Seventh Born

by Monica Sanz

  “I know what you meant,” she clipped and shifted back more.

  His brows dipped, and he halted his approach. “I’ve frightened you. Forgive me, that wasn’t my intent. I was reading down by the lake,” he said, holding up a book, “and was heading back before everyone woke when I saw you here.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  He opened his mouth to speak but stumbled on fragmented words.

  “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” She picked up her book. “I have to get to class.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  She paused. “I meant to say I have—I should…” A burn crept up her cheeks, and it was she who now muttered unintelligible nothings. “Never mind. I have to go. Good day, Mr. Delacort.”

  “Call me Timothy, please. And don’t go. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I, too, like to get out a little earlier. Can’t really think with everyone around, and the forest is always so quiet at this time. But I much prefer reading by the lake, by the waterfall there.” He pointed to the south with his book, his gaze sweeping in the same direction. “It’s a bit cold, and the spray always dampens the pages, but it’s quiet.” A sense of peace overcame his features, and she could see he found calm and freedom there, the same she sought when she snuck out into the forest that dawn.

  Silence trailed his words, one where even the song of the birds died away, as though the forest watched this secret meeting.

  “Miss Dovetail,” he said then, his knuckles white on the book, “I confess my reasons for stopping were not entirely of curiosity. Yes, I wondered how you were—are, but I also wanted to…to stop and talk to—with you, talk with you about, well, about things that I’ve been thinking of for some time. I was going to ask Mary but didn’t know how to phrase it without sounding like a fool.”

  Sera took in his strange nervousness, the way he paled and grasped his book as if the words about to be spoken would gut him alive. “You want to talk about Mary and the dance. Well, she will say yes if you ask her. Very happy, indeed. Good morning.”

  She spun and walked in the opposite direction.

  “Oh, I’m flattered,” he spoke from behind, “but that wasn’t what I meant. I did not mean to speak of Mary.”

  “Then we have nothing to discuss,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Will you at least allow me to escort you? It would be terribly ungentlemanly of me to let you walk back on your own.” His footsteps neared her from behind.

  Heartbeat in her ears, she unsheathed her wand and spun to him. Her eyes darted all around, to the spaces between the trees and the shadows beyond them. Critters skittered and rustled the thickets and dead leaves surrounding them, their bright golds and ambers overcome by the brown of death. “Where are your friends?”

  Timothy’s brow dipped. “Friends? I don’t understand—”

  She aimed her wand at him, halting his words and approach. “I may be a seventhborn, Mr. Delacort, but I am no fool. I know who you are, and you would not risk your reputation on the basis of talking to, no less walking with me. So I’ll ask you again…” Her grip tightened on her wand. “Where are your friends? Do you plan on an ambush? Fancy tying me to a tree for target practice? Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s already been done.”

  He held his hands at surrender. “I’m not here with anyone. I swear upon my wand.”

  She scoffed. “Don’t insult me. You can just get another.”

  “You’re right, but this one is irreplaceable. I inherited it from my grandfather this summer. It’s not helping me too much in Aether-levels, but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “I would not risk it damaged for fear of my life.” He lowered one hand slowly. “I’m going to toss it over to you as a show of goodwill.”

  Sera braced, her breath suspended as he reached for his wand. If he dare try anything…

  He drew his wand and tossed it a good distance before him. Eyes fixed on his, Sera tucked her book under her arm and retrieved it.

  The wand was beautifully fashioned out of branches twisted into a braid-like form. Much magic had flowed through it for many years, told by the highlights upon it. He would be a fool to bring damage to such a fine piece.

  “Do you believe me now?” He shrugged. “You have my wand. If I had any friends here—which I don’t—I wouldn’t risk my wand any harm.”

  She eased away, the hairs on the back of her neck still on end. “Regardless, I will hold it. You walk ahead, and when we reach the edge of the forest, I’ll return it to you.”

  “Please, Miss Dovetail. This is wholly unnecessary. I would never hurt you.”

  She bristled at these familiar words once spoken by a monster in her past who sought to make her magic his own. The myriad scars along her body tingled to life as if her horrible memories sought to bleed out through them. Though she doubted Timothy—and even Whittaker—had the cruelty, much less the knowledge to drain her of magic, she wouldn’t give them the chance to prove themselves.

  “Walk.” She flicked the wand and motioned for him to move. He deflated with a resigned sigh and turned, leading the way into the forest. Sera lowered her wand, lest anyone see them and think she meant to hurt him somehow, and followed some yards behind.

  In the distance, early morning light swathed the two towers jutting up from the Academy that stretched across the countryside. Between the spires, a string of gargoyles dotted a stone archway. Though the sight once terrified her, Sera fixed her eyes on the monstrous stone creatures and found some comfort. They were not monsters but sentinels, the runes etched on their bellies protecting the grounds.

  “I take it I’m not allowed to talk, either?” he spoke into the open before him.

  She shrugged. “As long as you walk, you can say what you want. It’s your forest.”

  “It’s not my forest.”

  “Ah, so it’s a coincidence that it’s named after your family, as is the rectory and the girls’ dormitory?”

  Book in one hand and his other hand at his side, he strolled before her, a cool ease in his demeanor. She frowned. It was as if he enjoyed their walk.

  “My family has close ties with the school. That I won’t deny. I’ll be a sixth-generation graduate.”

  “Impressive,” she muttered.

  He smiled over his shoulder. “You may be pretty, but you’re not a very good liar.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Flattery will not get you your wand back.”

  “I merely speak the truth in hopes of overcoming this…impediment we find ourselves in. An obstacle I have found us in for quite some time. When I said I wished to ask Mary something, it wasn’t about the dance but about this barrier between us.”

  “I wasn’t aware we had an impediment,” she said, focused on the Academy entrance coming into view through the trees.

  “You acknowledged it yourself. You said you knew nothing about me and therefore could not trust me. But we could change that. Quite easily, too. I tell you about my life, you tell me about yours, and then we can’t claim not to know each other, thus banishing this impediment. And perhaps then, we wouldn’t be so lonely.”

  Sera chuckled bitterly at this. “What do you know of loneliness? You aren’t alone, ever. And you not knowing me and my being alone is not an impediment, it’s a conscious choice I make every day, the same way I make it now.” She tossed the wand beside him, keeping hers close at her side. “As promised, we’ve reached the edge of the forest. Take your wand and go before anyone sees us here.”

  He bent, and in retrieving his wand, he smiled, though this time the gleam didn’t reach his eyes. “You can be surrounded by hundreds of people and still be very much alone.” He sheathed his wand and shrugged. “Still, I’d hoped that perhaps for one night, for one dance, we could set aside our differences and not be so alone…together.”

  Cold rushed down her spine and fixed her to the damp ground.

  “But a man should know when to count his losses, and I’ve accepted mine.” He inclined his head. “Thank you for the walk and for my w
and, and forgive me for disturbing you. It will not happen again. Good morning, Miss Dovetail.” With no more words, he turned, walked away, and never looked back.

  Sera watched him grow smaller with distance, though his words echoed in her mind as though he stood beside her, whispering them into her ear: Perhaps for one night, we could set aside our differences and not be so alone…together.

  Together.

  Did Timothy Delacort mean to say he wanted to go to the dance with her? She shook her head and watched him disappear into the school. It had to be a ruse. Timothy Delacort would never go to the dance with her. He would have probably laughed if she’d agreed, and then he would have told all of his friends. Mary would be sure to find out a short time later. She could clearly see the heartbreak in Mary’s eyes, hear her sobs mixed with the echo of laughter that would follow her down the halls.

  No, it made no sense to pay mind to his words, however genuine he seemed to be. Honest or not, she could never go to the dance with him. Nothing changed who she was. Not magic, not common loneliness, and not a boy with the prettiest eyes in the world.

  6

  puppets

  That evening, Sera spread the photographs on her worktable and swore. She should have just sent Timothy away, or ran away herself. If so, she wouldn’t have heard his stupid, stupid words that now played at the edge of her consciousness. She wouldn’t have doubted her actions. Focusing on the death spread before her, she banished him to the abyss where her heart lived. She wouldn’t ever trust him. Nothing was going to get in the way of her dreams or her friendship with Mary, especially not a boy.

  Pin by pin, she released her rigid bun and shook out her hair. Patience, she reminded herself while massaging her temples in even, circular strokes. Last night, she had stared at the pictures for hours and nothing happened. Tonight, it had to work.

  Firelight danced along the walls, washed out by recurrent flashes of lightning. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pressed bare feet on the floor and held her wand tight at her lap. She would stay there and stare as long as it took. Come Monday, Barrington would expect answers, and answers she would give him.

  An hour later, the clock marked eleven. One hour closer to Monday. Sera rolled her shoulders, ignoring the peals. Lightning lit up the sky, and an answering thunder rumbled. The whitish light spilled over the pictures she focused on intently. As always, the steady hush of rain and moan of the winds calmed her, carrying away all thoughts save for Barrington’s words that she replayed as a mantra in her mind.

  She breathed in…

  Do not force the answer.

  Out…

  Let it come.

  In.

  Do not force the answer.

  Sera paused. A slow trickle of numbness rolled down her spine.

  Let it come…

  Upon her next breath, the seep grew to a wave of fatigue that spread to her limbs and joints. The room took to a sudden and slow spin around her, much like when she used a great deal of magic and her reserves of power dwindled. But she wasn’t using any magic. Yet she grasped at her sheets as blackness framed the edges of her sight and proved the opposite.

  A loud crash resounded in her ears, that of metal hitting stone. She winced and shut her eyes at the sound that pierced her eardrums. When the echoing sound faded, she opened her eyes and gasped. The room around her was changed. Her bed was no longer a bed but rather a wooden chair. And her room was no longer her room but a dim, rounded chamber of stone.

  She stood slowly, her hands clasped tight on her nightdress. In this room, gas lamps hung from hooks, and under their gilded light, the seams of the stone glittered, telling of magic. She spun in place and hesitated. There was a short hallway behind her and beyond it another chamber, only there were doors in this other room, many gated doors.

  A cold chill of awareness rooted her to the ground.

  “A binding-chamber spell,” she whispered, inching closer to the corridor whose stone walls glistened under a thin sheet of condensation. She pressed her fingers to her lips and recalled all she’d learned of binding-chamber spells during her Air-level courses. Abilities or memories could be locked away within a magician’s mind. Whenever the magician needed the confined ability or memory, their magic would remember where it had been bound, and with much concentration, the magician could break it. A survival mechanism, Mrs. Pewter had called it.

  Once broken, the magician mentioned falling into a vision or a trancelike state where they encountered a hallway or a tunnel of gated doors—the number of doors dependent on how many memories or abilities had been locked away. An unlocked gate represented an unbound memory or ability that the magician would retrieve upon walking through the door.

  Sera sucked in a breath. No wonder her powers dwindled rapidly before. To break the spell took a large amount of concentration and vast reserves of magic. Something in the photos must have made her magic believe she needed whatever memory or ability had since been unlocked. She gulped. What on earth could it be?

  Taking one of the gaslights in hand, she held it before her and started down the hall. The beveled stone floor was damp beneath her bare feet, and the stark cold bit at her toes. She eyed the encircling shadows but found herself very much alone. Droplets of water echoed in the deep silence, and beyond it, nothing but the flicker of torches.

  Through the arched doorway, another chamber spread before her, long and narrow and lined with gated doorways on either side as far as the eye could see. Lit torches flanked every door…except for one set a slight distance away. A strange sensation coiled at Sera’s core, an invisible reel pulling her closer to the door.

  Lamp clutched tightly in her hands, she walked down the center of the hall. A cool mist roiled along the stone ground, and she shivered, her tattered nightdress no match for the damp chill. Door after door was shielded with wrought-iron gates closed with black padlocks. With each locked door she passed, her heart sank a little more. She didn’t have just one memory or ability bound, but countless. She shook her head. Why, at only eighteen, did she have so many secrets sealed within her? Surely behind one of these doors was the memory of her father and siblings. One of the gates shielded the first fifteen years of her life before she woke up on the ship with no recollection of ever boarding.

  She detoured and neared one of the lit doorways. The torch fires flickered, agitated by a fierce, phantom wind. Sera let out a breath and hesitantly reached for the gate. She hissed and retracted her hand, the metal scalding.

  A feral pain pulsed in her palm with each heartbeat. She turned it upward and swore. The skin there was burned, a blister already formed, surrounded by pink, inflamed skin. With the injured hand at her chest, she stumbled back from the gate. It would be impossible to open it, not until she somehow broke the spell that kept the door shut. After one last side-eye at the offending door, she focused on the only unlit doorway.

  She stood before the entryway and swallowed. Shadows swathed the small, tunneled entrance. She lifted her lamp and chased away the darkness. A broken padlock was on the ground in pieces. More worrisome, the gate and door were ajar.

  A shiver shook her frame, her pulse loud in her ears. This must be the spell she had broken. One sliver of memory or an ability set free. All she had to do now was walk through the door. The burn on her palm pulsed as a painful reminder, but Sera inched forward. Sidestepping the broken padlock, she stopped before the gate and held her hand over the metal. No heat radiated from it. Still, she quickly tapped the gate with a finger. Perhaps the burn muddled and numbed her senses, but no sting met her finger.

  The gate groaned as she pulled it open, the hinges stiff.

  She hauled in a breath and tapped the knob quickly. This too was cool. But while the metal did not burn her, Sera withdrew her hand and hesitated. She could taste her fear, an acrid thing that soured her stomach. Could hear it screaming danger in the back of her mind. What if that door had been locked for a reason, done by someone who knew its contents would hurt her? Barrington
’s words assailed her next, a deep-seated worry that she herself had wondered many times. What if her family didn’t want her? What if she remembered them casting her out, cursing her existence?

  That was a possibility, but she opened her palm and glanced at the singed skin. Something in Barrington’s photos brought about this experience, unwittingly caused her to break the binding spell, and led her to this door. Images of the witches flashed through her mind. She had but a burned hand. Those victims died, their whole bodies incinerated. Was it not the duty of an inspector to face trouble head-on—whatever the danger—as long as it uncovered the truth?

  She lowered her hand to her side and steeled her spine. Yes, in spite of what waited on the other side of that door, the knowledge would not benefit just her but those whose lives had been cut short.

  She stepped forward, clutched the doorknob, and pushed the door open. Darkness. Sera gulped.

  “I will be an inspector,” she whispered to herself in prayer. “I will be an—”

  She swept inside.

  “Inspector.”

  The vision vanished, and she was in her room once more. Sera bolted to her feet and spun in a circle. Yes, this was her room entirely. She stalked to the window and yanked the frayed curtain aside. The world outside also remained unchanged under angry sheets of rain that slammed against her window and thunder that made it shudder. She turned, and her gaze locked on the clock on the mantel. Not even a minute had passed, though it felt like she had been in the binding chamber for hours.

  Leaning back against the windowsill, Sera closed her eyes and braced, gripping her wand like a lifeline. This was it. Whatever memory or ability she had unlocked in the binding-spell chamber was at her disposal now.

  Years of wonder swelled her throat, but she whispered, “Father?”

  She searched the darkness of her closed eyes and found nothing. Bitter pain twisted her insides.

  “Sisters?” she whispered, her voice weak. “Brothers? Family?”