Changeling E-Book

Molly Harper

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 422

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Sorcery and Society Book 1 If 14-year-old Cassandra Reed makes it through her first day at Miss Castwell's Institute for the Magical Instruction of Young Ladies without anyone discovering her secret, maybe, just maybe, she'll let herself believe that she really does belong at Miss Castwell's. Except Cassandra Reed's real name is Sarah Smith and up until now, she lived her whole life in the Warren, serving a magical family, the Winters, as all non-magical "Snipes" are bound by magical Guardian law to do. That is, until one day, Sarah accidentally levitates Mrs. Winter's favorite vase in the parlor... But Snipes aren't supposed to have magical powers…and the existence of a magical Snipe threatens the world order dictated during the Guardians' Restoration years ago. If she wants to keep her family safe and protect her own skin, Sarah must figure out how to fit into posh Guardian society, master her newfound magical powers and discover the truth about how an ordinary girl can become magical. "Witty and classic, Changeling had everything I wanted from a coming of age story: friendship, scandal, and a heroine learning to flex her magical muscles. If you liked Harry Potter, you will love CHANGELING!" -Kristen Simmons, critically acclaimed author of the Article 5 series "Molly Harper's Changeling is masterful fantasy—a spunky Cinderella story with a heroine who's equal parts compassion, determination, and pure magical delight."Rachel Vincent, author of the Soul Screamers series and The Stars Never Rise "Harper is a great writer and she creates great characters, but also an entertaining world." – Sassy Sarah Reads "I really enjoyed the humor and author personality that is just unique to itself. Harper is a great writer." – Krissy's Bookshelf

Leseprobe

Changeling

Molly Harper

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Discussion Questions

Sneak Peek at FLEDGLING, Book 2

About the Author

Also by Molly Harper

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Changeling

Copyright © 2018 by Molly Harper

Ebook ISBN: 9781641970341

KDP Print ISBN: 9781721620548

Interior illustrations by Polina Hrytskova @PollyKul

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

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http://www.nyliterary.com

1

Changling

Lightbourne, Northern England

One wrong step and my ankle would snap like greenwood kindling.

I bolted down the cobblestone walkway connecting Rabbit’s Warren to the maze of side streets that cushioned the elegant neighborhoods of Lightbourne from our neighborhoods. Heaven forbid our Guardians smell the “humors” drifting out of the more modest servant-class Snipe houses.

I ran through the early morning fog as fast as I dared on my unsteady legs, lungs burning, clutching the canvas bag to my chest. Mum had been so tired the night before she’d taken a shirt of Owen Winter’s home for mending, rather than staying late. Mum rarely took anything from Raven’s Rest for fear it would get soiled in our grimy little house or, worse, that she’d be accused of stealing.

Unfortunately, Mum was also tired enough to forget the shirt when we left our house before dawn. She sent me to fetch it because she needed Mary’s help getting the day started. Since starting as a maid-of-all-work at Raven’s Rest two years before, I’d been trusted with small tasks like hanging sheets and drying dishes, but Mum needed Mary’s help with jobs I was simply too sickly to do.

The house ran on a precise schedule. The Winters woke up at exactly six, followed by breakfast at seven. Washing day chores were immediately followed by dusting, sweeping, and scrubbing the water closets before any of the Winters woke. Owen left for classes at the Palmer School for Young Men at nine, while Mr. Winter retired to his study to work. Mum met with Mrs. Winter to discuss menus and upcoming social engagements before luncheon. We spent the afternoon helping Mum prepare an elaborate formal dinner, which we served and cleaned up before retreating home just before midnight to collapse into our beds and start all over the next morning.

I supposed that I should have been grateful that, unlike my friends’ families, we were allowed to live off-site in the Snipe district known as Rabbit’s Warren. My friend, Elizabeth’s, family was required to live with their Guardians full-time as a term of their employment, meaning they were available to serve around the clock. But given the uneven pavement and my weak ankles, living on-site sounded pretty good just about now.

I ran, careful to look for any cray-fire carriages that might have wandered into our neighborhood. The richer magical families could afford the new horseless carriages—quiet, smooth-running vehicles powered by the cray-fire engine and steered by coachmen. The magically super-charged crystals provided the speed and safety of a horse-driven carriage without the earthy drawbacks. The problem was that when these magical marvels inadvertently found their way into the Warren, the coachmen tended to drive at breakneck speed to get their esteemed passengers back out.

I rounded the last corner to Armitage Lane, rallying the last reserves of energy it would take to get to Raven’s Rest, and I bounced face-first off of a warm mass that smelled of sandalwood and ozone. I yelped, sprawling back on the stone walkway, losing my grip on the shirt. Barely feeling the pain radiating through my backside, I scrambled to my knees, searching for the canvas bag. The rough fabric would protect Owen’s fine shirt from street dirt but not a puddle. If I damaged that shirt, Mum would make me regret it, and then Mrs. Winter would get a hold of me.

Large hands wrapped around my thin arms and pulled me to my feet. I winced as the lift stretched my abused leg muscles. A smooth tenor said, “I’m so sorry.”

My head snapped up, finally registering that there was a finely dressed Guardian man holding me up by my elbows. I squinted up at him. No, not a man, though he was the tallest boy I’d ever seen. He was sixteen or so, on that awkward edge between gangly adolescence and growing up. He had the high cheekbones and long, refined features of the upper class, with large blue eyes and thick dark hair so long it brushed his high collar. An expression of bemused mortification made his features almost approachable. He was wearing the black suit and blue-and-grey striped tie that marked him as a Palmer’s student. His pristine white shirt was marked with soot from my face.

I cringed in his grip, expecting at least a good telling off.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, letting go of my arms. The sudden release of bloodflow to my hands made me suddenly aware of how badly I’d skinned them on the stone.

I raised an eyebrow. He was slouching down over me, turning my scraped palms over in his hands, inspecting the damage to my pale skin.

“I just wasn’t watching where I was going. It’s a terrible habit of mine when I’m in the middle of a good think. Alicia says I wouldn’t notice if dragons fell out of the sky and did a dance on my head,” he said in that soothing voice. He didn’t seem at all worried about the sandy grit on my hands or the dirt embedded under my ragged nails. He just cupped them in his own hands, sending a pleasant warmth blooming through my stinging fingers.

Was this a trick? It felt like a trick.

I groaned at the sight of even more smudges on his cuffs. “Your shirt.”

He scoffed at his cuffs, which were accented with silver cufflinks shaped like lanterns.

“Never mind the shirt. I can fix it. Are you all right? You bounced off that sidewalk like an India rubber ball.” He was inspecting my face, craning his neck down to make up for the considerable difference in our heights. Not for the first time, I wished I was built like Mary. While my sixteen-year-old sister bloomed with health, I was under-sized and had a permanent sickly look to me that made me look several years younger than fourteen.

Oh, no. That was probably why he was being so nice to me. He probably thought he’d knocked down a little girl. Heat flooded my cheeks, and I felt tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. He was only being nice because he felt sorry for me.

I looked down at the ground, careful not to let him see the tears.

“I’m fine, thank you. I just need to get to work before my mother–” I gasped. “The shirt!”

I pulled my hands from his and stooped to pick the battered canvas bag. It was dry, thank goodness, but rubbing the rough material against my hands had me hissing in pain. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I wiped at it quickly.

“Here,” he said. “I can help with that.”

The boy patted his pockets, pulling out a tangled red silk cord, a broken pocket watch, a small blue-green egg that glowed from the inside. He handed me these items while he searched the inside of his vest. The egg felt warm to the touch and pulsed pleasantly against my injured skin. Finally, he pulled a smooth black rock out of his breast pocket.

“Aha!” he said, smiling at me. He took the canvas bag and tucked it under his arm. “Cup your hands.”

He placed the black rock in my raised palms. I stared into its glassy surface, mesmerized by the rings of white, grey, and purple.

“Hold… still,” he whispered, carefully drawing an intricate magical symbol against the surface of the rock with his fingertip. The twisting line glowed red, and I felt the pain fade from my hands. “There you are.”

I sighed in relief, watching as the scrapes closed into shiny pink scars. I’d never experienced magic directly. I’d seen it performed plenty of times, but I never felt its touch on my skin. It was more comfortable than I expected, familiar, like being wrapped in a favorite old blanket. It only added to the collection of scars and other marks of my service on my hands. They were rough and dry and nothing like the soft, pampered skin of his fingers. “Thank you very much.”

“Well, I did bowl into you, very inconsiderate of me. I didn’t expect it to work that well though. You must be a quick healer,” he said, smiling again. In five minutes, this boy had spoken more to me than any boy—never mind a Guardian boy—had in years. Boys were usually too busy tripping over themselves to get to my pretty golden sister to even realize I was there.

But again, he probably thought I was a child. No stranger believed I’d graduated from the Warren school two years before when they saw my short, scrawny frame. He was simply being kind to a child, which was a mark of good character, but crushed the tiny thrill of excitement fluttering in my chest.

Behind me, I could hear the bells of the Capitol clanging, announcing six o’clock. The boy’s mouth dropped open in a dismayed expression. “Is that the time?”

“For at least the next hour,” I told him wearily.

“You’ll be all right, yes? You’ll be able to get to your Guardian’s home?” he asked, backing away from me. I nodded. “Good, just watch out for distracted boys who don’t look where they’re going. We’re a menace.”

“I will,” I promised, watching him run into the swirling mist. Then I realized, he still had my bag. “Wait!”

Frazzled, the boy jogged back and placed the bag in my hands.

“Thank you.”

He smiled one last time. “My pleasure, miss.”

And he was off again, pumping those long legs to run down Armitage Lane. I watched him run, sure I would never see this boy, or anyone like him, again. I ran my thumb over the smooth bit of stone in my hand.

“Wait!” I called. “Your rock!”

“It’s obsidian! Good for healing!” He turned, still moving as he waved his arm. “Keep it, just in case!”

I shook my head, watching until he disappeared from sight. Mum would tell me I was being silly mooning over some Guardian boy who was only trying to prevent a problem between his family and the Winters—mistreating a servant was considered the height of bad manners.

Wait.

“Mum!” I moaned, trying to dash towards Raven’s Rest but finding my legs too bruised and sore to run. I glanced at the obsidian in my hand. Maybe there was some residual magic left in it? Feeling more than a little silly, I bent at the waist and rubbed the rock in circles on my knees, trying to recall the comforting warmth that had seeped into my hands when he’d healed my scrapes.

To my surprise, the pain in my legs slowly faded, just enough to let me walk at a quick clip up the hill to Raven’s Rest. I stuck the obsidian in my apron pocket and prayed my mother wouldn’t question where I’d gotten it. She would not have been pleased with her daughter causing public scenes with a Guardian boy in view of our employer’s home.

By the time I reached the servants’ entrance to the sprawling Georgian manor, I was doing well to stay on my feet. The kitchen was dim but warm, thanks to the heat of the cookstove. Mum was stoking the fire, preparing to slide slices of bread on a toasting fork.

My sister, Mary, was chattering, as usual. She was always chattering about something. Lately, it was the new play at the Rabbit’s Warren theatre, the dress she was piecing together from Mrs. Winter’s sewing room scraps, and Owen Winter. Oh, how she could go on about Owen Winter.

Mum’s worn face bathed in warm light. How much sleep had she gotten the night before, after spending an extra hour mending Owen’s shirt?

“Ah, you’re back,” Mum sighed, her tone relieved. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “And you’ve got dirt on the bag!”

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I said. “Someone bumped me and knocked me to the ground, and I dropped it. But the shirt should be clean.”

“Knocked you to the ground?” She spied the dirt stains on my heavy grey skirts. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You didn’t overtax yourself, did you?”

I shook my head. “I told you. I’m fine.”

“Well, sit down and rest yourself. We’ve some time yet.”

Mary frowned as I slid into one of the battered kitchen chairs, feeling very tired suddenly. Perhaps I had pushed myself too hard, running home and back. I wasn’t used to that sort of exercise. Mary’s good mood seemed to be restored after going into the cold larder for eggs and raw bacon. Her beet-dyed pink skirts swished back and forth as she bounced between the counter and the old, black wood stove.

“I should make extra. Owen loves his bacon,” Mary cooed, stretching fat, thick strips across the cast iron pan.

“Mister Owen,” Mum corrected firmly, without looking up from the fire.

“Mister Owen,” Mary repeated cheekily, winking at me. I dropped my head on the table. I didn’t have the energy for her nonsense this morning.

I’d only been still a moment when I felt a nudge against the top of my head. “Sarah, you forgot your pill.”

“Mum,” I groaned into the table.

“You have to take them every day as soon as you wake up, Sarah, no skipping, no forgetting. We don’t spend our hard-earned money on these things for you to scorn them.”

I winced. Mum knew just which strings to pull, and when she wanted to save time, she simply yanked on the big one labeled “Guilt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled as Mum dropped the pressed brown tablet into my hand.

My parents paid dearly for the special medication from Mr. Fallow, a disgraced former Guild member who worked as an apothecary in the heart of Rabbit’s Warren. A mix of vitamins, herbs, and components that weren’t quite legal, the pills treated an array of symptoms leftover from a prolonged battle with Japanese measles when I was three.

I’d been doing all I could to avoid the pills for weeks. They left me feeling sick to my stomach and twitchy, like I was coming out of my own skin. I’d palmed two so far that week, after being so jittery than I darn near dropped Mrs. Winter’s prized orchid pot. But Mum was watching me now, and so I dutifully popped the rusty-tasting lump between my thin lips.

I accepted the cup of bone-chilling water from the sink pump and showed her my empty mouth, careful not to arch my tongue and give away the pill’s hiding place. She patted my head. As soon as she turned, I spat the tablet into my hand and tossed it into the fire. The flames crackled with dirty green smoke, but Mum was too busy to notice.

It took all of my concentration to keep the triumphant smirk from my lips. Nice Snipe girls did not smirk.

“I’ll mind the bacon, Mary,” Mum said, shooing her from the stove. “It’s washing day, so you two go gather the hampers. Be ready to snatch up the sheets after the wake-up bell, then get to the dusting. Mrs. Winter is expecting a guest in the parlor this afternoon.”

Mary pouted. “I was going to help serve breakfast.”

I snorted, covering it with a false cough. By serving breakfast, Mary meant standing by the breakfast table and simpering at Owen behind his parents’ backs. Fortunately for Mary, Owen ignored her flirtations in favor of the bacon. I didn’t want to think about what could happen to my family if he noticed and complications arose.

“I can handle breakfast,” Mum told her sternly. Mary’s pout deepened and her brows drew together in a stubborn line. Mum responded with a hard stare over the top of her wire-rim spectacles. Mary’s mouth bent into a mutinous frown. Mum glowered back. Sensing that the facial expression warfare was at its end, Mary rolled her eyes and snatched a laundry basket off the worktable.

Pinching my lips together to prevent a snicker, I followed Mary out of the servants’ hallway. My skirt slapped dully against the kitchen door.

Like their parents before them, my parents had been working for the Winters since they were children. Mum was perpetually worn and snappish. We practically had to carry Papa home after he spent all day working on the Winters’ gardens and grounds. Mary said she could remember a time when Mum smiled and hummed while she worked. She could remember Papa drinking water with supper and telling stories in front of the fire, instead of dropping off to sleep as soon as he flopped into his worn-out leather chair, a bottle dangling from his fingers. She never said that this stopped when I came along. She really didn’t have to.

The worst part was that there was no end in sight, no holiday, no retirement, just years of work stretching out before me like an endless hallway where every door was marked “Back-Breaking Labor.” I already knew what my life would be like in a few years after Mr. Winter arranged my marriage to some Snipe boy and I moved away to take care of some other Guardian family. Mary, as the stronger of the two of us, would remain behind to replace Mum as head housekeeper. My future would be even more work, only without a mother to take the brunt of the kitchen chores and remind me to take my pills.

As our Guild Guardians, the Winters were responsible for “guiding” my family in all major decisions. During the death-rattle days of the Old Kingdom, organized sorcerers—disturbed by the creativity shown by non-magicals during the Industrial Revolution—melted the gates of Buckingham Palace and informed the non-magical monarch that her reign was over, Parliament was a thing of the past, and the Guild was now responsible for standing as Guardians for us helpless regular people.

The group that would eventually be called the Coven Guild took on the task of “protecting us” from the escalating dangers of our own inventions. While the Guild agreed that developments like machinery and steam-power made life easier, they feared that industrialized non-magicals would eventually create weapons beyond the capabilities of the Guardians’ magic and we would leave them in our common, but lethal, dust. And there was the small problem with non-magicals being unable to go more than a few years without a war.

Having organized in secret for years, merging all forms of magic, the Guild forces rose up worldwide in any country where there was a government to take over for what they called The Restoration of Balance. It was an awfully nice way of saying, “Why don’t we just run things for you, whether you like it or not?” Guild forces shredded the Declaration of Independence, the Magna Carta, any document that told non-magical people that they deserved to run their own lives, nations, or technological destinies.

The governments objected, of course, but it’s hard to fight off an army that can knock buildings to the ground with the wave of their hands. Over time, the world evolved into a more feudal society, where non-magical families were assigned to magical families for employment and supervision. The magical populations created a united government, calling themselves a “Coven Guild of Magical Nations.” The new Capitol city of Lightbourne was located halfway between the former textile district of Lancashire and the now-defunct ironworks of Shropshire. The base of political power was moved to the heart of the once-burgeoning manufacturing industries, reducing London to a lovely second-rate town with some pretty buildings and reclaiming the northern land from what the Guild saw as misuse.

Buckingham Palace was now a museum used to display famous works of Guardian art. From what Mum said, the royal family retreated to somewhere in Wales.

Non-magical families like us, sometimes called “Snipes” (short for “guttersnipes”) by the members of the upper crust, were assigned supervision from Guild families as our new “Guardians.” We were paid a fair, living wage for our services. The Guardian government wrote laws to protect our health and safety, but the unwritten laws were very clear. We were the servant class, and that’s the way it would stay. There was no hope of becoming more.

The Smiths were fortunate enough to be assigned to the Winters, who had been Guardians to our family almost one hundred years, from generation to generation since the Restoration. Mrs. Winter never paid much attention to us personally, treating us as particularly useful household articles.

Of course, Mrs. Winter provided the kindnesses expected of our Guardians, new clothes on the day after Yule, food baskets each Sunday. But knowing the special Sunday sugar cookies were given out of obligation made them heavy on my tongue. Mary tended not to worry about these things, so she often ate my share of the sweets.

“C’mon, mopey,” Mary teased cheerfully, snapping me out of my gloomy thoughts. She gave the parlor mantel a long swipe with her cloth. “Less thinking, more dusting. I don’t want to have to do all of your work today.”

I frowned. Mary did more work. There was no denying it. I wanted to do more, but my body wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t lift the heavy objet d’art pieces for cleaning or move the bulky chairs to sweep around them. I was just grateful that she didn’t seem to resent me for it. She just smiled, made some silly joke, and went about the cleaning. She used the same silly jokes to make me feel better after she’d had to defend me from Deborah Green, a horrible, pock-faced girl from the next block over, who liked to throw mud at me while I read on our stoop. After dragging Deborah away by her braids and tossing her into the gutter, Mary told me that Deborah only called me “horse-face” and “mush-brain” because those were the only names people used for her. And then she’d tell me some joke and we’d go inside for some of Mum’s scotch tablet candy.

I tried to thank her the only way I knew how, a pretty hair ribbon here, a cough there when she was staring into Owen’s portrait with a particularly moony expression on her face. But I would never be able to make it up to her.

That morning, I moved about the Winters’ formal parlor in our usual sequence—floorboards, shelves, knickknacks, then tables. The Winter family crest, featured prominently in a marble carving on the mantle, centered on a large raven, frozen mid-lunge against a field of white. It was an homage to the crest of House Mountfort—the larger “mother house” that included the Winter family—which showed a set of golden scales with a raven on one side and an apple on the other. Death and health constantly swinging back and forth, out of balance.

Winter House Sigil

It seemed that the theme had inspired Mr. Winter’s father and his father before him to be fascinated by birds, so avian skeletons, eggs, and other specimens were used as part of the décor of the house; the white bone contrasting starkly against expensive black and grey furnishings. The parlor’s icy grey walls with their blinding white trim and dark furniture were just as inviting as the words “formal parlor’ implied in a place called Raven’s Rest. The best black enamel and ivory pieces were kept in this room, where Mrs. Winter greeted important guests and “ladies who lunch.” It was to be kept spotless at all times.

Mum appeared at the entrance, wordlessly presenting Mary with the fresh arrangements of white freesia and anemones Papa harvested every day from the grounds. Their delicate scent mixed with beeswax and furniture polish created the familiar perfume of Raven’s Rest. On a normal day, I would find those aromas comforting, but today I was agitated, my thoughts restless and spinning off in a dozen directions.

More than ever, I resented doing chores that our Guardians’ magic could easily finish. Magical folk wouldn’t dare waste their power on stasis charms that could keep rooms dust-free or floors shiny. Oh, no, they reserved that magic for such vital tasks as wrinkle-cloaking glamours or potions that kept their bodies slim. And it was good for us, Snipes were told, to have work to keep our hands busy. Otherwise, we were prone to dangerous ideas.

I moved to the antique writing desk, carefully wiping the ink pots free of dust as I heard the double doors slide open to reveal the woman herself. Aneira Winter moved with the sort of serenity that only forty years spent in the top tier of the capitol’s social circles could afford. The pale blue-grey morning gown with its rigidly corseted bodice set off a figure ruthlessly tended with diet and medicinal herbs. (A Winter would never do anything so vulgar as exercise, or even worse, sweat.) Her cornflower blue eyes were as chilly as her smile. Though striking white, her teeth were her only real imperfection. She had a slightly crooked left incisor, something that could have easily been corrected by any Guild healer, but she chose to leave it as is, as if to prove she didn’t need correction.

I’d once suggested to my mother that Mrs. Winter selected the stark decor to offset her cool blond beauty, only to receive a smack.

“Girls,” she sniffed, without bothering to look at either of us. “Running a bit behind schedule today, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary replied, her tone appropriately reverent. “It’s washing day, so we started a bit late.”

“Please learn to manage your time more wisely,” Mrs. Winter said, moving to her writing desk, her stiff blue silk skirts rustling.

I moved quickly, eager to finish and move on to the next room. Mrs. Winter’s discerning eye could mean another hour spent re-cleaning spaces we’d already covered, and I didn’t have the patience to do that with a smile on my face.

The lady of the house set out her special writing set and stationery, charmed with her signature sword lily scent. This meant Mrs. Winter was about to send a last-minute luncheon invitation to the social chair of some-such charity. I had no doubt this would result in a big benefit party that Mum, Mary, and I would have to clean for and cater. I sighed. When the noise attracted Mrs. Winter’s attention, I whipped a dust rag from my apron and took my frustrations out on the baseboards.

“How are you feeling, Sarah?”

I turned, looking sharply toward Mrs. Winter. I couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken to me directly. Usually, instructions were filtered through Mum or I was addressed with Mary as a unit, the “girls.” What had I done to catch her notice this morning? I hoped it wasn’t so bad that it was putting a wrinkle in that indomitable brow? Mrs. Winter did not look with favor upon people who put wrinkles in her brow.

Perhaps I hadn’t managed conceal the burn mark I’d ironed into Mr. Winter’s favorite suit vest as well as I thought.

Batting down the feelings of panic climbing my spine, I cleared my throat. I slipped my hand into my pocket and found the obsidian. I wrapped my fingers around it, savoring the warmth radiating from its surface. “I’m feeling just fine, thank you, ma’am.”

“She’s been a little run down, not sleeping well. Real skittish,” Mary reported.

I shot my sister a warning glare, which she ignored.

Mrs. Winter gave Mary a flat, disinterested look before turning her attention to me again. She quirked her lips. “Actually, I was going to say that you look rather nice this morning. There’s a bit of color in your cheeks, a sparkle in your eyes.”

My dark eyebrows swung up to my hairline. Speaking to me was one thing, but Mrs. Winter never paid us compliments, particularly about our appearance. What was happening this morning? Had she seen the incident with the Guardian boy out of a window? Was this some sort of torture to get me to admit I’d damaged a precious Palmer school shirt?

“Thank you, ma’am,” I mumbled.

“Well, let’s not let a striking reflection keep us from our chores,” Mrs. Winter sniffed, her head bent over her papers. “Move along.”

Mary and I nodded and immediately began scrubbing the day’s ashes from the fireplace. Mrs. Winter abhorred the task and the residual soot that might make its way onto her clothes, so she finished her letter quickly and swept from the parlor. My sister and I breathed a sigh of relief, though Mary’s bottom lip poked out ever so slightly.

“What was all that about you being pretty?” Mary asked, pouting a bit.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, glancing at the beveled glass over the mantle. I looked the same as I always did, a thin girl with a long nose and too-large eyes of an indiscriminate blue-grey-green. My dull brown hair was pulled into its usual sensible knot at the base of my neck. The only difference was a rosy blush on my cheeks, probably from the agitation of being trampled by an attractive Guardian boy.

I moved to the mantle, carefully removing a large antique Chinese vase from the ledge. Rare true-black porcelain painted with white chrysanthemums, it was a wedding gift from Mrs. Winter’s favorite aunt. Leaving it on the mantle while the ashes floated around was asking for trouble. Of all of the objects in this room, this was the one we had to handle the most carefully. Of all the precious items in the house, this was the only item Mary insisted that I handle because I was less likely to be punished if something happened to it.

I tried to think of something to give Mary that would sweeten her blackening mood. She wouldn’t want my books. She had no use for my dresses, since they were her remade hand-me-downs. Maybe she’d want my blue scarf? It was a Yule gift, and the one nice thing I used to make my Sunday dresses special. It would also bring out the almost-violet color of Mary’s eyes.

Hang it all, I would miss that scarf.

“In all the years we’ve been here, she’s never once told me that I was pretty. But she’s full of compliments for you? The apothecary must have mixed her tonics wrong,” Mary mumbled as I placed the vase on the desk.

I shushed her, knowing that I would have to give Mary my scarf and my share of Sunday sweets to balm her wounded pride. Mum had tried to explain Mary’s ever-shifting moods as a consequence of my sister growing up, becoming a woman. All I knew was that growing up seemed to mean outgrowing me. She didn’t have time for my “little girl games” anymore. She wanted to be out with her friends, finding new ways to braid their hair or tricks to catch the attention of the boys they liked. I told Mary this seemed like a pointless hobby, since their marriages were to be arranged, but Mary sniffed that I would never understand.

These outings with her friends seemed to have spurred Mary on to her less-than-subtle attentions toward Owen. A secret part of me that I would never discuss, not even with Mum, was embarrassed by this new side to Mary. I didn’t want to grow up if it meant making a fool of myself over a boy, pinching my face to put color in my cheeks and stuffing cotton wadding in the front of my dress. My “little girl games” might have been babyish, but they didn’t hurt anybody. If Mrs. Winter got too annoyed by Mary’s ploys, we could be dismissed. We could end up working for another Guardian family far less distantly tolerant than the Winters. Mary was putting us all at risk.

I sighed, tightening the strings of the hand-me-down apron around my waist. I would have to visit the ribbon shop on the way home to pull her out of this mood. There went my contraband book budget.

Shaking my head, I forced myself to focus on my task. Mary whisked the ashes from the room before they could settle on any of the furniture. I carefully wiped my hands on my apron before wrapping my fingers around the neck of the vase and placing it on the mantle. Slowly, I told myself. Slowly draw your hands away from the porcelain so you don’t bump it, like playing pick-up sticks. Steady hands.

And suddenly Mrs. Winter appeared at my left, tapping my shoulder. “Sarah, I meant to ask you-”

I shrieked, jumping back. My fingertips slipped against the cool, slick surface of the vase as it teetered on the mantle. I watched in horror as it wobbled on the whitewashed wood, then toppled over. I grabbed for the falling porcelain, but it slipped through my fingers, bouncing off of my hands in its descent to the floor. I dropped to my knees, hands grasping at thin air, hoping to reach under the falling heirloom before it hit the floor.

I closed my eyes, imagining the vase reversing mid-air and floating back up into place on the mantle. I prayed, Oh, please, no. Not her favorite. Not that vase. Please don’t let it fall. Please. Please. Please don’t let it fall!

I could feel my will, every cell inside my body, reachoutward in a rippling wave.

I waited, but the vase never hit my hands. There was no telltale crash, no angry cry from Mrs. Winter.

Where was the crash?

I opened my eyes to see the vase hovering there, a good six inches above my hands, spinning in mid-air like a top. My whole body seemed to flex and contract at once, as if I’d never used my muscles properly and this was their first opportunity to stretch. My fingertips warmed and tingled pleasantly as I stared at the circling object.

Mrs. Winter was kneeling on the floor in front of me, rumpling her dress terribly as she watched the vase orbit. She must have wanted to save it badly if she was willing to abuse her clothes like that. The vase bobbed, rising slightly as it spun. Somehow, I could feel the change in my head, as if there were some invisible tether from the porcelain to my brain. I knew exactly how much force and pressure it took to keep the vase afloat. I knew exactly how many times it was rotating per minute and how far it could drop before it hit the floor.

The very idea made me panic and the vase rotated higher, turning at Mrs. Winter’s eye level.

“Are you doing this?” I whispered.

“No, dear, you are doing this.” She studied me, her expression calculating as we watched the vase turn. There was a strange gleam to her eyes that I’d never seen before. Excitement. I’d seen Mrs. Winter pleased with her latest anniversary bauble. I’d seen her triumphant over eliminating a social rival from her ladies’ club. However, my Guardian didn’t feel undignified emotions like excitement or happiness.

My breath quickened and the vase dropped, right into Mrs. Winter’s waiting hands. My head dipped to my chest. The string of tension keeping my body upright snapped, and I sagged toward the floor.

“Yes, all right.” Mrs. Winter clucked her tongue, setting the vase aside. She pulled me to my feet by my elbows and led me to the couch. I almost protested that I wasn’t allowed to sit on the parlor furniture, but I was just too tired. I collapsed against the silk upholstery, leaning my head against the arm. It felt wonderfully cool against my clammy skin.

“It is always like that the first time,” she assured me.

“First time doing what?” I asked weakly.

“No, no, my dear, no false modesty. I think you know that you were making the vase float,” she said, arranging her skirts around both of us as she sat next to me.

My eyes went wide. What she was saying was impossible. Snipes did not have magic. We were missing the blood properties that made our Guardians so superior. And Snipes did not suddenly just become magical. So how could I make that heavy vase float like a misbehaving bubble?

Through the fatigue settling into my limbs, I could feel cold piercing dread. This went beyond burnt shirts or broken vases. I didn’t want to know what the Guild would do to me for this.

Mrs. Winter patted my numb hands and gave me a frosty smile that made my stomach turn. “Let’s have a chat, you and I.”

2

Parlor Tricks

Mum had been horrified, summoned by her mistress’s call for a cup of rosehip tea, only to find me sprawled on sacred parlor furniture. I struggled through the white noise buzzing in my head to get to my feet. Mrs. Winter patted my shoulder, gently pushing me back on the silky upholstery.

“Sarah, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Through blurred vision, I could make out the soft, rounded lines of my mother’s brown dress against the stark colors of the room.

Mrs. Winter took the rattling teacup from my mother’s hands and pressed the warm china against my palm. “Drink this, Sarah, you’ll feel better for it. Anna, please make sure that Mary isn’t listening in the hall and then close the door.”

I raised the cup to my lips and took a long draw from the raspberry-colored liquid. The tangy, slightly floral brew flowed over my tongue, warming my throat and belly. In an instant, the white noise in my head faded away. I sat up straighter. I took another drink and felt the warmth spreading to my fingers and toes.

“Madame,” Mum whispered, her voice fearful. “If Sarah is ill, I can take her to the kitchen. I’m sure she didn’t mean to dirty the sofa.”

“I believe Sarah is perfectly fine. In fact, I believe she is returning to her natural state.”

“I don’t understand,” Mum said, watching as I drained the last of the cup’s contents. I blew out a long breath, feeling in control of my body for the first time since I’d walked into the parlor.

Mrs. Winter gestured toward the sofa as if Mum was an honored guest. Somehow, this made the nervous lines around my mother’s mouth stand out even more. “Please have a seat.”

Mum lifted an eyebrow, glancing at the space next to me on the sofa. “I don’t think—”

“Please have a seat,” Mrs. Winter repeated, considerably less friendly now.

Mum dropped onto the cushion next to me without another word.

Mrs. Winter gracefully sank onto the opposite chair, arranging her crumpled skirts around her.

“Now, I’m going to ask you a series of questions. They will seem invasive and rude, but I will remind you that you are obligated to answer, even if that answer will make either of us uncomfortable.”

Mum nodded slowly, clearly seeing Mrs. Winter’s use of such formal Guardian language as a bad sign. “Yes, I understand.”

“Now, is Sarah your daughter?”

My mouth dropped open like a gaping fish. Mum was equally startled, making an indignant squeal before clamping her mouth shut. “Of course, she is, Madame. You remember the night she was born, right there beside the stove in your kitchen. Please just tell me what is happening! My family has served yours faithfully for years. Why would you ask me these questions now?”

Mrs. Winter eyed my mother shrewdly. “It would seem that Sarah has magical gifts that have stayed hidden up until now, very powerful gifts if her display earlier was any indication.”

Mum’s lips curled into a shaky smile, but her unease didn’t quite show in her eyes. I knew, somehow, as sure as I knew that Mary was listening at the door, that Mum had been expecting these questions. She’d been dreading them for years, if the look on her face was any indication. Mum turned toward me. “This isn’t funny, Sarah, whatever you did to make Mrs. Winter think you have magic, that’s not a child’s prank. You could get into a lot of trouble. You owe her an apology.”

“Mum, I didn’t—”

Mrs. Winter silenced me with a wave of her hand. “Trust me, Anna, when I say that it was no prank. Sarah levitated a heavy vase for the better part of two minutes. She more than levitated it. She made it dance and spin like a top. That’s something that a witch with two years’ training at the institute might not be able to accomplish. Now, how do you think she managed to do that?”

“I wouldn’t know, Madame. Are you sure that—”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence by asking if I’m sure of what I saw,” Mrs. Winter snapped. “I know magic when I see it. I know what it feels like to be in the same room with magic. Now, if Sarah is your child, a child of the Smith family, a family that has no magical blood whatsoever in its known history, how could she suddenly possess such power?”

Mum looked down at her fidgeting hands. “I wouldn’t know, Madame.”

“Anna, you know there are far less pleasant methods by which I could extract the truth from you. It is a mark of my respect for your years of service to my family that I am choosing not to employ them.” Mrs. Winter’s tone was all politeness, but I knew a barely-veiled threat when I heard one. She could be referring to any number of tactics, from a bitter hypnotic tincture that would prevent Mum from concealing the truth to spells that could pull the truth from her lips. The Guild enforcement teams were known to use these techniques and more on Snipes who caused trouble. Mrs. Winter wouldn’t have mentioned them if she wasn’t considering using them.

My breath quickened as I stared at my mother’s strained expression.

Mrs. Winter cleared her throat, as if this next sentence marked a new beginning to the conversation. “So, Sarah has never shown any signs that she could have special gifts?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. “She’s never made the plates float at home? You’ve never seen an object suddenly move across the room when she had a temper tantrum? Fire and water have never behaved oddly around her when she was excited or upset?”

I gasped. Mum rarely let me have birthday candles after an incident on my tenth birthday in which the flames somehow ignited the much-scrimped-for birthday treat into a butter-fueled inferno. I don’t think I’d ever cried harder than when Mum whisked the flaming ball of cake into the rain barrel. The same rain barrel that froze solid when Mary provoked me into an argument during my first monthly course—in the middle of August.

Mum had blamed that on a prankster, too, as if someone in our neighborhood could afford to take our rain barrel to one of the expensive public ice houses in the name of confusing us. Images whirled through my head. The hurricane lamps that shattered without warning. Papa’s smoking pipe flying off of the mantle.

“Mum.” Horror had reduced my voice to a squeak.

Mum’s eyes glittered with unshed tears as she clutched my hand in hers. Her chapped lower lip trembled before she bit down on it so hard I feared that the fragile skin would give way.

“May I speak to my daughter alone, please?” Mum asked. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, but I would like to explain it to her first.”

Mrs. Winter shook her head, her mouth set in grim lines. “Better to get it all out at once.”

The elegant black grandfather clock ticked the seconds away while we waited for Mum to speak. I wanted to take it back, take it all back, pull time backwards to this morning, when my biggest problem was choking down my stupid vitamin pills. Mrs. Winter turned her head and stared hard at me. I shrank back in my chair.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you need to calm down this instant. Whimsical levitation of my objet d’arts is entertaining and acceptable—once. Making every bit of glass in this room explode because your thoughts are running away like a panicked rabbit is quite another matter. Take a few deep breaths and focus on your mother’s voice, should she ever choose to use it.”

My mouth fell open. How did Mrs. Winter know I was on the edge of blind, earth-shattering panic? Could she read my mind? She said, “Whatever you’re thinking,” but what did that mean? Where could I retreat to if even my own thoughts weren’t private?

On this morning of firsts, Mrs. Winter did something I’d never seen her do before. She rolled her eyes at me.

This was not good.

“Right,” I muttered. “Calm thoughts.”

Mum took a long, deep breath of her own and said, “I only did it to protect you, to keep you with the family. And if that’s wrong, I will throw myself on the mercy of the Coven Guild.”

“I don’t think we would need a gesture quite that dramatic if you would simply explain what you did,” Mrs. Winter sighed.

“It started with little things when you were just a baby. The flames of candles leaping whenever you cried. A teething ring turning up in your crib when we’d left it all the way across the room. Vines growing up the wall outside of your room and tangling themselves into knots trying to slip under the pane. We thought it was just coincidence until you were three. Mary took a favorite doll of yours, and when you tried to take it back, she snapped the left arm off. Your papa took it away to fix it, but you were so upset. And Mary, well, even at five years old, she didn’t understand when enough was enough. She laughed and told you to stop being such a baby. All of the sudden, you stopped crying, and this calm, determined look came over your face. The next thing I knew, Mary was on the ground with her arm bent at an awful angle.”

My stomach rose in my throat, what little I’d eaten for breakfast threatening to spill out on the carpet.

Mrs. Winter shot me a knowing look. “More tea, Sarah?”

I shook my head. “No.” With a severe look from Mum, I added, “No, thank you, ma’am.”

“So, Sarah broke Mary’s arm?” Mrs. Winter asked conversationally. “I seem to remember a story about a fall off of a swing. And I believe that Sarah’s mysterious bout with the Japanese measles occurred around this time, correct?”

Mum nodded. “The apothecary, Mr. Fallow, told us the measles were the best way to explain her looking so ill and skinny after we started giving her the pills. He was a member of the Guild, you see, before his bad habits got him kicked out of the finer circles. And he knew the signs better than we did. He knew just what to give Sarah so that her ‘problems’ would stop. Mr. Fallow had always liked Sarah, and he didn’t like the idea of her being handed off to the same people that kicked him out of his own home. So he helped us. Sometimes, if he got the dose wrong or Sarah missed a pill, some little problem would pop up, but we were always able to explain it away.”

“And Mary never questioned those ‘little problems’ or the pills?” Mrs. Winter asked.

“Mary has never been a particularly curious child.”

Mrs. Winter snorted, a delicate sound that barely registered in my ears. “Suppressors are not a long-term solution,” Mrs. Winter said, her mouth turning down at the corners. “Your Mr. Fallow should have known that. We only give them to children who aren’t ready to handle their talents or adults who get themselves into trouble with the law. And even then, it’s for a few months, under the strict supervision of a physician.”

“The pills?” I murmured. “Those vitamins you’ve been giving me every single day since I can remember? They were suppressors?”

A change swept over Mum’s worn face, a sort of determination, stiffening her features. “We were so worried about keeping it hidden that we didn’t spend too much time thinking about the why’s or what it would do to her in the long run.”

“No wonder the poor girl has been so sickly!” Mrs. Winter scoffed. “She’s been deprived of her magic, as if you could cut a magical being off from the very source of her life’s energy. It would be like keeping one of your Snipe children out of the sun her whole life.”

“She is one of my children,” Mum said stiffly. It was the closest she’d ever come to talking back to any of the Winters, and Mum was sassing the head of the household herself.

“Clearly, she’s not,” Mrs. Winter snapped back. “Now, we could spend this precious time dithering over what was, but I believe it would be better to ask ourselves how we progress from here. It is clear that Sarah cannot stay in your custody any longer.”

Mum made a distressed sound, which Mrs. Winter ignored.

“Being able to perform untutored magic, even with the suppressors in her bloodstream, is evidence of a rare and powerful gift. And frankly, I do not trust you to protect that sort of treasure. You cannot be allowed to care for her. You’ve nearly killed the girl with your idea of doing what’s best for her.”