by Katie Cross
“What happened to you?” she murmured. “Why can I see you right now?”
He stared back in perfect silence.
Heart racing, Isadora mused, “If this is you as a child, what were you like as a teenager?”
The pillar collapsed again, scattering like beads until it reappeared. A teenage witch with an indignant expression in a handsome face. His fists clenched at his side. Jaw taut and tilted back, as if in defiance. Maximillion, at about fourteen years old.
“You’re livid,” she murmured.
For what felt like an eternity, she stared at the fractured boy. The rage in his eyes. A testimony to whatever he’d been through, surely.
Her heart broke.
“Remove him.”
He shimmered away. Isadora breathed easier when he was gone, feeling guilty for having seen him at all. She turned away, suddenly tired. The bright lights had ebbed slightly. The once-frantic air cooled. She’d never seen so many facets of a witch before. Why Maximillion?
And how?
Weary of the endless search for meaning, she closed the magic and opened her eyes. A gentle lap of warm water rolled past her, brushing her chin. Stars still twinkled overhead. With a sigh, the magic curled up inside her. The tense humming of her body faded.
She stared at the night, her mind reeling, body weak. Her powers were different. Stronger. They'd revealed something new. She'd known she could see an aspect, a facet, of a witch. But ages? Multiple facets? Almost as if, like the Defenders, she also glimpsed the past. Perhaps this magic was something she couldn’t possibly fathom.
Was it possible?
Isadora sighed.
The wind whistled through La Torra with a hint of sea salt and the promise of another storm the next day. The same bulging thundercloud remained on the horizon. Ahead of it raced meringue-like clouds, bringing wind and pelting rain. White-capped waves crashed onto the beach. Isadora gazed on the piles of washed, dried, pressed, and folded laundry on a creaky old cart. Her legs and arms ached from lugging heavy, wet blankets onto the drying line.
She stopped and held out a hand. Seconds later, a blue, shimmering cloud hovered above her palm. The woven mark of the Advocacy. She tightened her fingers into a fist. It disappeared. So magic could be used at La Torra, even if it seemed to have suppressive effect on the paths she saw of those within it.
Confusing magic or no, she still had a life to save and information to glean. She pinched her arm, shook her head, and forced herself to wake back up.
The lack of unsettled magic gave her a bit more courage—perhaps foolishness. Unfortunately, the need to find Lucey burned brighter than wisdom and louder than the inner Maximillion in her head. Her plan was a foolish one, surely, but there was no going back now. Besides, Fiona was stuck on the third floor with Cecelia, doing who-knew-what. Isadora might never get another chance to find the elusive entrance to Carcere.
Outside, a patrol of East Guards strolled along the outside of La Torra, peering into the windows as they went. She pretended to be busy counting blankets and sheets. They disappeared around the corner, right on time.
She shoved her cart into the hallway.
Maximillion would withdraw her from the mission—or wring her neck—if he knew what she planned to do, but she couldn’t wait another moment while Lucey suffered in Carcere. Besides, he couldn’t have eyes everywhere. She’d caught a few glimpses in the paths the night before and formulated her plan around it. There was hope of it working.
And there was a greater chance it wouldn't. Still, time had passed, and the paths were never the same from one minute to the next.
Isadora trudged toward the servants' hall until she found the door she sought. On accident, she’d observed Lorenzo come out this door with a trolley of cleaning supplies. Instead of stairs, a smooth, spiral surface wound upward, allowing a cart to move from floor to floor with relative ease. She hurried inside and began to push her cart up the steep incline.
Based on Maximillion's map and Lorenzo’s gossip, above the fifth floor was Carcere. While it technically occupied two floors on the same floor plan as the rest of the building, rumors said it seemed far larger inside. Whatever that meant.
Her rattling cart quieted when she spilled onto the fifth floor. The spiral path ended here. Isadora parked the linen in the middle of the hall, near a closet.
The hall lay quiet.
No decorative screens up here, just stone walls with an occasional limp torch in an empty, circular hall. Rain plunked against the closed windows. The stone hall lay damp, dark, and forbidding. Isadora shuddered.
A shout caught her attention. She crept across the hall and peered through a window onto the courtyard. Defenders trained in a semicircle with Cecelia in the middle.
What luck.
Cecelia stood beneath a protective awning made of glass on three sides that came to a point at the top, like the windows of La Torra. Rain sluiced down the sides, pouring off the edges and onto the ground. The wind didn’t seem so strong within the circular courtyard. Each Defender maintained an expressionless face, as if the rain didn’t bother them.
Isadora had woken up to find the Defenders returned, but no gossip reported whether they'd been successful. It rarely did. Lorenzo, Fiona, and the cooks seemed disinclined to acknowledge the Defenders—beyond when they left. The late-night wine party conducted in Cecelia’s absence had left everyone subdued at breakfast that morning.
Today, Cecelia wore an elegant dress the color of spun sunshine. It drifted around her legs in silky luxuriance, floating atop layers of underskirts. Even in the muted light, a thick necklace with strands of gems glittered from her collarbone.
“Sapphire,” Isadora murmured as she studied the fist-sized gem in Cecelia’s hair. “Coiled in a bun. Lace along the sleeves. Buttons up the back. Thirteen … fourteen … sixteen.”
Isadora chewed on her lip as she memorized every detail. With a pit in her stomach, she checked the empty hall one last time, then retreated from the window and murmured a weak transformation spell.
The chill of a rush of ice water trickled down her back, startling her. She hadn’t expected it to work. Still, the magic tingled through her. The lavanda outfit faded into a sleek, buttery dress that fitted her much-fuller chest like a glove.
Isadora stopped the magic, then slipped back to the window. Two Defenders stood in the middle, eyes closed. Their lips moved, as if they were narrating something. Cecelia stared on, intense as ever. Nothing seemed to have changed.
Isadora backed away.
She repeated the weak magic. This version of the dress was darker than Cecelia’s. Nearly too dark—almost orange. Her fingers reached back to find only seven buttons. Her hair appeared too short, and a shade too light, but it would have to do. Unlikely that an East Guard would notice. Most East Guards were frightened of Cecelia, anyway. She couldn’t impersonate Fiona or Lorenzo. The Guards knew them too well. Besides, what if she ran into them while they were going about their work?
Her hands trembled when she straightened the gown. Could she impersonate such a frosty personality?
“Just find the door,” she whispered. “Find the entrance to Carcere, and get back out. Move quickly. Be confident. No one will know. I am Cecelia.”
Isadora banished her frightened, squeaking voice and started down the hallway. If she was going to be Cecelia, she had to own it. Only three steps later, she paused. The skirt swayed around her legs. Although ample, it was still much too thin to be Cecelia’s.
How did Cecelia carry herself?
A moment of panic overcame her.
Stupid girl, Maximillion said in her mind. You’ll never pull this off.
“At least I’m doing something,” she muttered, and pressed on. Attempting to copy Cecelia’s walk would only waste time. Better to move fast and get it over with.
A commotion down the hall hurried her on. She tilted her chin back, shortened her stride, and hoped for the best. A back staircase—and a likely route upstairs—
waited at the end of the hall. She held her breath as she turned a corner, ignoring the noise at the other end, which immediately fell silent. She forced her fingers to relax, her arms to loosen.
“Just check the stairs,” she murmured. “Just make it to the stairs.”
With relief, she reached for the doorknob. As her fingers grazed the top, it flew away. She paused, startled by the sudden movement.
A maid appeared, giggling.
“Giorgia!” called a distant voice. “Come back!”
“You’ll have to catch me!”
The maid darted out of the stairwell, then skidded to a stop a breath before slamming into Isadora. Her eyes widened.
“Oh, Great One,” she cried, dropping her gaze.
The maid rambled, speaking rapid words Isadora had no hope of understanding. Giorgia. The name rang through Isadora’s mind until she recalled why it sounded familiar.
The missing maid.
Giorgia’s eyes remained averted but only barely. Isadora slid her foot back when the stained edge of her own shoe peeked out of the dress.
“Excused,” Isadora said in a clipped tone. The less she said, the better, for her voice remained her own.
The maid blinked and tilted her head to the side. “Forgive me, Miss Cecelia, but … your pastanda. Where is it? I will gladly find it for you.”
Eagerness—perhaps mollification—laced her tone. Isadora’s mind raced. Pastanda. What in the name of the good gods was a pastanda? Something Cecelia wore, apparently. Isadora avoided the urge to glance down.
“I removed it.”
The maid's eyes grew wide as saucers.
“Of a truth?”
Isadora swallowed hard. Had the maid said of a truth or where are they? The words were too similar for clarity.
“Check my room,” Isadora said. Her tongue felt awkward and gluey, nothing like the flowing elegance of Ilese.
“Forgive me, Miss Cecelia, but I was just there. Do you want me to search somewhere else? I-I’ve never heard of you removing it. Won’t you need it for your … ah … time with the High Priest tonight?”
“No.”
Deepening confusion filled the maid’s eyes, giving way to something like … doubt. No matter how deeply she searched her mind, Isadora couldn’t recall ever learning pastanda. Whatever it was, her ignorance might get her killed.
Wouldn’t Maximillion be smug?
The maid's eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be training with the Defenders right now?”
Isadora’s palms began to sweat. “Do you question me?” she hissed. The maid averted her eyes but only for a moment. Her suspicious gaze returned.
“May I see your mark, Miss Cecelia?”
Mark? What mark?
“An impertinent question,” Isadora said, nostrils flaring. The girl leaned slightly to the left, but Isadora moved with her. The sound of something clattering in the courtyard, followed by a heavy shout, filled the sudden silence. Isadora forced herself to maintain eye contact. The girl’s mouth tightened.
“Are you—”
The door slammed open behind them. A young Guardian rushed through the door, eyes bright. Isadora barely stepped back in time to avoid his broad shoulders and giddy smile.
“Giorgia,” he called, laughing. He pulled her into his arms and nuzzled her neck. “I thought I would never find you.”
The maid shoved him off with a hiss, angling his body so he could see Isadora standing there.
“Don’t touch me!” Giorgia cried, voice shrill. “I don’t know you.”
His arms dropped to the side. He leapt back, hand on the hilt of his sword. Isadora’s gaze moved to his hand, and he released it, cheeks burning. Murmured apologies streamed from his lips, too fast for her to comprehend. The maid trembled, staring at Isadora in a mixture of terror and uncertainty.
“Leave immediately,” Isadora commanded. She held out a cupped hand and forced her voice to stay steady. “Give me your cuff links. Transport away and never return.”
“Transport?”
Isadora stumbled over the word. Egads, but Cecelia didn’t allow it! “I want you out of my sight immediately. I shall inform Fiona of your … dishonor.”
“I-I—”
“Silence!”
The maid pressed her lips together. Her eyes darted to the side, then back. Isadora’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird. Would the girl risk it? Would she sound an alarm—and possibly be wrong? Not after being caught in a forbidden love affair with an East Guard, surely. According to the cooks, Cecelia had granted death for less.
With shaking hands, the girl removed her cuff links and dropped them into Isadora’s palm. The Guardian glanced up from underneath his brow. His gaze dropped when Isadora glared at him, upper lip curled in the way she’d seen Cecelia snarl before.
“Please,” the girl whispered. “Please don—”
“You have done this to yourself. Leave.”
“Oh—”
“Now!”
The girl whimpered, cast one last glance at the Guardian, and disappeared in a transportation spell. Isadora’s skin prickled. Splotches of her tanned skin began to appear. The weak magic was fading.
Isadora turned to the Guardian, chin high.
“Report to your superior. Confess all you’ve done—” She stopped when confusion flickered across his face. Had she said it correctly? No … confess wasn’t the same word …
Her gaze dropped to her skirt, and a bolt of panic shot through her. The fabric ruffled as the layers underneath disappeared.
“Milady?” he murmured, brow furrowed.
He knew. The sudden, suspicious gleam in his eyes said everything. He suspected, at the very least, like the maid. The maid wouldn’t return, but he? He’d stay. She didn’t know Cecelia’s power over the Guardians. Could she command them away?
“Report to your superior.”
“Yes, Great One.”
“Go.”
With a clatter of armor, he disappeared back down the stairs he’d come so quickly up. The hall stood empty. Heart still pounding, Isadora let out a long breath. The magic bled free. Cecelia’s elegant clothes drained back into her maids outfit, her soft bun at the nape of her neck. The layers of dress fell away, leaving her standing in the hall feeling utterly naked.
A sudden silence caught her ear. She blinked, then spun around and hurried to the window.
The courtyard lay empty.
Isadora darted back to the closet, where she’d stashed the laundry. By the time she’d yanked it out, composed herself, set the cuff links on top of a stack of linens, and started walking back the way she'd come, her control had nearly unraveled. Images of the dead young Watcher flashed through her mind as she hurried around a corner, then skidded to a stop.
Cecelia blocked the hallway.
Isadora’s heart leapt into her throat. Defenders flanked Cecelia as they strode down the hall, forcing Isadora to shove the cart to the side or be trampled. Isadora swallowed hard and pressed her back to the wall, eyes averted. She counted their ankles as they passed.
“Felt it here,” one murmured.
“Who would do magic here?”
“Who could with the oro?”
“I’m certain,” said another, voice firm. “Magic was in use.”
“Transportation, likely. It came and went.”
“No, I detected something steady.”
Just keep going, she silently begged. Please keep going.
Cecelia’s black shoes, brightly polished, stopped right in front of her. The endless layers of her gown swayed. Isadora fought a grimace. Her version of Cecelia’s dress had looked nothing like the real one.
“Why do you have those, lavanda girl?”
Her crisp, succinct voice—so far from what Isadora had attempted to mimic—felt like ice on Isadora’s skin. Cecelia held the maid's cuff links in her slender fingers now. Outside, a roll of thunder broke loose.
The Defenders kept walking.
“A maid,
milady,” she murmured, allowing her voice to fully shake. Her already-awkward speech came out bumbling, almost idiotic. “Sh-she resigned.”
Cecelia frowned. “Why?”
“I-I don’t know. She handed these to me and … transported.”
Cecelia sneered. “These are Giorgia’s. She must have given a reason.”
Unable to speak, Isadora just shook her head. Cecelia stared hard at her, as if in doubt. The temptation to run nearly overwhelmed Isadora. She forced herself to stay by remembering Lucey.
“Was she upset?” Cecelia asked.
“Yes.”
“She used magic to leave?”
“Yes.”
If possible, the darkness in Cecelia’s gaze deepened. Was it disbelief? Rage? “Take them to Fiona,” she said, dropping them back to the sheet. “Tell her I will follow up on this later.”
“Yes, Great One.”
Five seconds passed before Cecelia continued onward again. Isadora stood rooted to the spot, drawing in deep breaths, until Cecelia disappeared. With one last burst of courage, she checked two more stairwells, saw nothing that led higher into Carcere, and returned to the lavanda, trembling.
Elis tolerated the flight back with far more ease.
Luteis took them back to the functioning oasis, where they rested overnight, then pushed them hard all the way back deep into the forest. Both dragons, weary from the near-silent flight, descended into the canopy with relief. Sanna breathed deeply for what felt like the first time. The thick, dense air of Letum Wood soothed her rankled nerves.
“They’re back!” one of Elliot's youngest children called. “There’s Sanna and Jesse!”
Children ran in circles on the ground as Luteis and Elis descended, landing gently on the forest floor. Sanna slid off Luteis’s back with a surge of guilt. She’d hardly thought of Mam the entire time she’d been gone, and she certainly hadn’t explained where she was going. A thump sounded next to her. Jesse had leapt off Elis and now soared past her, running as fast as his legs would carry him. All of Jesse’s siblings boiled out of the foliage, shrieking for him.
“Jesse!”
“Mam!”
Babs wrapped her thick arms around him with an audible gasp and sob. They’d left only a hasty note for Babs. No doubt she'd been worried, even though they were only gone a few days. Jesse had never been parted from his family before.