by Monica Sanz
Pain gripped her, spreading through her veins with each breath. He hated her. No doubt he regretted hiring her and ever meeting her. And as much as those days meant to her, he would grow to despise their time spent together, those evenings practicing magic and the comfortable silences they shared. He would leave her life as quickly as he’d come, and she would no longer wake up happy, knowing that whatever hate and prejudice she encountered during the day, that night she would see him and be around him, learning and growing in magic while drawing smiles from him and giving them in return. No longer would she be a balm to his moodiness and sadness and he a comfort to her memories and the ill she thought of all men. No, their partnership was dead now, and there was nothing she could do about it…
…but perhaps she could do one more thing for him.
“I’ll tell them that…that I ran away,” she managed finally, her voice low yet somehow still too loud in the small space. “I’ll say that you saw me and tried to keep me from boarding one of the ships…”
Barrington’s jaw clenched. “I will fix it.”
“…but when I saw you, I ran into the tunnels and hounds were there, and we were forced to protect ourselves.”
“I will fix it.”
“But the Aetherium—”
“I said I will fix it!”
Sera recoiled and heat pricked her cheeks from within, his tone and anger unfamiliar.
His sigh washed out the echo of his previous outburst. “Miss Dovetail,” he started, much softer, but moments later, he had yet to say another word. Forcing her face to the curtained window and away from him, Sera succumbed to the same contagious silence.
…
The carriage rolled to a stop. Lively music resounded somewhere nearby, broken by laughter and chatter. Barrington straightened and retrieved his hat.
The door opened to reveal Gummy leaning against the doorframe of an establishment whose doors read Rosetta’s. Her dress was cut dangerously low, and she lifted a hand to her waist, unashamed. Another woman dressed in a similarly revealing manner entered the building, leading a gentleman by the hand.
Barrington descended and turned at the carriage door, his eyes downcast. “Lucas will see you to the house.”
They were simple words, yet Sera’s fingers tensed on the folds of black tulle. Ache became an invisible hand. Its fingers laced into the hollows between her ribs and squeezed. She pressed a hand to the seat, grinding her teeth together to master the pain and the urge to clutch his arm and drag him back. To talk things over. To find a way to fix things, together.
She let out a shuddering breath, and a warm tear spilled onto her cheek. It wouldn’t make a difference. This was it. She had proved all the naysayers right. She was untrainable, erratic, and Barrington was done with her. Now he would enjoy one last tumble before the world crashed down around them, his dreams finished and hers as well.
He started to close the door, and Sera winced, the imminent goodbye a jagged knife fraying her soul. Worse was knowing this was their final farewell, and he didn’t even look at her. No doubt he no longer saw her, just her violence and lack of control when she hurt the Barghest. But she was more than that, he had to know. She wasn’t cruel or evil or unfeeling like Noah. Barrington couldn’t think this of her.
Sera stared at his back, struggling to breathe past the painful knot jammed in her chest. Look at me.
He had to turn and lift those eyes to her one last time. Perhaps if he saw her tears, he would know of her remorse and the shattered condition of her heart. One last glance and he would see her as he once did—the girl whose trust he’d asked for and sought with kindness. He would know the fear in her soul—fear of losing her dream, her freedom…losing him. But of all, he’d remember that in spite of the marks Noah left upon her skin and of what she did to the Barghest, she was human. He had to know that.
“I’m not a monster,” she said just above a whisper. Barrington paused, turned. “What I did… I’m not a monster.”
“I never said you were,” he said over his shoulder, his face shadowed by his top hat. “Good night, Miss Dovetail.”
He walked to Gummy, who held the door open. Her eyes lit up, and she draped herself against him and ran a finger along his lapel. He murmured something, and she tilted her head inside. Catching sight of Sera in the carriage, Gummy pursed her lips and entered the brothel.
Barrington lingered at the door, and after a moment, he had yet to move. His fingers folded to tight fists, hesitation clear in his frame. Sera inched to the edge of her seat, her pulse quick. Look at me.
He started to turn, but shaking his head to himself, he followed Gummy into the brothel.
No…
Still, Sera watched the entryway, clinging to her veil like a lifeline. The door was still open, and with it, a chance that Barrington would turn back to her, that they could still fix this. This wasn’t their end. It couldn’t be.
A second lurched past.
The front door closed and proved Sera wrong.
A broken breath left her, and the curtain slipped from between her fingers.
Though her insides vibrated as though she were about to crumble, Sera clenched her jaw and brushed away her tears, seizing what anger she could muster. If he wanted to leave, fine. She didn’t need him. She swallowed tightly. She didn’t need anyone. Curling her fingers into a tight fist, she punched the carriage wall, prompting Lucas to drive them away.
“Goodbye, Professor.”
The carriage lurched forward and reality descended swiftly. Their partnership was finished, and he’d never even looked at her.
A gale of pain consumed her then, absolutely and all at once. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she clamped her lips shut to smother the cry born in her chest and rising into her mouth for release. It was useless, and as the carriage rolled forward and drew her away from Barrington, Sera doubled over and cried tears of shattered dreams and a broken heart.
16
burn or flee
Morning dawned with glum, gray skies, much like the mood Sera had woken to. She lay deathly still, thoughts of the previous night playing above her like smoke. Isobel and Ophelia. The Barghest. Barrington.
She shut her eyes tight, willing the spell chamber to appear once more. She would pull, shake, claw at the gates—cry and beg them to release the memories they held hostage. Regardless of how the hot metal scalded her hands. Of how it branded her palms. With her memories, she would no longer need to be an inspector. She would not need him anymore, and maybe, just maybe, the hellish ache in her chest would leave her be.
But there was nothing to be seen save the black of her closed lids.
Sobs came hard and fast on the heels of her thoughts. She rolled to her side, curled into herself, the emptiness and disappointment more painful than she could bear. It was over and, although Barrington said he would fix the scene, Sera knew there was no fixing them. No magic or pain or regret in the world could reverse the hands of time, could take her back to the tunnel and force her mind to overrule her heart and heed Barrington’s orders to leave him.
Tears fragmented her room into a crackled image as a subsequent cry emptied her of air. It was too late to change anything now. She had lost her dream. She had lost him. Gone were their evenings of practice and magic, of pleasant conversation where for hours she belonged, valued and unafraid. Gone was the man who’d gifted her those mere moments of beautiful normalcy in the midst of torture, murder, and death. Who had somehow integrated himself into her every day, burrowed beneath the walls she’d erected in her heart, built of the pain Noah left in his wake. Who’d swept into her life like a breeze but whose departure left her as the shattered ruins of a hurricane.
Strands of hair clung to her tear-dampened face. She brushed them away and, desperate, pressed her cold hands down on her face, her arms, her shoulders, if only to feel a touch of the safety and warmth she felt in Barrington’s company and arms. If only to dispel a bit of the terrible, hollowing solitude.
&nb
sp; Feeling nothing but cold skin, she let her hands slip away. What was the point? She had ruined things with Barrington. Once their magic was discovered at the scene, they would be blamed for the murders and be imprisoned, and she would never see him again.
She swallowed tightly and watched the embers die in the fireplace. There was no need to relight the firebox. Not even the fires of hell could warm the stark chill that covered her bones and stabbed at her heart.
…
Later that day, the sky was still a dismal painting, dark gray clouds on a light gray backdrop. The wind shifted, and with it, the temperatures plunged. Sera sat on a stone bench in the courtyard, curled into her cloak. Her body begged her to go inside, and she was ready to do so, but she gazed at her friend sketching out the details of her Wishing Tree and didn’t dare. All that had kept Mary from tears over her mother’s latest letter had been the tree she was to decorate for the Solstice Dance, and the wishes that were to be hitched upon it. Though she didn’t have the energy to play the docile helper, there was no way she could have turned Mary down when she asked Sera to pretend to assist her in sorting out fabrics and materials, so she wouldn’t be so alone in her heartache.
Pity dampened Sera’s heart. If there was one woe that always seemed to rival her own, it was Mary’s once a letter arrived from her mother. After this latest epistle of how Mary was a disappointment to the family, Sera wondered if the letter was not some sort of spell, for how else could Mrs. Tenant succeed so well at demolishing a person’s entire spirit with the use of simple words?
“Maybe the headmistress will take notice and Mama will hear of my work.” Mary thrust down a slip of lace that she considered for the base of the tree. “Heaven knows nothing else I do seems to please her.”
“I’m sure she will. Mrs. Southerly wouldn’t have assigned this project to you if she didn’t think you were more capable than the rest.” Sera slid from her stone bench and knelt beside her friend, pretending to sort through strips of lace. “Don’t pay mind to your mother. She forgets what it is like to be our age.”
Mary scoffed. “No, no. That’s the problem. She remembers perfectly. You’ve seen her. They say beauty lessens with age, so can you imagine what she was like in her youth. All grace and beauty with suitors to spare. Not to mention I also have my sister’s legacy to contend with. Here I am choosing lace for my tree when my sister, at this age, was choosing lace for her veil.” She rolled watery eyes and rubbed away her tears before they fell. “I will be a spinster, Sera. Maybe it wouldn’t be so depressing if I simply accepted it.”
Sera gave her a small smile. “Then, as always, we’ll stay together and be a pair. We will be two spinsters. We’ll have a nice little cottage—”
Mary sniffled. “And lots of cats.”
Sera wrinkled her nose. “I was hoping perhaps a bird, or a puppy. You know I’m not too fond of cats.”
Mary deflated, her skin mottled. “Of course you’re not. See, we’re already having marital disagreements and we’re not yet married—or unmarried, or whatever it is we’ll be.”
In spite of the solemnness between them, the girls laughed freely for a few moments. The mirth died, and Mary pressed a gloved hand to Sera’s face. Sera startled, and she flicked her gaze all around, but thankfully they were alone and shielded by hedges.
“Promise me you’ll become an inspector,” Mary said, her voice jagged. She lowered her hand and her eyes. “Nothing will make my heart happier than to see an Invocation ring on your finger, for you to become a real witch.”
Mary lifted reddened eyes, and Sera’s brow knitted at the look there, one she couldn’t quite decipher. Was it worry? Fear? Regret?
“Regardless of what happens,” she said, “say you’ll become an inspector for the both of us.”
It was now Sera’s eyes that watered as she clasped her friend’s hand tighter. Oh, her sweet, sweet Mary. If she only knew how the previous night she had dashed all her chances at a referral and perhaps even at freedom.
Still, she sucked in a breath and nodded. “I’ll do it. For us.”
Mary smiled, and her eyes shone again with their old gleam. She patted Sera’s hand. “Good. Now, enough of my woes. If there’s something I shall do right, it’s this blasted tree. I was thinking of having a small barrel full of leaf cutouts on which everyone can write their wishes and then bind them to the tree. What do you think?”
“I think it will look marvelous,” Timothy said, coming from around the hedge. “It’s a very clever idea, Miss Tenant. You should be proud. It’ll make a beautiful addition to our dance.” He stopped and tipped his hat to Mary and then Sera. Upon meeting Sera’s eyes, he paused, an eternal second that wound about her stomach.
He turned to the tree and surveyed the strips of fabric Mary had pinned onto the trunk during her contemplations. “A fitting addition considering it’s our last year here. Many of us have unfulfilled wishes that, if possible, we would trade many other wishes to attain.”
The sensation of him watching her in his peripheral vision pressed on Sera’s skin and set her cheeks aflame. She cleared her throat and turned her eyes down to the grass as Mary stepped forward.
“Y-yes, well, that was m-my intention,” Mary said, smoothing down her dress. “We all hold secret wishes in our hearts. Now anyone who yearns for anything can set their wish upon a paper leaf and bind it to the tree with their magic. Hopefully they will find some freedom at not keeping this secret stifled inside.”
“A grand idea.” He stared at the skeletal branches as if he could already see the Wishing Tree in all its glory. “I’ll be the first to set my wish upon it, then.”
“Oh surely you mustn’t,” Mary said with a shy giggle.
“And why not?” Timothy turned his attentions to her, his eyes hard and frame bristled with offense.
Mary startled and paled. “Oh, well, a-a man such as yourself…I…” Cheeks red, she lowered her eyes.
“What Mary means,” Sera said against her best plan to remain out of the conversation and his attention, “is that this tree is for those of us unable to voice our feelings out of propriety or fear. This tree will hold wishes for those of us who are bound by status or gender or fate of birthright. For those of us unable to speak what’s in our hearts, who are not brave and courageous. People unlike you.”
He was quiet a moment, his gaze softened, and when he spoke next, his voice was much softer, too. “But you’re wrong, Miss Dovetail. Painfully so. Some of us have been brave and courageous, and yet we’ve failed. We’re still burdened by our dreams, waiting for just one glance, or one word that will give us our second chance, and in turn, our heart’s desires.”
The passion of his words hung heavy around them and obscured Mary, the trees, the school, the world. All that remained were Timothy’s eyes taking in every ounce of hers, searching for this one look, for his second chance.
In this quiet, Mary blinked, equal parts wonder and pain in her eyes. If she had any doubt his affections belonged to another before, Sera feared she knew it now, and her own heart ached. How could she have thought to hurt her friend by considering Timothy, even if it was out of necessity or mere curiosity?
She steeled her spine. “I think you should be first to pin your wish on the tree and, afterward, move on.”
Timothy blinked, and Sera’s heart stuttered at the look there. The same pain as that in Mary’s gaze.
“Very well,” he said, his voice a low whisper.
“Delacort.” Whittaker came up and slapped him on the chest with a folded newspaper. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Timothy snatched the paper from his hands. “What do you want?” he asked, clearly perturbed.
Whittaker answered, but Sera heard none of it, her eyes caught on the newspaper. Under the headline Torture: Ghastly Murder was an impression of a corpse—Isobel Weathers.
“Mr. Delacort,” Sera called after him as he walked away. Timothy turned back, a bright gleam of hope in his eyes.
Disappointment washed over his features. He sighed and held out the newspaper for her taking. The paper gone from his hands, he walked away without another word.
“Did you know someone killed a witch, Dovetail?” Whittaker said, grinning. “They tortured her and then dumped her in an alley behind some brothel. A pity if that were to happen to you, wouldn’t it?” His smug smile widened.
She stepped closer. “Is that a threat?” Sera looked over his shoulder. “I’m sure Professor Barrington might not appreciate that.”
At the mention of Barrington’s name, Whittaker’s smile withered, and he shifted back, surveying the field. “It was a joke, Dovetail. You can take a joke, can’t you?” He chuckled nervously and hurried after Timothy.
Sera shook her head. The boy was a fool. She lowered to the ground and unfolded the paper.
Mary sat down beside her and hefted a sigh. “It was true, then. Another did break his heart.”
“What?” Sera asked absently, her heart in her ears as she read.
The body of Miss Isobel Weathers was discovered about 4:00 a.m. on Margot Street, in the back alley of Rosetta’s…
Cold rushed down her spine. Found behind Rosetta’s?
“Remember what Susan said, that he was interested in someone, but she turned him down?” Mary said.
Sera nodded.
A customer who wishes to remain unnamed made the discovery while exiting the establishment. No evidence was found on the scene.
She cupped her mouth. He had done it. Boorish and cold as he was, Barrington had fixed it. He had moved the body and covered up her blunder. A broken laugh escaped her.
“I know. It’s unbelievable someone would break his heart,” Mary said erroneously and leaned in to her. “Oh, Sera, why in the world are you reading about murder?”
“I’m not,” she lied. Her eyes instantly caught on the photo next to the article, one of Aetherium Chancellor York and his wife at the doorway to an orphanage. Mrs. York wore a royal-blue dress that complemented her brown skin, standing regal beside the chancellor. “I was admiring the chancellor and his wife. It’s good to see he’s doing better enough to walk. Last I read, he was close to death, and his healers could do nothing about it.”