by Katie Cross
I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure they’re still there. Entire populations don’t just disappear because we haven’t heard from them. Besides, who knows? It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”
“The Northern mountains are treacherous, B. There are so many peaks and crevasses and ravines that transporting there blind is a death wish. Anyone who went to search it out would have to travel on foot, and it could take the messenger half a year to reach any civilization. Assuming they didn’t get lost, of course.”
I dropped back on a wider stretch of trail. “How do you know?” I asked, eyeing him.
“History,” he said. “I actually enjoy learning from it, unlike some witches.”
I ignored the direct jab. “What of history?”
“The Northern Network cities and villages lie so far north that trade routes were risky, even fatal. It’s part of the reason they decided to close the routes and block us out. They could self-sustain and grew tired of the wars breaking out between Networks.”
Despite his misgivings with my plan, I felt more convinced than ever that the Northern Network might be an untapped resource. At least Merrick wasn’t one of the witches lulled back into a sense of security. After the High Priestess died and Miss Mabel was locked away, the Southern Network pulled its Guardians back from the wall separating our Networks, and the Western Network abandoned its quest to block our river, leaving the Borderlands like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Merrick shrugged the conversation off. “Let the idea of scouting out the Northern Network go, B. It’s not worth pursuing. Look, I’m going to take the lead because time is running out, and I need to get back. We have a late mission tonight I need to plan.”
“But—”
“No complaining. You need to work on your speed anyway, slow poke.”
He sped off ahead of me, setting a more grueling pace. I’d be able to maintain it, but it would cost most of my energy and half of my patience. With a sigh, I took off after him. No matter how fast he ran, I would keep up with him.
I couldn’t seem to help myself.
The esteemed Butler Reeves had shown up with a tray of tea and a plate of my favorite raspberry scones one bright morning the previous summer. After serving us—which felt so awkward that I’d finally taken the tea pot from him and told him I preferred to pour—he’d busied himself with alphabetizing our books and dusting the parlor, letting us know that he wasn’t going to leave. Eight months had passed, and he still puttered around.
Despite his odd entrance into our life, Reeves said little, kept the apartment cozy, waged a war on the dust motes that cropped up, and glared when I left mud behind. Finally accepting the inevitable, Papa gave Reeves an adjacent room that connected to our apartment and effectively integrated the old man into the daily routine and fabric of our lives.
A warm fire crackled in the hearth when I stepped out of my room the next morning, greeting me with the homey scent of burning pine.
“Would you like breakfast, Miss Bianca?” Reeves asked, sending me a look that suggested I daren’t refuse my daily porridge. Papa had been siphoning food into storage to prepare for possible war, which limited availability of the best breakfast items, like bacon. Fresh food was difficult to find in the winter anyway, so an already limited plate rapidly shrunk down to a mealy bowl of porridge for breakfast.
“Of course, Reeves,” I said, brushing a few strands of wet hair off my shoulders, my cheeks still flushed from the morning run. “Thank you.”
His piercing gaze deepened at my quick acquiescence. I snatched a piece of buttered bread next to the bowl of paste and hurried to the door.
“Thanks Reeves!” I called over my shoulder, and the door slammed behind me. Celebrating my porridge-free departure with a grin, I slipped around the corner and collided with a skinny body. My piece of bread smeared butter onto the rich velvet of a black cape.
“Hey!” a nasally voice called out, whirling around and taking my breakfast with it. “Watch it!”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t—”
My hasty apology ended when I saw a familiar pair of wide ears and a pointy nose. Clive, the Coven Leader over Chatham City, glared at me down his long nose. He’d tried to remove Papa from his position as Head of Protectors last year by staging protests, one of which I accidentally attended. My uncontrolled magic had blown out of control, injuring ten witches. Clive had taken his complaint all the way to Mildred, the High Priestess, and I’d been restricted to the castle grounds. Just seeing Clive stirred a flutter of magic in my chest again, but I forced it down.
Clive’s lips morphed into a sneer. “Bianca Monroe,” he said. “What a delightful surprise.”
“Coven Leader Clive.”
“You should watch where you’re going. It’s not polite to run into your superiors in such a violent fashion. It could be construed in the eyes of the public as a hostile attack.”
Clive’s rat-like face drifted to another witch just behind him. He carried a small purple quill and a long scroll. The circular badge on his jacket identified him as a writer for the newsscroll, the Chatham Chatterer.
“Lovely,” I muttered. Papa’s reputation had suffered enough thanks to Clive, who continued to stage protests over Papa’s obsessive preparation for a war that clearly won’t happen. The last thing we needed was Clive telling all of the Central Network I had tried to attack him in the castle halls.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, clearing my throat. “I need to go to work.”
“I was just interviewing for an article in the Chatterer on your father’s decision to use Network funds to buy and store grain in case we go to war.” Clive sidestepped into my path. “I think getting your opinion on the subject would be a … wonderful addition.”
The reporter stepped forward eagerly, quill in hand. Papa didn’t allow the Chatterer to interview me because of stupid questions like this, so I shot him a warning glare. He stumbled back again, swallowing.
“I don’t think you want my opinion on this subject,” I said.
“Oh,” Clive whispered, his eyes alight. “But we very much do. You see, your father is blowing this supposed war out of proportion and it’s costing witches currency. Witches don’t like to part with their hard won currency. But I’m not sure that’s something you understand since you live a charmed life in a castle and want for nothing.”
Charmed life? My mother died in my arms, the High Priestess sacrificed her life for me, and up until last summer, I expected to die at age seventeen because of a curse. I bit back my retort and replaced it with a saccharine smile.
“Or some witches just like to be contrary because they’re bored with their own lives. I hardly see how preparing for something that is entirely plausible hurts our Network at all.”
Clive smiled with thin lips. I expected a forked tongue to flicker out. “We’ve seen no activity from the Western Network to indicate they may be hostile—hardly any activity from them at all since Mabel’s attack, really—and the Southern Network allowed you to cross their borders a few days ago, am I right? Surely that’s not a sign of a hostile Network.”
“Perhaps Mikhail is smarter than that,” I replied coolly. “Not allowing us in would be a blatantly hostile move. Any good leader planning a war would hide his plan for as long as possible by cooperating with every other Network. And any good leader like my father would prepare for the worst from the beginning. Don’t you think?”
Clive’s nostrils flared. “Your father is costing this Network currency and making fools of us!”
“Calm down,” I said, stepping away from him. “You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself the past six years as Coven Leader that he doesn’t need to help.”
“Why I never—”
“Merry part, Clive.” I pushed past him with a wave. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
He fumed in my wake, unaware of the buttered piece of bread stuck to the back of his expensive cape.
Marten’s office wouldn’t have been a bad place to wo
rk had I been Leda and enjoyed being indoors, sitting in a stone cage while staring at a beautiful day passing by without regard for my imprisonment.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t Leda. Not even close.
We traveled often enough that working for Marten had been mostly educational and exciting, but letters had to be answered and meetings attended. Unfortunately, today promised to be one of those dull office days. He normally tried to warn me in advance so I could mentally prepare. A long morning run usually helped, though my run-in with Clive left me in a foul mood.
“Marten, I just ran into—oh, merry meet, Papa.”
I halted in my tracks in the doorway, startled to find Papa lounging in a chair across from Marten’s desk, his brow furrowed. I’d just interrupted another of their chats. Marten had mentored Papa ever since he started as a Guardian, so Papa often turned to him for advice now that Mildred was gone and he ruled as Highest Witch.
“Come in, Bianca.” Marten waved me in. “Derek and I were just discussing a few things. Nothing you can’t hear.”
Papa whacked me affectionately on the leg as I passed by him. “Marten’s giving me advice on how to deal with a spunky teenage daughter with a mind of her own. What do you think we should do? Tie her up by her thumbs?”
“Build her a cottage in Letum Wood and force her to live in the trees,” I said blithely. “That’ll show her.”
Papa balled up a piece of paper and threw it at me before standing. I stopped it mid-flight and turned it into a snowball that smacked him on the arm.
“Thank you, Marten,” Papa said. “As always, your advice and support is much appreciated. I’ll try your suggestions and let you know.”
“It’s my pleasure, High Priest,” he replied cordially. Papa and Marten clasped forearms before Papa winked at me and disappeared out the door. I glanced ruefully at two stacks of envelopes that had accumulated overnight. How I loathed replying to messages. Most correspondences came from Border Guards or Coven Leaders who complained that their tomatoes weren’t growing right because the Eastern Network was hexing them.
“I have good news,” Marten said, settling back into his chair. “Once you finish those letters, I’ve found a few more libraries I want to search for the Book of Spells.”
The bright sunlight, which reflected off a blanket of white snow outside, made the top of his bald head as shiny as a porcelain bowl. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a fresh cup of tea awaited me. Marten always had tea for me in the morning in his rigidly clean workspace that testified to his background as a Captain of the Guards before he became Ambassador. Paintings filled the blank spaces on the wall, and two padded chairs stood across from his desk. Other than my little desk in the corner, there wasn’t much there.
“Oh?” I asked. “Where?”
“The Western Covens. I don’t see any reason for the Book of Spells to be hidden there, but one never knows. We’re getting desperate. We’ve searched every other Coven for the past eight months. These are the last of them.”
The likelihood of finding the ancient grimoire of Almorran magic hidden in a random library wasn’t good, but we had to try. We’d scoured every library and bookshop in the Central Network, hoping to find it before Angelina, Miss Mabel’s mother. Most of the Central Network thought Miss Mabel’s imprisonment meant the end of the war, but I suspected differently. Angelina could be rallying her forces, trying to succeed where her daughter failed.
“I’ll finish the letters soon.” I slipped the first three off the top. “Then we can get out of here.”
My motivation to finish the boring paperwork didn’t change the fact that office business took time. After several hours of work, the scratch of quill against paper still droned on with endless disregard for my suffering. My eyes flickered up to the clock, and I stifled a low groan. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. My stomach growled. Stupid Clive stole my good mood and my toast.
“You’ve only been here for two hours,” Marten said in a droll voice. “Surely paperwork can’t be that bad.”
“Torture, really. I’d rather be strung up by my thumbs.”
Marten chuckled. His calm, gentle exterior hid a quiet intensity. Only through working with him for the past eight months had I come to realize the degree of his magical skill and talent. When it came down to raw power, he rivaled Papa.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I sent a message to Newberry to order your carriage. You leave tomorrow morning for the Eastern Network. Very early tomorrow morning, so you’ll want to transport to Newberry by five.”
“Oh, right. A carriage ride.” I’d forgotten that my first trip to the Eastern Network would require a carriage, just like our journey to the Southern Network. Despite my pleas that I’d rather transport—I’d transported to unknown places before—Marten wouldn’t allow me to take any risks.
“It’ll be a very educational ride for you,” he said, interrupting my thoughts as if he’d read their direction. “There’s more to a Network than just the diplomats, you know. Seeing the landscape and countryside is a rare privilege. I hope you can enjoy it.”
According to the Mansfeld Pact, only a High Priest, High Priestess, Ambassador, Ambassador’s Assistant, or a Protector or Guardian could cross the borders for these diplomatic meetings. I silenced the urge to complain; so few witches received such an opportunity. A two-day carriage ride wouldn’t kill me.
“I’ll make the best of it.”
Marten continued. “Newberry is on the border of the Eastern Coven, which will cut down your riding time. I’ll meet you at Magnolia Castle the next evening. You’ll travel nonstop, under the protection of the white flag of the Ambassador.”
A book slid off the top shelf of a bookcase behind him and landed on my desk with a heavy thud.
The History of Antebellum.
“Take that with you,” he said. “Every Ambassador, and Assistant, needs to have a thorough understanding of history in order to do the job well.”
“I’m not sure the horses will be able to carry me and such a massive tome,” I said with a rueful grin. He returned it, and I settled back into the rhythm of responding to letters with a sigh.
False Confidence
The door to our private apartments slammed open that evening, admitting Papa with an ungracious belch of armor, leather, and blood. Reeves had just set out a simple dinner of beef stew.
“Grief, Papa,” I said, rising to my feet. Dirt and sweat streaked down one side of his face, which was slowly morphing back into its regular form. Papa always transformed his appearance when working with the Protectors. “What happened?”
“Factios attack in Chatham City again.”
Papa strode over to the water basin and splashed his face and hands, peering out the window with a quiet murmur. I followed his gaze to see plumes of smoke rising from Chatham City, a burning testament to the ongoing war between the Factios—a group of violent gang members—and the gypsies.
“Same kind of attack as last time?”
“They painted a bright red A on the road,” he said. “Yes, I think it’s safe to assume that it originated with Angelina, just like all the others.”
A shiver ran through me. The Factios had stirred up trouble for months, but only when winter hit had their devastating attacks increased exponentially. A bright red A emerged during most of their vicious acts, leaving no doubt about where the Factios gained their power and resources. But their fearless leader had yet to make an appearance. Most of the Factios members that were caught and interrogated had never met Angelina. She worked through letters and word-of-mouth.
“So Angelina is still fighting through the Factios.”
“Yes.”
He ruffled my hair as he walked behind me and headed to his room to change. When he returned, hair wet and body scrubbed clean, he sat down and dove right into his stew without a word.
“Do you have to go back to work tonight?” I asked. He nodded. I hid my disappointment by picking up my bowl and drinking from the lip.<
br />
“I need to review Tiberius’s plan for training Guardians for an attack in the Southern Covens,” he said. “After that, Stella and I have a meeting with the Head of Highways that I’ve put off too many times.”
Stella was the new High Priestess, empowered a month after Mildred died. At first, Coven Leader Clive had protested Papa’s choice. According to tradition established by the first High Priestess, Esmelda, High Priests, High Priestesses, Heads of Guardians, and Heads of Protectors were not allowed to marry, so they would put all their focus into their careers. Stella had been married once, and had even had a young son, but both had died during the Dark Days. She served as Council Member over the Southern Covens and never remarried. Most of the Network shrugged Stella’s history off. She had been a beloved leader for so long that it seemed only natural to appoint her. Clive hadn’t gained much traction fighting against Stella, so he eventually gave up.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but your arm is bleeding.” Reeves stood just behind Papa, studying the skin above Papa’s right elbow. Papa inspected it with a grunt.
“The Factios used something,” he said, forehead ruffling. “It was a kind of weak burning potion. They put it in bottles that they threw into a fire. The bottles exploded and sent the potion flying everywhere. It burned everything it touched. Some of it must have rubbed off on my skin.”
I walked to his chest of healing tinctures and rifled through it until I found the bottle marked remoulade. Grandmother’s favorite.
“Here,” I said, grabbing a napkin. “I’ll put remoulade on.”
The wound looked normal enough—open tissue, blood, and swelling—but something about it smelled different.
“Your wound smells like … mustard.”
“I don’t know what it is,” Papa said, plowing through his meal with his good arm. “But I’ve never seen it before.”
“That’s odd.”