by Monica Sanz
Pacing the room, Mrs. Norton read the tragic history of the plague that afflicted seventhborns, their skin riddled with pus-filled boils and their flesh turning black, as disease devoured their bodies. The Aetherium feared it was punishment on the magic community for allowing seventhborns to live. They eradicated its provinces of seventhborns, infected or not, lest the plague spread to everyone else.
The words mingled with the images of dead bodies in Sera’s head. She squirmed in her seat, picturing hordes of seventhborns corralled and killed because of fear, because of a damned mark on their wrist and a birth order they had no control over. Their lifeless bodies tossed side by side, united in death as no one dared stand with them in life.
She swallowed thickly. Though the Aetherium government now embraced a Pragmatic religion, favoring reason over myth, Sera glanced about the room. They weren’t fooling anyone. Whether Purist or Pragmatic, the role of the seventhborn would never change.
Mrs. Norton set down her book, her coal-black eyes resting on each student as though she meant to burn a hole through them. “How does this make you feel?”
Mary raised her hand, but Mrs. Norton glossed over her, pointing to Susan Whittaker in the front. Sera stifled a groan; the girl was as insufferable as her brother.
The tall brunette turned her eyes down and pressed a hand to her heart. “It pains me to think what those poor officers were forced to endure, how hard it must have been for them and taxing on their magic to rid our provinces of disease. They must have been so frightened to contract it themselves, but they did it for the sake of our people, and all magic is indebted to them and their valor.”
Sera’s throat dried. Curses swelled and surged in her chest. Barrington had warned her to stay out of trouble, and speaking would only negate that, but damn it all, how could anyone possibly stay quiet in the face of that?
Mrs. Norton nodded. “Yes, yes, many lives were lost, but the Aetherium was forced to take action.”
Sera gazed down at the photographs of dead seventhborns spread about the page and clamped her mouth shut. She wouldn’t say a word…
“Their kindness is what allows us to live free of the plague.”
“Kindness?” The word grated her throat on the way out. Sera curled her fingers to fists, her pulse loud and fast in her ears. “They were forced to kill innocent seventhborns over a disease Pragmatics have since ruled questionable, and you call it kindness?”
Mrs. Norton slammed down her book on the stand. “Miss Dovetail—”
“Young girls—mere babes—were gathered in fields as if they were cattle taken to the slaughter, and you think Aetherium officers did it out of the goodness of their hearts?”
Heat flushed her body, concentrated on her back, on the marks of kindness someone felt compelled to leave upon her skin.
Students toured their eyes between Mrs. Norton and Sera, except for Mary. She kept her gaze focused on Sera, slowly shaking her head no. Sera wished she could have listened.
“Miss Dovetail, you will quiet down this instant!”
Sera bolted to her feet. “I will do no such thing! If you appreciate their kindness so much, how then would you like that kindness bestowed upon you?”
Mrs. Norton gasped, eyes wide. She unsheathed her wand, the tip illuminated in amber. “Is that a threat?”
She marched around her desk, her skirts swishing as she moved, as if warning Sera. Shh, shh, shh…
In the spaces between her pulse, reason wedged through, Barrington’s voice whispering in her mind, You will lose everything.
Mary’s words, Think of your family.
Sera’s gaze trailed to her open book, to the Purist officers standing proudly before fields of dead seventhborns. As an inspector she could help the seventhborns who truly had no voice. Could help other witches avoid a similar fate.
She gulped down her rage, acid sloshing in the core of her stomach, and hauled in a breath. Heavens, how would she ever survive till assessments? “It was not a threat.”
Mrs. Norton opened her mouth to speak, yet seeming to realize Sera’s concession, she stumbled on the words that came, and the hue of her wand dimmed to its normal brown. “Y-yes, then. Very well.” She eased back, her brow knit and confusion shading her stare.
An uncertain tension made the room crowd around Sera, and she sat down, winded. Hot tears filled her eyes, and she dug her nails into the heels of her palms, taming the heat that gripped her so tightly it felt as though her bones were breaking.
…
Nine o’clock found Sera on her knees, a stick of chalk in her hand. Lightning illuminated the room in flashes, while thunder chased it and rattled the windowpanes like warring giants. She drew out the various symbols of Barrington’s transfer spell, sure to avoid the time-altering rune this time. He wouldn’t trick her with that one again.
Setting aside the chalk, she picked up the impressions, aimed her wand to the floor, and closed her eyes. “Ignite.”
The floor vanished beneath her. A second later, her boots tapped on the wooden floors, and she cringed at the sourness in her mouth. Goodness, would she ever get used to transferring?
She opened her eyes and gasped, startled by Professor Barrington leaning against the doorframe, his legs crossed at his ankles and arms folded over his chest. Dressed in all black, he looked like death come to claim her.
He slid gray eyes along her in one cool appraisal. “No progress with the impressions, I take it.”
Sera glanced down at the macabre photographs in her hands and sighed. “I tried for hours last night but didn’t see anything.”
He was quiet for a moment, and Sera dug her nails into the grooves of her wand. Damn. Was he debating whether to send her back?
“Very well.” He pushed off the doorway, walked into the hall, and out of sight.
Sera blinked, a hollow ache spreading in her chest. That was it? But she’d only just arrived. What of her training—
“Any day now, Miss Dovetail,” Barrington called from the hall.
Relief rushed over her. She blew out a breath and followed him. He stood at the end of a long, dim corridor next to a large bay window. The storm that poured rain over the Academy appeared to have followed her to this place—whatever province Barrington called home. Come to think of it, she could be anywhere in the world. Lightning flashed, and thunder quickly followed. The white hue illuminated acres upon acres of moors before it was thrust into darkness once more. Nothing could be seen in the intermittent flash, not even the lights of other houses in the distance. And if that were at all a possibility, blinding sheets of rain began to fall and stole away the chance.
A deep-red runner stretched down the corridor and covered the dark pine floors all the way to the staircase at the center of the hall and beyond it. Recurrent exposed beams of the same wood framed the hall. Symbols ran the length of the beams, engraved ciphers that would look like simple vine-like decorations to a non-magical eye. Sera knew them to be protection spells. She observed them warily, then watched Professor Barrington walking before her. How much protection could one professor need?
Barrington stopped before the last door on the opposite end of the hall and pushed it open. The room inside was long and narrow and sparsely decorated save for a few tables along the blue damask walls. On the tables were spell books and various wands, some broken, others splintered. There were also empty platform stands clustered in a corner among old mannequins.
“This is my training room. We will work on focus and magic intensity.” He strode to the corner and dragged a mannequin to the middle of the room. Then, taking the impressions from Sera, he set them on the table one by one. “You must look at the photos and let them speak to you.”
She groaned. “I told you, I spent an entire night staring and saw the same things you do: charred corpses, mangled skeletons. What more do you want me to see?”
“Death, Miss Dovetail. I need you to see death. I could have asked any other witch, but I have asked you because of a seve
nthborn’s ability to see death.”
Sera stiffened and shifted back, her pulse quick. “I don’t have the sight.” She turned her gaze down. “And I don’t want it.”
Barrington was quiet. Sera didn’t raise her eyes. No doubt he’d see the truth there, the stark fear that her enemy in life would now find her in death.
“The dead cannot hurt you,” he said gently, clearly missing nothing. “The spirits you see are only those you summon. And should a spirit arrive uninvited, then you send them away and forbid their return. You are in control of them, just as you must be in control of your magic. You are thinking of magic as something needed to defend you. You need no protection here, Miss Dovetail. I can assure you, you’re safe.”
Sera lifted her lashes. His gaze bored into hers, an open stare where she sensed no deceit. Reason told her he could have hurt her already, yet memories rattled in her mind of others she had trusted, and her stomach twisted. But for her sake, for that of finding her family, she nodded. “I understand, Professor.”
Barrington scrutinized her for a moment longer, then said, “Because your magic has always been your shield, it is tightly bound to your emotions, which in turn leads to…well, mishaps. You must learn to use it in other ways. In order to learn what is in these impressions, magic must be your eyes. This requires you to be calm and receptive. Using magic will not always be a manic, destructive endeavor, but rather…”
He held out his wand. It illuminated blue, then a stream of magic curled from the tip slowly until a thin cloud hovered above them, a universe with sparks of magic dashing within it like shooting stars.
“Controlled…”
Wherever he moved his wand, the mist followed and spread until it encircled them.
“Gentle…”
Twines of his magic curled out from within the cloud, whispering past Sera—soft, cool caresses against her cheek, phantom fingers brushing through hers. She lifted a hand, awed at how delicate magic could be. It had always been separate from her, as if a sword she had to carry at all times. Yet, as Barrington moved his wand, overhand and under, his wand illuminating just before a flare of magic joined the collective around them, a slow smile spread on Sera’s lips. He was one with his powers, and it was beautiful to witness. In these moments, his brow eased and the lines of his mouth relaxed, and nothing else seemed to exist but him and his magic, together. She lowered her hand, wanting to feel the same with her powers.
“You must be unafraid.” He met her gaze through the strands of smoky magic weaving between them. “Are you ready?”
Sera nodded, more ready than she had ever been.
Barrington whirled a hand above him, and the mist dissipated with a whisper. Sera frowned at the void of his magic.
“You will do what I just did, but instead wrap your magic around that mannequin there. First we will work on controlling intensity, then flow. Now, aim your wand, close your eyes, and find your magic.” He spoke smoothly, pacing around her. “It is a part of you that will feel…different. Some say it feels like a whirlwind in their soul. Others say it is like a boulder they must chip away at.”
She didn’t need to think hard on her answer. “Fire,” she replied. “When I get angry or scared, I feel it sloshing within me.”
“I thought so. Imagine yourself touching that fire. If you don’t want it to burn you, then reduce its intensity.”
Sera focused on her breathing, falling deeper into herself…deeper…until finding the wild flame that hummed and churned in her belly. She visualized her hand reaching out to touch it. It flared, and she gasped, spearing a blast of fire at the mannequin. Her eyes snapped open just as Barrington held up a hand and with a twirl of his wrist extinguished the flames.
Damn. She clenched her jaw, her grasp tightening around her wand.
“Calm, Miss Dovetail. I did not expect you to get it on the first try. You have been on the defensive for a long time.”
“And I bet you think I shouldn’t be angry,” she seethed, but cut herself off with a sigh. “Sorry, I…”
“On the contrary. I want you to use that anger to control your magic, not spur it,” he said, his tone sharp and brow furrowed, though Sera didn’t sense any anger. For a second, she could imagine what he was like in the classroom, stern and focused as he swept up and down the aisles with a fierceness and determination that made his students want to succeed, to be better.
He motioned to the mannequin and stepped back. “Again.”
Sera aimed her wand and closed her eyes. She would succeed.
She reached for the fire within her—
It crested, and another blast of magic shot out from her wand.
Damn it.
“Again,” Barrington ordered.
Flames, wilder and hotter, dashed from her wand and consumed the mannequin.
No, no, no.
“Miss Dovetail—”
A flare whooshed out from her wand, a hotter surge of heat. Barrington waved a hand, and the fire extinguished, but Sera raised her wand once more. Her insides vibrated, shame and anger colliding within. She wouldn’t fail. She couldn’t.
A blow of heat spread from her belly, rushing to her fingertips. She aimed her wand.
“Miss Dovetail, stop.”
She would control her magic if it was the last thing she did.
Magic exploded from her wand, a flood of bright red fire. The flames engulfed the mannequin, spread like wings, and billowed, igniting the surrounding tables.
“Miss Dovetail!” With a wider sweep of his arm, Barrington snuffed the encroaching flames. Thick smoke gathered around them, whirls of white that drifted about like ghosts.
He yanked her wand from her fingers, and Sera startled. Goodness, she had forgotten he was there. Shame flushed her cheeks, and hot tears clung to her eyes.
“Were that our last shred of evidence, you would have destroyed it.” Barrington raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “You cannot force it to happen. You must channel that anger if you wish to ever become an inspector. You will see things that will make your stomach turn, your skin crawl, and will shatter you to pieces. But you must master your emotions to do your job or you will never succeed.”
He shook his head to himself and handed her back her wand. “We are done here for now.”
Sera gripped her wand, her knuckles white. A vast, hollow ache spread through her chest, and her next breath hitched. He was worried she might eventually destroy a last piece of evidence, and she had proven him right. “Good night, Professor.” She aimed her wand at the floor, wishing her heart would vanish instead. “Ignite.”
A moment later, nothing.
“Miss Dovetail,” Barrington spoke behind her, much softer. “Only I can transfer you out of my home. A protective measure. And…” His footfalls approached, and he stopped close behind her. “You’re forgetting something.”
Sera turned. He held the stack of impressions out to her.
“You…you still want me to take them? What if I…?”
“Burn them?” A small smile tipped the left side of his lips. “Give me some credit, Miss Dovetail. I did not become a professor at my age for lack of smarts. They’ve been fire-proofed.”
Of course they had. She reached out and grabbed hold of them, but Barrington didn’t release them. “Remember, your anger is neither your enemy nor your master. Work with it, and keep practicing.” He relinquished the impressions. “I will see you on Monday.”
She frowned. She had forgotten it was Friday. In spite of her failures, for the first time, she couldn’t wait to try again. “Good night, sir. And I’m sorry for…” She motioned to the smoke that had since thinned and the black scorch marks on the tables.
Barrington slid his hands into his pockets and surveyed the damage. “If I feared fire, I never would have asked you to be my assistant.”
Which made her wonder, “What do you liken your magic to, Professor? Fire, a boulder, or a whirlwind?”
He meditated on this a moment, where
Sera wondered if she’d overstepped her boundaries.
“An ocean,” he replied finally.
She nodded; an ocean, indeed. Ominous and mysterious, Barrington had been a calm sea at the school with Whittaker, yet an undercurrent had emerged when he looked at Timothy. Tranquil when he used his magic, yet intense in teaching her. But remembering the protection spells along his home, his need to solve these murders, she couldn’t help but wonder what secrets lay in his depths.
5
the prettiest eyes in the world
Two days.
Sera leaned her head back against the rough bark of a tree, smothered her face with her hands, and groaned.
Two bloody days and nothing.
The smoky images of dead and gnarled bodies danced in the dark behind her closed lids, the same way they haunted her dreams each night. Her eyes now open, she sighed and shut her Divination book with a loud thump, stuffing the edges of the impressions inside.
Professor Barrington had said no spell would help her uncover what was in the photos, and, damn it all, he was right. There was nothing in any of her books about impressions or what she should look for. Worse, there was no spell that would uncover hidden objects or meanings in the photographs. Besides, how could she know what to research if she didn’t know what to look for? He hadn’t even given her a hint.
“Useless book,” she muttered, and tossed it onto the dew-damp grass.
“Are you sure? I sometimes like to use them as paperweights,” a voice spoke from behind.
Breath caught, Sera jumped to her feet and spun to find Timothy Delacort just beyond the brush, his dark coat and black curly hair camouflaging him in the shadows. He gave a small, hesitant wave and smiled…a very nice smile that made his eyes a little brighter, bluer, prettier. Still, Sera stifled the thoughts, took a step back, and then another. Pretty eyes or not, the last thing she needed was trouble with Timothy Delacort, of all people.
He moved out of the bushes and into the soft morning light that flashed through nearly barren branches. “It was a joke. I meant that you could perhaps find another use for the book.”