning’, but it
only made me laugh. He might have known the full weight of what he said but, to me, I couldn't piece anything together based on that statement, and it just wasn’t going to be enough to quash my curiosity—not for this version of me, anyway.
“I don’t understand.”
“The truth he will find in that journal will be too much for him to bear.”
“What if we want the truth, even if it has something to do with destroying happy memories?”
“Then, I guess you have a lot of reading to do, my dear.” He nodded to my books then turned on his heel. “Because you’ll not be hearing it from me.”
I huffed, dropping my hands to my hips as Arthur walked away. “How rude.”
“He means well,” Eve said, suddenly beside me. “He just doesn’t want to be the one that hurts you.”
“Hurts me?” I looked sideways at her then back at the empty library. “How would he hurt me?”
“When you figure out the puzzle, you’ll understand why.”
“Puzzle. What puzzle?” I frowned. “And, hey, why did you push me out the window the other day?”
She smiled, her young face looking innocent. “To free your soul.”
“Free my. . .? How would that free my soul? Eve?” I called, circling on the spot a few times, but the ghost was gone.
I always loved the manor kitchen, with its warm, country feel, wood counter tops crowning rustic-looking cupboards, and a giant old dining table that centred the space—its washed, fading green colour stylishly unmatched by the white chairs pushed in under it. The whole room had that ‘grandmother’s kitchen’ kind of feel, with a collection of herbs and spices grown fresh in the garden then hung inside over the windows or the stove, and a pot rack suspended from thick black chains over an island counter. But my favourite thing about this place was that, in the morning, the soft scent of fresh bread, toasted slowly over an open flame, would accompany the rich aroma of Italian Roast, drawing me gently awake the closer I got.
I wandered in and sat down, swinging my legs under the table as the carbon copy of Mike placed a mug and a pitcher of cream in front of me. “Hey, Falcon.”