Good Witches Don't Steal (Academy of Shadowed Magic Book 4)

by S. W. Clarke

  Chapter Nine

  Maeve Umbra’s home at Shadow’s End wasn’t what I’d expect from a headmistress. And in over three years, I’d had quite a bit of time to imagine.

  She lived in a tree at the edge of the grounds, not far from the meadow. It wasn’t a tree I’d ever really noticed, but it did have steps winding up its trunk and a door right there in the side.

  As we climbed, the academy bustled with its first day of classes. Students passed along the ground, and fae through the air, and every time I caught a glimpse of it, I was struck by how different the academy was to my first year.

  It had felt practically empty by comparison.

  I stopped on the landing. Through the trees, I could see Professor Fernwhirl with a group of fae in the meadow. It was an introduction to flight, and the class was twice the size mine had been.

  Umbra paused when she opened the door to her home, watching with me. “Fernwhirl told me she gave you a fake broom on your first day.”

  I snorted. “She did. I couldn’t look her in the eye for months after that.”

  “She was testing you,” Umbra said as we came into the entryway and she closed the door. “I suppose you can imagine what she reported back to me.” That was followed by a wink.

  I turned on Umbra just as I’d taken off my cloak and set it on a hook. “That’s mature.”

  “She needed to gauge your temper. The woman’s not properly malicious, for gods’ sake.” Umbra passed down the hall and disappeared around a corner. If her home was like the others I’d been in, she had two or three rooms—living room, bedroom, kitchen. “Well,” Umbra’s voice echoed back toward me, “not on most days of the week, at least. Never knock on her door on a Tuesday.”

  My temper. Because I’m the fire witch, I thought but didn’t say.

  When I came down the hallway and into the next room, I came into a high-ceilinged, airy space. A spiral staircase ran up one wall to a second-story with an open side and an overlooking balcony. On the far wall, sunlight filtered through large, curving windows. Built-in bookcases, packed with tomes, covered two of the walls. In one corner sat a four-seater, square dining table. And in the center, two wildly comfortable leather couches were arranged at two sides of a large coffee table.

  On my left, noises echoed through a curving doorway—the familiar sounds of someone in the kitchen.

  “Umbra,” I said, stock still. My eyes traveled around the large space. “Maybe you can clear something up for me..”

  “What now, child?” her voice carried from the kitchen.

  “Well, I’m not quite sure how a home this big fits into this tree. It’s kind of impossible.”

  Her head appeared through the doorway. “Clementine, Goodbarrel told me you were the best tangible manipulations student in his course last year. Please don’t tell me he was mistaken.”

  Tangible manipulations? No.

  I stared at her, open-mouthed. “I sewed a small pocket into my cloak. It took months.”

  Her lips curved. “One sandwich, or two?”

  “One.” When her head disappeared back into the kitchen, I crossed to the center of her living room. When I approached a bookcase, I surveyed the different titles. A lot of them looked ancient. Some were falling apart. I turned back around toward the second story. Up there I spotted the edge of a bed and an armchair.

  Umbra had manipulated this home into being. We were standing inside a massive pocket in the veil. This must have taken years. Decades, even.

  “So”—I paused, searching for just the right words—“do you ever worry this place could become a black hole while you’re sleeping and start sucking things into its massive manipulated veil-pocket?”

  Umbra’s laugh rang out through the doorway. “Of all the things weighing on my mind, that is not one.” When she emerged, she carried a wooden tray with sandwiches carefully cut into triangles arranged on it.

  I pointed. “You could have conjured those.”

  “Yes, but I prefer the taste of real food from time to time.” She set the platter on the dining table and pulled out a chair. When she snapped her fingers, a carafe of drink appeared, flanked by two glasses. “Though I do enjoy my own conjured lemonade.”

  I sat down in the chair adjacent to hers as she poured lemonade for me. “How long did this take you? This place.”

  “Thirty years,” she said without even glancing up at me. She moved the carafe over to her glass. “Thirty-two, actually.”

  “You’ve been the headmistress here for that long?”

  “Feels like much longer.” She sat, spreading a napkin across her lap and bringing two triangles onto her plate. “Eat. We’ll make it a quick lunch, and then back to it.”

  I picked up a sandwich. “You told me you’d answer my question.”

  “Yes, how I parted the veil.” She pointed toward the entryway. “My walking staff, can you guess its name?”

  “Your staff has a name?”

  “Does it not seem fine enough to you to merit one?” She leaned closer. “Why should your weapon have a name, and mine none?”

  “I didn’t name mine,” I said. “Someone else did.”

  “Well, that’s dull.” She ripped off a piece of sandwich in her fingers. “Anyway, the staff is called Parity. Do you know the meaning of that word?”

  I didn’t. “Sure,” I said.

  Her eyes narrowed, half-amused. “The staff desires a balance between good and evil, light and dark. And as darkness spreads in the world, it brings light.”

  “So the staff is growing in power...”

  She nodded, gesturing for me to go on.

  “Which means it’s become its own point of power,” I finished.

  “Good girl.” She proceeded to bury her attention in her drink, downing half of it in one satisfied go.

  “And one other thing.” I set my sandwich down. “The animations around the grounds. You made those happen, didn’t you?”

  Now she did meet my eyes. “Ah, so you’ve grown curious about the feather dusters in the library and done a little research. I imagine Aidan North’s nose was in a book or two as well.”

  Trust Maeve Umbra to come to all the right conclusions with hardly anything to go off of.

  “Aren’t animations a dead art?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she continued. “For all intents and purposes, animations are no more. I was taught them as a child, long before your time. If you’re wondering why I don’t pass on the art, it’s because I never mastered it. Not like the mages of old.”

  “Who was your teacher?” I asked.

  “A man named Caligari,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. And it was her lack of hesitation that told me she wasn’t lying or searching out a different truth.

  Ufeus Caligari had taught her the art. The only problem was that, as Aidan had discovered, Caligari had likely died before Umbra was born. Unless, of course, the headmistress was older than she looked.

  Of course, it wasn’t polite to ask a woman her age, and I suspected Umbra would dodge the question anyway. Whenever I plumbed her past, she grew vague.

  As I watched Umbra eat, my eyes traveled over her crow’s feet, the lines around her mouth, and I wondered how old her “mages of old” really were.

  In the afternoon, I left Umbra’s home with her thumbprint on my forehead and mine on hers. She remained in her house, and it was my job to walk the entire circumference of the grounds for the next four hours without losing my connection to her.

  I had to be able to hear her voice in my head, to speak to her from anywhere I stood, though miles may separate us. And, as a new challenge, I had to sense Umbra wherever she might go. Follow her with my mind.

  A half hour had always been my upper limit with this telepathic magic. Four hours was torture.

  And how, I asked as I tromped along the edge of the enshrouding enchantment at the edge of the grounds, am I supposed to maintain this from another continent?

  The leylines, came Umbra’s response.
You will funnel your magic through the uncorrupted leylines. They will empower you.

  So I had to trace the leylines all the way across the world to talk to the guardians, to follow their rescues. To guide them back safely.

  What I wanted was to prepare for Edinburgh. Not this. But that seemed selfish, short-sighted, because the truth was I was only thinking of what I wanted. I wasn’t thinking of the guardians or the mages they would rescue.

  All I wanted was to see my sister again. Just that.

  When I passed the meadow, I sensed Umbra had left her house and was heading toward the dining hall.

  Second lunch? I asked. And you didn’t invite me. I’m hurt.

  A lunchtime announcement, came Umbra’s reply in my head, about tonight’s ceremony. Child, do not make me regret this exercise.

  Tonight’s ceremony was the first-years’ induction into the four houses. I had almost forgotten. I knew one person who would be there: Eva, who attended things like that religiously. Which meant I would be there, too—to fill Eva in on everything I’d learned about the Rathmores.

  That night, after an agonizing day of training, I came into the dining hall with aching calves and thighs and spotted Eva’s wings sticking up from one of the tables near the back. She was seated with the other guardians and a whole crop of first-years, which came as no surprise.

  People liked Eva. Eva liked people.

  Which was why I apologized to everyone as I dragged her away to an empty table where no one sat but us.

  “Eva,” I said as we sat down.

  “Clem.” She had carried a glass of tomato juice with her. “How good of you to isolate me from everyone.”

  “The witch is gonna witch.” I nodded at the tomato juice. “How’s the hangover?”

  “Gone.” She took a sip. “But the memory of the pain remains.”

  “Good enough.” I leaned close to her. “I need to tell you something. About Lucian the prince.”

  She moved closer, all thoughts of socializing forgotten. “Tell me.”

  “William Rathmore.” I paused when she didn’t react. “It’s him. He is the prince. Well, now that Callum gave up the family mantle.”

  Her eyebrows and wings rose at the same time.

  “And,” I said, “he found us on our train in Vienna. Chased Umbra and me down the platform...”

  Umbra came to the front of the dining hall to begin the ceremony—which would involve some talking, some walking, and lots of time in the amphitheater—Eva and I devolved to whispers.

  She scooted closer to me. “And then what?”

  As I whispered the rest of the story, Eva’s eyes opened so wide I could see the sclera above and below her irises.

  When I had finished, she let out a breath. “So all this time, my mom and dad have been spying on Lucian the prince.”

  “What?” I hissed.

  “From the bits and pieces he’s told me, he and my mom were sent to infiltrate.”

  “Infiltrate where?” I whispered.

  “Edinburgh. The Mages’ Council. And—”

  Just then, everyone stood from their tables, and the first-year students filed toward the center of the dining hall. The procession had begun.

  Eva and I had no choice but to stand as well, to divert our attention to getting in line with the rest of the student body and professors at the right time, in the right spot. Eyes fell on me, and some of the first-years recoiled.

  I knew why: it was what Ora Frostwish had said in Witches & Wizards. She’d maligned me, the witch, and to anyone who read the magazine—which was most of the magical world—and didn’t know me, I wasn’t just the last witch.

  I was a supreme bitch.

  It didn’t help that she’d described me to a sketch artist, and my likeness had appeared in the magazine. The big red hair and the pale skin didn’t help me blend in.

  That was fine. Things had come full circle from my first year, when I’d been just as outcasted; it almost felt right.

  Eva and I walked as a pair from the dining hall to the amphitheater. She had gone respectfully silent. Like every other ceremony, she took this one seriously. But this year especially, now that she was a guardian, she wanted to set a good example.

  I, on the other hand, kept whispering at her. When we finally sat in the amphitheater and Umbra stepped up onto the stage behind the four braziers to begin sorting the first-years, I gripped Eva’s forearm and said, “You’re killing me.”

  Her face turned slowly toward me. Her lips worked, and finally she found words. “Mama and Papa are gathering information on William Rathmore.”

  My mind spun, reeled, sparked. I’d completely drowned out everything else now. “They must know who he really is, then.”

  She nodded her head, a tiny movement, worry on her brow. “Maybe. I don’t know.” This was dangerous for them. That was what her expression said.

  Her eyes became glassy, and then they darted to the stage. “They’ve been away in Edinburgh for two months.” She hadn’t told me that part.

  My grip on her arm loosened. “Have you heard from them?”

  “Once,” she whispered, and now I understood why she’d gotten so drunk on the night of her guardian initiation.

  Her mother and father were spying on Lucian the prince.

  Chapter Ten

  This year, the quartermistress had once again asked me to teach bareback riding. Except I had not just one, but two crops of students. Each class was composed of twelve first-years, and we would meet early on alternating days, just after breakfast, before the sun blasted us in the paddock.

  On the morning after the ceremony, I stood in the paddock talking about mounting a horse, and I’d hardly gotten two sentences out when one student’s hand went up.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Are you the witch?” she said, her voice a leaf on the breeze.

  “That’s one word for me,” I said. “You may also call me the blaster of asses, the fomenter of failure, or Your Majesty Her Graciousness. Whichever you choose determines your grade, so choose wisely.”

  I let an uncomfortable silence ensue, my face serious, my eyes never leaving the girl.

  Then the others began to laugh, and from then on, I had them. If I told them to mount, they tried. If I told them to mount again, they tried again. They fell in the dirt happily, and I only had to sprinkle a dark joke here and there.

  It didn’t seem to matter to them that someone in a magazine had called me Bad with a capital B. If I could make them laugh, didn’t bore them while they were in their enforced captivity with me, that was all they needed.

  When the class was finished and the students were leading their horses back to the stables, I turned to find Maeve Umbra leaning over the fence, her eyes on me.

  The shimmer of her magic flowed around her. She had enchanted herself to be invisible to all but me. I knew why: wherever she went on the grounds, someone wanted her attention. The first-years would have slowed and gawked at her if they’d seen her.

  I approached Umbra, balancing one foot on the bottom board of the fence. Before I could speak, she said, “You have a way with people.”

  I snorted. “That must explain why those foster families never kept me around for more than a week.”

  “You could have stayed, if you’d wanted,” she said, no uncertainty in her voice. “But that wasn’t what you wanted, was it?”

  My arms folded. “Just so you know, I’m not paying for this therapy session.”

  Her lips curled, eyes crinkling. “You haven’t impressed me enough yet today to merit sarcasm. Come.” She turned away, her magic still swirling around her as she stepped through the grass with Parity, her staff.

  We went to the Contemplator’s Copse, which I had found by accident last year. There, she sat on a log facing me, and I straddled it facing her. And we continued the work we had practiced throughout the summer.

  I ignited my flame, wrapped it around myself, making myself invisible to the world. She allowed u
s to sit in silence for fifteen, twenty minutes, a sort of meditation we often did at the start of our sessions, practicing the simple act of holding the enchantment around our bodies.

  But this time, I felt the Spitfire as I held the enchantment. That had never happened. I could feel it coiled inside me, purring at my sustained use of magic. And it occurred to me that the Spitfire liked my training, my lessons, my practice. It wanted me to become more powerful. More potent. And its desires were separate from mine.

  Were its intentions separate from mine, too?

  When Umbra felt enough time had passed, her eyes opened and she started in on me. “Tell me your worst memory from the group home.”

  “Every time they served us oatmeal,” I shot back. “Next.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t speak, but her eyes said it all. My quips did nothing for me.

  Then again, she kept going harder with these questions. Deeper. Last time she’d asked me about my sister. Now she wanted my worst memories.

  I swallowed. I knew. I knew exactly what the worst memory was. “It was the day I turned eighteen.”

  “Your birthday.”

  The fire flowed and ebbed around me. “Yes.”

  “What happened on that day, Clementine?”

  “I became an adult, and as I walked through the door of the house and came out into the daylight, I finally understood.”

  “What did you understand?” she whispered, and it was the sadness, the pity in her voice that got to me. Almost like she knew what I was going to say.

  For a moment, the flames flickered, weakening. I tried to recover them, but I couldn’t hold the feeling and the magic at the same time. The enchantment dropped, and I was left staring at Umbra, and her back at me, with nothing between us.

  I cursed. She tilted her head and smiled.

  It was the day I knew no one was going to save me but me, I thought but didn’t say.

  The first few days back at the academy were a cluster. Between training with Umbra to become the guardians’ leader, our ongoing training sessions in enchanting, and teaching my two bareback riding classes, I hardly had time to scarf food. I didn’t even have time to feel anxious—which was a good thing.