by Mirren Hogan
“We’ll pay some calls tomorrow and get all the names you need.” Disgruntled, Miranda smoothed the shoulder of her dress, relieved to see the dragonet hadn’t damaged the fabric.
Gwennie brightened. “Thank you, Miss Miranda. Shall we take Pippin?”
“Certainly.” But Miranda’s attention had been drawn to a bright orange flare in the streets below. She was suddenly aware of people in the streets below, shouting and pointing.
“What is it?” Gwennie was suddenly at her elbow.
“Fire.”
They walked to the edge of the flat roof for a better look. Now that Miranda was aware of the blaze, she caught—or perhaps imagined—the faint scent of smoke. The dragonets had gone quiet, as if they sensed the distant threat. Miranda counted streets, picturing the buildings on each one. The fire was far away and there was little chance the blaze would reach Allington House. Still, there were plenty of wooden structures between that were clearly doomed.
“What’s burning?” Gwennie asked.
Miranda’s first instinct was to protect Gwennie’s innocence, but the girl was smart. The truth would come out soon enough. “The House of Questions. The place where the Conclave holds people they want to interview.”
Miranda’s mind leaped, and she stiffened with fear. The fortune teller. She had to get to the morning room and get rid of the woman. Fires brought chaos, and chaos brought the authorities—police, military, Conclave guards. As soon as they could muster, there would be uniforms of all kinds on the street asking questions. This wasn’t the night to flout the Conclave’s rules.
The eerie glow on the horizon was spreading, turning the sky a dirty orange that blotted out the rising moon. More people were in the street now, mostly servants pouring from the wealthy houses that made up this part of the city. Their masters and mistresses would have sent them to find out what was causing the clamor.
In the distance, she heard the frantic clang of a fire engine’s bell.
“Go downstairs.” Miranda gave Gwennie a gentle push toward the stairway that led down from the Prasad’s rooftop. “Stay inside with your mother.”
“My mother is at your party,” the girl pointed out.
“I’ll send her home.”
For once, Gwennie didn’t argue. The moment she’d gone, Miranda mounted the aqueduct and trotted the short distance to her own roof.
It was then she heard Gideon’s angry shout from the street below. Miranda looked down to see her brother tackle a man to the ground.
“Gideon!” she cried in dismay.
Then her brother flew backward like a doll tossed by a child as his opponent burst into flame.
Gideon hit the ground, pain shooting up his spine. His vision blanked, agony filling his mouth with bile. Then a boot landed hard against his ribs. He used the force of it to roll, gathering himself into a crouch. He cursed himself for going unarmed, but he’d dressed for a formal party.
He shook his head to clear his vision—and then he was certain the hard landing had addled his wits. Ellery stood over him, glaring down. He was in flames, the corona of fire like a halo around him. The white-hot flames turned dusk into noon, the merciless light robbing the street of shadows. Heat burned like sandpaper against Gideon’s skin. He recoiled, finding his feet.
“I’m nobody’s prisoner,” Ellery said with a snarl. “Never again.”
“What are you?” Gideon demanded.
Despite the fire, Ellery wasn’t burning, his flesh remaining as pale and smooth as ever. Slowly, willing his spine to be whole, Gideon straightened as Ellery came closer.
“A dead man,” Ellery replied. “Cursed with magic. You and I both know that.”
“Why are you here?”
“Resolution.” The word was a curse. “At the doorstep of my savior and his hundreds of important friends. It’s the one sure place I’ll get what I want.”
“Are you going to kill us?” Gideon demanded. “Is it revenge you’re after?”
“No.”
“Then what?” Gideon raised his hands, palms out in surrender. “I saved your life.”
“Did you?”
All at once, the flames were gone. Gideon blinked, the afterimage of the flames floating in the darkness around them. “Why else would we fly to that bloody forest?”
But Ellery wasn’t saved. He was a magic user, blatantly using his power before a gathering of important citizens. A dead man, like he’d said, just as soon as someone fired a shot. With a lurch, Gideon realized that was why he’d come to Allington House on that particular night. Even in a prison, gossip spread about Society’s doings.
As if reading his thoughts, the man gave a slow nod. “Perhaps I made a mistake coming out of the trees, but fire or no fire, I couldn’t have held out forever against the Unseen. I was doomed without a boat.”
“So you surrendered.”
“Would you stay to be eaten?”
Gideon’s gut tightened at the thought. “Then the rescue was for nothing.”
“Right action is its own reward.”
The platitude grated on Gideon’s nerves. “Magic is illegal, and I don’t like lawbreakers.”
“Then celebrate tonight. You’ve worked hard for victory.”
Gideon cursed. There was no reason to feel guilty, and yet he did. Until that rescue mission, this man had been a father with a regular job and a spotless record.
They were in the middle of the wide street in front of Allington House. Traffic had stopped to give them a wide berth, but now guards were gathering at the curb, weapons raised. The only thing keeping Ellery safe was Gideon’s presence, but that wouldn’t last forever.
“Surrender,” Gideon said in a low voice. “Save yourself.”
Ellery gave a slight shake of the head. “I won’t answer their questions.”
A bullet sent him sprawling at Gideon’s feet. Gideon dropped to his knees beside the fallen man, turning him so he could see the damage. The wound was severe—a bullet to the shoulder—but it wouldn’t kill him. Gideon ripped off his neckcloth to stanch the blood.
“End this,” Ellery muttered. “Please.”
Guards were pounding toward them in a chorus of shouts and jingling gear. Gideon pressed the wadded cloth against the wound, his fingers shaking. “I’m not a killer.”
“Make an exception.” Ellery’s eyes closed, his voice fading so low Gideon barely heard the rest. “I was on the river for a reason.”
Gideon looked up, swearing under his breath. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t murder a prisoner in plain sight of the guards. “You’re going to have to face what you’ve done.”
Ellery’s eyes flickered open a moment, their pale green lost to the failing light. “So will you.”
“It seems strange to spare a criminal’s life just to incur the expense of a trial.” Miranda commented three days later. “I’m surprised the guards didn’t simply shoot Ellery where he lay.”
They were at the breakfast table, but only Gideon and Miranda were there. Sidonie and Olivia hadn’t come down from their rooms, and Papa was already in his office, buried in work. Miranda wasn’t sure why Gideon had bothered to load his plate with eggs and toast, since he wasn’t eating a thing.
“Justice has to be seen to be done,” Gideon answered dully. “That’s what the Conclave says.”
As soon as she heard his listless tone, Miranda regretted raising the subject. “I’m sorry. It must be hard to bring him back from the river and then have it end like this.”
He cast her a dark look and picked up a triangle of toast. “It’s the law. We don’t allow madmen to set the town on fire, with or without magic.”
Miranda swallowed, a lingering shudder of fear coursing up her spine. She’d planned to tell him about the fortune teller, about how she’d dashed to the morning room only to find it deserted. She should have been relieved, but wasn’t. Sidonie had been closed-mouthed, refusing to speak a word about the matter. It was as if Sidonie—or perhaps Miranda—had made the
whole thing up. Miranda hated the confusion she felt. She could never quite let her fear of discovery fade. But that conversation could clearly wait. Gideon was not in the mood for tarot cards and crystal balls.
“Are you going with us to watch the trial?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Attendance was compulsory. Trials occurred in the city’s central plaza, where the tower of the Citadel loomed high overhead. For the important families, failure to attend would result in a visit from the Conclave—just for a friendly chat, mind you. Miranda wondered what was said in those meetings but didn’t actually want to find out.
Gideon stuffed the toast in his mouth and rose from the table. “Father says we leave at noon. Tell your sisters.”
A noon start seemed early when the ceremony began at three o’clock, but the logic of it became clear all too soon. The crush of bodies in the plaza was fierce. Norton Fletcher’s prominence afforded them a spot close enough to hear the speakers, but that was all. There was no seating, no shelter, and no refreshments. Miranda blessed the dry but overcast day. The Fletchers stood in a row, their father on the far end in his dark suit and top hat. Olivia, wearing a dark green day dress, stood stiffly beside him. Beside her, Sidonie scanned the crowd for their acquaintances. Miranda came next with Gideon to her right. They had all dressed with care, their outfits respectable but appropriately sober.
The plaza was enormous, the patterned flagstones worn smooth by the passage of time and feet. Streets led away from it like the spokes of a wheel, and in the middle was the Citadel, visible from almost anywhere in the city. Gwennie, who read everything, had once told Miranda that the citadel had been a cathedral before the Great Disaster hundreds of years before. Miranda could believe it. The huge, ornate spire soared into the clouds, buttresses arching upward to support a roof crusted with mysterious carving. Other structures had been moved to form additional wings, including the charred House of Questions.
No one but the Conclave went up the broad staircase and through those heavy, brass-paneled doors. Their role was to protect the city from the ravages of the Disaster, the Unseen and whatever other horrors lurked in the forest. They were the guardians, the keepers, the arbiters of survival. Most of all, they were the wielders of magic. One stepped on their territory at extreme peril.
However, Joseph Ellery had done his best to burn it. The House of Questions resembled a melted lump of sooty glass. The fire hadn’t spread far, but it had left wide scorch marks on the plaza and up the side of the Citadel. It went without saying the man would pay.
At the appointed hour, the prisoner was escorted to the top of the steps by Citadel Guards in their red and gold jackets. Miranda wasn’t sure where they’d held Ellery and the other inmates of the House of Questions who’d been recaptured, but he’d received medical care. Though he was pale with blood loss, his drab gray prisoner’s garb was clean and his shoulder, where he’d taken the bullet, was neatly bandaged. With an unaccustomed twist of cynicism, Miranda guessed the Conclave was careful not to make martyrs.
When Ellery reached the final step, the guards pushed him to his knees. The position put him in profile to the crowd, who hissed and called out filthy names. Ellery’s chin sank to his breast, the posture saying he’d lost all hope. Gideon caught his breath, as if stifling a protest. She reached over, squeezing his hand, but he withdrew it and folded his arms.
“Do you think you share blame in this? Didn’t he bring this on himself?” she asked in a low voice.
He shot her a hard look but didn’t reply.
The ancient bells rang, booming into the cool, damp air. The Citadel doors swung open, and Anselm, Head of the Conclave, swept forward. He was tall and broad, dressed in white robes that fell to his feet. Miranda studied the square-jawed face with its wild mane of iron-gray hair. The man looked energized, as if the chance to convict a man was the highlight of his day.
Anselm raised his hands, greeting and blessing the crowd in a single gesture. A murmur rose up, along with a smattering of cheers, until he cut off the noise with a slash of his hand. Then he turned to his prisoner, wasting no time in a prologue.
“Joseph Ellery, you kneel here accused of withholding magic from the Conclave, of failing to declare your magical talent, and of unauthorized use of power in the destruction of property…”
The charges fell like autumn leaves to bury the man. There were no lawyers and no jury—the Conclave brooked no argument. Miranda had attended public trials before, but understood little of the proceedings. For the most part, the rules didn’t apply to her. She didn’t have magic, like Ellery—although there had been a fortune teller in the house. Her lingering concern over that misstep put the drama before her in sharper focus.
“For these crimes you are condemned,” Anselm went on, his voice clear and resonant. “Your property is forfeit, your privileges revoked, and your life the Conclave’s to sacrifice at a time and manner of our choosing. Let it be recorded.”
Where she stood, she could read Ellery’s face. Tense muscles corded his neck. Clearly, the man was holding back emotion—fear, certainly, but also grief and burning anger. A sick sensation swirled inside Miranda, because she was rarely wrong about such things. She’d come here expecting to see justice done, but this was something else. Everything blazed in the man’s expression except guilt.
“His family is missing,” someone murmured behind her. “Whisper is that he threw them over the wall.”
Miranda vaguely remembered Ellery’s daughters from school—two girls some years younger than her. She hadn’t thought about them for ages. Her gaze flicked back to the kneeling man who was their father. Surely he hadn’t killed them? They’d seemed so ordinary. She felt Gideon shift beside her and looked up to see dawning horror in his eyes.
“What?” she asked in a low voice.
Gideon bent to whisper in her ear. “Magic runs in the blood.”
Miranda puzzled over his words as the Citadel Guards hauled Ellery to his feet. The man staggered a moment, but pulled himself up and cast a defiant glare at the crowd. He was small—meek-looking, really—but Miranda felt his regard like a physical weight. Then the guards hauled him inside the Citadel. Ellery looked back once, bravado faltering as he gathered his last sight of the sun.
No one knew what became of the Citadel’s inmates. Once sentenced, they were never seen again. Nor, for that matter, were the acolytes who swore their service to the tower. She’d never given it much thought before. Prisoners were prisoners. Acolytes were cloistered. And yet… what was there to gain by locking out light and air?
Her mind did another of its jumps. A family with magical powers. Missing children. A father making secret trips on the river. Miranda gripped her brother’s arm hard. She knew the answer. Ellery’s daughters were hidden somewhere along the river, and he’d just died to keep that secret.
Miranda looked up at the soaring spire, but this time she didn’t see the beauty and grace of the old architecture. This time, tears of fright filled her eyes.
“He said wait and watch,” Gideon said softly. “He said to make up our minds once the play is over.”
Miranda took a shuddering breath that sounded more like a sob. “I think it’s just begun.”
Chapter 4
After Ellery’s punishment, the city fell into an orgy of suspicion. A meek, mild man—a mid-level banker, of all things, who studied ancient maps for amusement—had hidden a wicked secret. The story expanded to his motherless children—either murdered or plotting to destroy the city—and to his place of business. The bank collapsed, Ellery’s home was burned, and extended family were brought in for questioning. Citadel Guards made the rounds of the streets, following up rumors of magicians murdering honest folk in their beds. Soon the House of Questions overflowed its temporary quarters.
Gideon threw down the newspaper in disgust. The day had faded to the quiet zone between tea and supper, and he’d retired to the library in Allington House. He was in no fit state for polite conver
sation. Normally his nightmares featured the Unseen. Last night he’d dreamed of choking the life from Ellery, wreaking punishment on the bleeding man right there on the street outside the house. But what for? Who was the betrayer? Gideon had lost clarity. There was no question the Conclave’s magic kept the city walls safe, but at what price?
His brooding was shattered by the sound of running feet outside the library door. Gwennie. He rubbed his temples, anticipating a headache.
“Pippin!” she called, her voice muffled by the library door. “Pippin, where are you?”
Gideon rose with a mutter. The dragonets did get in an open window from time to time, but usually they mooched for scraps from the kitchen. The last thing they needed was a lizard getting lost in the main part of the house and chewing the furniture. He flung open the library door to see a blur streak past almost at eye level. He stepped into the hall. Gwennie was no longer in sight, but Pippin was soaring toward the morning room. Gideon hurried after.
Pippin landed at the foot of the door, giving a barrage of pleading chirps. Gideon crept up behind the creature, ready to grab it behind the wings. Carefully. Dragons—even little ones—could bite. He was just making his move when the morning room door flew open.
Miranda stared down at the pair of them, her eyes rounded in surprise. “Thank heavens you’re here,” she said in a whisper. “I need you.”
Gideon fumbled his grip in surprise, and the dragon pulled free. It hopped past Miranda into the room. Cries of female surprise followed. Gideon straightened, leaning to one side to see past his sister. “What’s going on in there?”
Miranda winced. “Sidonie will kill me.”
Those words spelled trouble. “What are you hiding?”
Pushing past her, he entered the morning room, a sinking feeling in his gut. Normally the room was spacious and bright, but the drapes had been closed, plunging the room into a murky half-light except for a few flickering candles. Sidonie and Olivia were there as well, seated side-by-side on a settee covered in pea-green velvet.