Dead Magic (17 page)

"Not terribly, no. Vee is just shorter."

"So you're lazy and forgetful?" Her lips twitched into a faint smile.

Dazzled, Winslow smiled back. "I did manage to misplace my own magic for a time. Name me another Witch-Born who has managed that."

"Oh no," Valeda moved to the railing and looked down at the street. "You just want to be labeled as lazy and undependable. I know your kind."

"You do?" He turned to watch her, only half aware of their conversation anymore. He was torn between the increasing need to move closer to her and the sight of her slender neck as she tilted her head at the view. She was small and she reminded him of a bird; all elegant angles and light bones.

"You're really a good man at heart, but you're frightened of something. You imagine that by appearing aloof, even careless, you'll save yourself from the hurt of loss," Valeda said.

It was a highly inappropriate thing for her to say, but as he'd already informed her that propriety was to hell and gone, it seemed hypocritical to point that out. He was standing on her balcony, after all. He was the trespasser, and if he didn't like what she had to say, then he was supposed to leave. Winslow almost corrected her. He could have told her that he was already suffering from the hurt of loss, but he didn't. Bryva was his haunting, his memory, and he'd be damned if he'd share her with anyone else.

Instead, Winslow slid closer to Valeda. Her warmth seeped into him as their arms brushed and he felt her stiffen in surprise. He waited for her to look up at him.
Fragile
, he thought, as he ran a knuckle from her cheek to her jaw, listening to the startled intake of her breath.
Birdlike and fragile
. She didn't move. The paleness of her eyes seemed to swallow what little light there was, and for a breathless moment Winslow felt like he was drowning. He caught himself before he kissed her, his mouth so close to hers that he tasted minty toothpaste on her breath.

"Are you offering me something to lose, Miss Quinlan?" he asked, his lips just grazing hers.

He felt a shiver pass through her that had nothing at all to do with the cold. His Talent screamed for him to close the gap, and for a heartbeat Winslow hesitated. Then he let it take him, let his mouth seal on hers, and their magic sparked together. She made a gentle noise, almost like a cry, but moved closer to him rather than away, and he pulled her further until he could feel every curve of her against him. She tasted of mint and silk and something else. It was hard to think around the sensations pulling him into her, but Winslow finally managed to recognize it.

Gripping her shoulders, he stepped away from her and tried to catch his breath.

Wild
, he thought with shock,
she tastes like the Wild. Just like me.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered.

He squeezed her shoulders in answer, unable to find his voice yet. She didn't wince, though he knew he had a bruising grip on her, and that just seemed to confirm the situation for him. Her sudden Talent really had come from him, or at least been spawned by him, and she was harboring this same bit of Wild as well.

Fates alive! Is it contagious?

"Winslow?" Valeda continued to stare at him, her face betraying her fear.

"It's all right," he said, finally collecting his wits. "It's unexpected, but it will be all right."

Her brow furrowed.

"Go to bed, Miss Quinlan." Winslow released her and took another step away. "And, Fates help me, don't come out again."

She nodded once, still obviously confused, but fled back into her room. He heard the latch on the doors click into place and released the breath he'd been holding. For a long moment he stood there, staring at her closed doors, battling with the churn of his Talent. This strange attraction, the forceful pull of her, it was almost more powerful than he could handle. If it hadn't been for the familiar sense of Wildness, he doubted he could have ended things.

Finally turning away, he flinched and thought of Bryva.

Pistols had never been Elsie's weapon of choice. In fact, most Bedim avoided the flint-lock mechanized contraptions due to their bulk and noise. She'd always kept one around, mostly for intimidation purposes, but could only remember using one once in her life. They were, in her opinion, an Untalented weapon. Which was probably why she had bulk-ordered several hundred of them. While the ark was meant to keep danger on the outside and away from the people, Elsie couldn't risk leaving them unarmed.

"What do you think?" Forvant asked her quietly.

Looking up from the sample crate, Elsie had to squint against the burn of midday sun. The harbor town known as Little Delgora bustled around them, a constant movement of ships and waves and people. Beyond the merchant ship, the sea was so deep a blue that Elsie swore it was almost black.
Black and ominous
, she decided. She had travelled over it often enough that she'd taken for granted the Wildness of the ocean. In the end, even the depths would rise up against them.

The engineers she'd hired for the ark were mostly certain it would float. They'd thought she was crazy, of course, when she'd hired them to find a way to do it, but she'd paid them well enough that they'd done it anyway.

"My Lady?" Forvant asked again.

Shaking her head, Elsie brought her attention back to the weapons. "They appear sound," she said. Just to her left she saw the merchant, Hammond Feebly, relax at her pronouncement. "Inspect each crate, Forvant, and have them moved to the manor."

"Yes, my Lady." Forvant gave a sharp whistle and moved off with a handful of servants.

"Mr. Feebly," Elsie said, turning to the merchant.

Hammond Feebly was a round gentleman, shaped like a bell, and movement was difficult for him. He wobbled when he walked and kept a sturdy cane at his side. Elsie herself was a tall woman, but Feebly managed to dwarf her in height and girth. His wealth was just as immense as his person and his garments reflected this. Elsie doubted the buff-colored suit he wore had been used more than once.

"My Lady," Feebly panted, dabbing sweat from his forehead with an ivory handkerchief, "I trust all is well?"

"It would seem so." She gestured to a covered bench settled awkwardly on the pier.

Anticipating Feebly's inability to move, Elsie had asked that the bench be placed there for easier access. It looked slightly ridiculous, what with sailors and merchants milling around it, but she was in a hurry and didn't want to spend an hour relocating for the negotiations. They both sat, Feebly's weight causing the bench to creak in protest.

Elsie started the conversation immediately. "As we had already agreed upon a price, I was more than a little startled by your message."

"Ah, yes." Hammond flashed a brilliant smile that made the chub of his cheeks bubble up around his eyes. "I received a late addition . . . three passengers claiming personal business with you. They could pay only half the price up front, but as they mentioned you by name, I was willing to take them on."

Elsie blinked at him. "Passengers?"

Her mind scrambled through her network of connections. All of the children from the school were already on their way, on board her customary ship, the
Brietta
. Master Walter and everyone on the staff at Walter's School for Unfortunates were also coming. She had no contacts meant to be coming here, not yet anyway. Everything was set for the beginning of Winter Tournament. While the bulk of society was centered on Lorant, her people would be en route to Delgora before the opening ceremonies began. Elsie herself would be in Lorant for that, to deliver one last warning to the populace that the Wards would fail. But she wasn't scheduled to meet with Dorian for another week, and the ceremony itself wasn't for another fortnight.

Who's ahead of schedule?
she wondered.

"They mentioned you wouldn't be expecting them," Feebly said and nodded toward the ship just as three people were disembarking.

There was a man, woman and female child, presumably a family, and Elsie was quite certain that she'd never met them before. The man was a Warder, though he seemed to be trying to hide that fact. He wasn't in uniform, but his sword was distinctive; the glint of green Remora stone set into the pommel gave him away. The woman kept a hooded cloak on and was obviously trying to hide, but Elsie couldn't sense any malice from her. In fact, the woman exuded anxiety from her tight, tensed shoulders to the way she clutched the cloak closed. The little girl, on the other hand, was open and hard to miss. As the three neared them, Elsie focused more on the child. There weren't any striking features. She looked mostly normal: curly brown hair, green eyes, her little hands clutching a doll.

But there was something not quite right about her. She didn't glow like Valeda Quinlan had. It was the opposite, in fact. The little girl seemed rimmed with light, as though the light did not actually touch her, but more surrounded her.

"Mr. Winslow said you were pretty," the girl said with a beaming smile.

"Thank you," Elsie said with a smile. "What is your name, little girl?"

"Mirabella Cornelius." Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled and Elsie was utterly charmed. "Do we get to see your ark today? Mr. Winslow said we could."

"Mirabella!" The father moved to his daughter's side, half shielding her from Elsie. "Your pardons, My Lady. Mirabella is quite fanciful at times."

The girl's face scrunched up in annoyance, but she didn't contradict her father.

"It's all right, Mr. Cornelius," Elsie said, suddenly realizing who they were.

He bowed to her, displaying a small balding patch at the back of his head. "Adamin Cornelius, My Lady."

Elsie glanced at the still hooded mother and then focused on Mirabella again. "You must be the little girl Lord Agoston looked after following the train crash."

Mirabella nodded, smiling.

"Well then," Elsie said, turning to Mr. Feebly, "I shall pay for the second half of their bill. Make the arrangements with Forvant before you go."

Standing, Elsie gestured toward the harbor town. "We should walk for a bit, Miss Mirabella. The carriage ride to Delgora Proper is quite lengthy."

"Can we fly there?" Mirabella asked, her green eyes rounded with hope.

Further amused, Elsie began to lead them all away from the bench. "I'm afraid I have never actually attempted to fly, Miss Mirabella. I can summon a transportation spell, of course, but as a matter of prudence I would prefer not to."

"Why?"

"Well, it's the Warding Pillars, you see. A portion of my Talent is always in use, holding them up and maintaining them to keep the people safe. Even while I'm sleeping, this magic is working. I must always make sure that there is enough Talent in me to do this, you understand." Elsie wondered at her own sanity for sharing such a secret with the child, but decided there was no harm in it. "Someone might need me to do something . . . fix a roof or aid an ailing horse . . . whatever the issue, and I would not wish to deny them my help simply because I was impatient to ride home."

Mirabella nodded slowly, as though this made sense to her. "Are we going to your manor, then?"

"Indeed. You will be my guest there. Is that all right with you?"

Elsie had no idea how to manage a child, but her current tactic seemed to be working. Mirabella nodded again, her brown curls bouncing with the movement.

"I've never seen a manor house before. Mother says they're quite nasty, too many rooms with no use, but father says they can be beautiful sometimes."

The mother made a small distressed sound. Elsie looked at her, somewhat annoyed by the hood, but chose to ignore it for now. Whatever reasons the woman had to stay hidden, Elsie would discover later, after she'd ascertained why Winslow had sent them. She was tempted to think it an act of compassion-he had just given his Talent for them after all-but she could feel the tattoos under her glove go cold. Icy cold, as though they'd been dipped in snow, and she had the unsettled feeling it was a direct reaction to the girl's nearness.

"Well then, not every room is always in use, but every room does have a function, Miss Mirabella. Still, I hope you like it at least. Delgora Manor has many windows, to let the beauty of the island speak to us."

They turned onto the main street of Little Delgora, walking leisurely toward the stables. People split off and away, giving room for Elsie and her companions to walk. There were several whispered glances, quiet rumblings, and Elsie had a sudden longing for Dorian. He would normally say something to distract her from the crowds or find some way to make her laugh at her own discomfort.

"But the island is Wild. Don't you hate the Wild?"

Glancing sharply at the girl, Elsie said, "No. I do not hate the Wild. But it does frighten me."

"I didn't think Witches got scared."

Smiling ruefully, Elsie shook her head. "Oh, we get very scared. I know the Wild means to harm my people, and that scares me very much."

Mirabella's face scrunched up again, as though she were conflicted by this news. They walked along in silence for a time, the salty breeze and general commotion of the town engulfing them. Elsie watched the girl for a moment and her heart ached for Winslow. Proud, arrogant Winslow who was somewhere in Three Points grappling with a Talentless existence. She hoped Dorian could convince the man to come to the ark.

***

Tourney Street in Lorant was crowded for such an early hour. Dorian stepped out of the carriage and frowned out at the wide, circular center of town. Arenas were being erected, large planks of wood fencing off spaces for knights to fight. In the off-season, the people of Lorant used the tournament grounds as a marketplace and the earth beneath was therefore a grassless patch of hardened mud and dirt. During the tournament, depending on the weather, that mud would loosen, become slick and miserable, and every maid in the near vicinity would lament the tracks it left behind.

It's a wonder,
Dorian thought, as he watched men struggling to make another fence,
that the rest of the populace did not share in the lament.
Winter was a harsh time, a make or break time, where the destitute starved all the more and forgotten souls froze in alleyways. Once, not so long ago, Dorian had been one of those wretched forgotten, shivering against a lonely wall in a dark street.