Rogue's Pawn (11 page)

Starling gaped at me when I emerged from behind the screen. Her expression made me think I might not be a vision of loveliness.

“Blessed Titania, what happened to your hair?”

I put a hand up to my head. How utterly surreal that I could have forgotten. That I could have pulled off that headscarf with the oatmeal dress and forgotten. I wanted to dash back behind the screen, somehow hide and still pretend that we were having a girlish afternoon trying on clothes.

But I was a deer frozen in the road. Locked in place by Starling’s horrified gaze.

She set down her wineglass and edged up to the end of the chaise. She had kicked off her flats and tucked one petite bare foot up under her. Now she folded her hands in her lap, a gesture of her mother’s.

“Fix it,” she said.

I just stared at her, one hand still on my bristly, scabby scalp.

“Fix it,” she insisted. “You’re graduated now, right? Free to do whatever magic you want to? And don’t tell me it would be easier to wear a wig.” She reached back to grab her wineglass. “Now’s your opportunity. What kind of hair did you always, always want when you were a little girl? Me? I wanted golden hair. There was this neighbor girl—full breed—like dew-on-the-morning-grass gorgeous, eyes blue as the sky, floating golden hair, delicate pink butterfly wings. Titania, I hated the little bitch.”

I laughed, a little. Such a frivolous conversation. Her words eroded my numbness.

Starling leaned forward. “Lady Gwynn—it’s hair. Just fix it. Make it what you want.”

“I always wanted long black hair.”

“Oh, and that would be great with your green eyes, though I imagine you could change those, too, if you wanted to. Do it!”

She was right, I could do this. I was the dog so used to being beaten that I wouldn’t leave the yard even though the gate was open. And I needed to practice a great deal, to perfect what I knew and to explore the possibilities. Of course I should do this.

“Is there a mirror?” I asked.

Starling gestured to an alcove. She followed me, avid interest on her face, wineglass in her hand. “Is it okay if I watch? I almost never get to see real magic being performed. Mother doesn’t want me getting ideas.”

“I don’t mind. Just be very quiet and don’t distract me.”

I focused on my image in the mirror and tried not to flinch. I looked like Sinead O’Connor after a bad acid trip…and a bar fight.

I should have looked at myself before now. One thing I’d learned—painfully—was that if you were going to muck about with the state of reality via magic, you’d better have a firm grip on what really existed in the first place. There was no room for kidding yourself about what was real. No cutting yourself slack that, oh, you didn’t really mean that nasty thought about such and so. Because meaning it, intending it, was what connected the idea to the spark—and it became real like a bomb exploding.

I could be taught.

So first, I had to see my hair as it was now. The old stories had it right, that facing yourself in the mirror as you truly were was the ultimate test of character. Not just to recognize the ugliness, but also the beauty. Everything in its balance. I carefully built the image in my mind of what I wanted and searched my heart for the emotion to make it real. What
I
wanted.

Then I waited.

The magic didn’t happen immediately, like in a Las Vegas stage show, with a flash of light and a puff of smoke. No. Real magic flowed on its own timeline.

And there it was. My shaved scalp with its scabs, stubble and awkward bristles was gone as if it had never been. Now shining black hair waved gently around my face, flowing down my back. I’d fixed the bruises on my face while I was at it. I’d fix what I could of the rest later, when I had the leisure to strip.

“Wow,” Starling breathed. “That’s fascinating. It’s not like it happened fast, but it’s more that I didn’t even notice the change. I
know
in my head that you have different hair now, but a big part of me is convinced you’ve always been this way. Is that illusion?” She reached out to stroke the silky hair, letting it run through her fingers.

“No. No illusion. This is as real as it gets.” I shook my head, letting the new hair settle around me. It was recognizably
my
hair, just a different color and shape, but the same familiar texture. I looked the way I’d always wanted to—the sparkling black accenting a complexion that glowed in snowy smooth contrast. Green eyes blazed at me in the mirror and I recognized the woman who’d had enough and walked out of that cocktail party. And there was the younger woman I’d been, full of ambition and the love of science. For the first time in years, she looked pleased.

Better, she looked powerful.

Chapter
Twelve

The Calm Before the Storm

“What wouldn’t I give to be able to do that?” Starling sighed.

“It’s easy to think of sacrifices in theory.” My voice sounded a bit too sharp. I took a deep breath.
Let it go
. “In practice you might find yourself…regretting the price you paid.”

She nodded gravely. Her gaze rested on my arm, where the tapered sleeve of my gown revealed raised scars the whips had cut into me. I tugged the cuff over the marks and she looked away.

“Where’s your whiskey?” she asked in a bright tone, then scooted behind the screen to fetch it. Handing it to me, she clinked her glass against mine. “To the new improved you!”

I joined her in the toast, grateful for the change of subject. I savored the whiskey and studied myself in the mirror to get my new appearance firmly in my head. Wouldn’t want to accidentally blur it by thinking of myself in an old way.

“Will it last forever?”

“It should, unless I change it. Things that are close to me, that are constantly in my attention, are much more likely to persist. It’s harder to make something I’m not around last in any permanent way. But then, I haven’t gotten to experiment with it much.”

Rogue could do it—those chamber pots, I suddenly recalled. Maybe he had bespelled those.

“Hmm.” Starling sipped at her glass, looking at my hair enviously.

“Why? You want me to change your hair, too?”

“Yes!” She pounced, sloshing her wine. “Can you? Would you? Even if it only lasts until you ride away, it would be worth it.”

I loved it—I acquired magical abilities and I was using them for makeovers. Clive would have been disgusted by the girly behavior. My mom would have been the first in line. My heart throbbed, thinking of her now. How long had I been gone? And Isabel, what had become of her? It killed me that she might think I’d abandoned her. A quiet tide of grief surged under the enamel shell of my careful control.

“Can you picture the kind of hair you want—if you don’t mind me looking at the image in your head?”

Starling nodded eagerly and folded her hands around her wineglass, closing her eyes as if in prayer. She looked so studious, so serious. We all prayed for our heart’s desire. It was a mistake to think that had to be something profound and huge. Very few people really thought of world peace first, in my experience.

I touched my fingertips to her temples as a courtesy, flashed on the night I’d touched Rogue this way and crushed the thought. I dipped lightly into Starling’s mind, bright with restless ideas and longings. There on top was the image of the little neighbor girl, long-limbed and ethereal. Attached to it were various sorrows of not belonging, not being good enough. Of failure. I focused on the way the hair looked, like gold embroidery floss, sunlight in spider silk, and carefully stripped away the negative feelings. She didn’t need any more of that.

It was easy to find the spark for it—Starling fed me that in spades.

I waited.

“Okay, look and see if it’s right.”

Starling’s eyes popped open. I expected her to whirl around, perhaps squealing, to admire herself in the mirror. Instead she blinked at me, took a breath and cautiously turned, peeking over her shoulder at her reflection. Tears welled up in her dark eyes, threatening to spill over.

“Is it right?” I asked her. “I changed it very slightly, so it wouldn’t look like a little girl’s hair so much.”

Starling nodded. “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

“Do you want to change your eyes, too? Though I think this combination looks great—my mom always said she thought the brown-eyed blondes had the prettiest coloring.”

Starling shook her head. Nodded. Then laughed and gulped down the rest of her wine. The golden hair shimmered softly around her face, brushing her shoulders in a thick paintbrush fringe. Her lightly tanned skin and freckles took on a warmer glow.

“It’s perfect,” she repeated, not noticing how I flinched at the word. “I’m going to savor every moment of it. It’s the first time I’ve been pleased to look in the mirror. Now, what do I owe you?”

Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Can it just be a gift?” I tried.

Starling looked horrified. Not the best option.

“Yes, of course,” she said, “but…”

“Never mind,” I hastened to reassure her to her obvious relief. She’d been prepared to pay whatever it took when she asked me for the favor, though. And here I didn’t know what to ask for. A big part of me still quailed at asking for anything. I thought back to the banquet. “What do you propose?”

“A month of service. After I’m legal.”

“That seems like a lot for an overnight hairdo.” I wasn’t going to ask what “being legal” meant or how long it would take.

She looked again and blew herself a kiss. “I don’t care if it’s gone in the morning when you ride away. Do you agree?”

“Yes. But I don’t think it’ll happen like that.” I took a moment to survey myself in the green gown. It seemed to fit nicely, though a bit loose over the hips. Rehab and fat camp, all in one brutal engagement. “Of course, I can’t see what happens after I’ve left a place, but I’m pretty sure it’ll just gradually revert back to what you’re used to. Especially if that’s what you’re expecting.”

“But I can’t do magic,” Starling replied, eying the green gown. “And I think that one is a definite keeper—great with your eyes.”

“Thank you.” I set down the whiskey and grabbed a couple more gowns. “You know, where I come from, no one does magic. But I’m surprised how much the rules make sense. I think there’s more magic going on than we realize. The world tends to be the way we expect it to be. I think people influence the world around them on a daily basis a lot more than they know.”

When had I thought about this? I had no idea. Perhaps part of me had been there all along, hiding and assimilating.

“So, what I’m saying is, if you want to—it wouldn’t hurt to try—concentrate on looking like this and see what happens. Maybe if you want it badly enough, the change will persist even after I’m no longer paying attention to it.”

When I came out from behind the screen, in a yellow gown, Starling was fiercely staring at herself in the mirror. I hoped she wouldn’t break it.

“Easy,” I said, handing her a fresh glass of wine. “Just want it with your usual level—believe me, that’s plenty. And enjoy it. Let it be welcome in your life.” I hesitated. “Be happy when you see it. Don’t… When you see your hair, think of yourself and your pleasure in it, never your neighbor. Let that be gone now.”

She nodded at me in the mirror, though she didn’t look convinced. Then she frowned.

“Problem?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“That color is
really
dreadful on you.”

I laughed, forced to agree.

By the time Lady Blackbird joined us, we’d generated two piles, keepers and dreadfuls. The sun was slanting into evening. And we were thoroughly toasted. Not that it took much for me now. The room smelled toasted, too. Tossing the oatmeal dress into the fireplace ended up being quite a bit smokier than we’d planned on. Starling reclined on her chaise, pulling the tips of her hair over her forehead so she dangled them over her eyes. I sat on the floor, going through the trunk of winter things, though I was feeling more sleepy than ambitious at this point.

“Well, look at the two of you, all prettied up!” Blackbird sang out, as if we were two girls playing dress-up and changing our hair was an everyday game. She set down the wooden box she was carrying and cupped her hands on Starling’s cheeks, pursing her lips. “It suits you, baby bird—you look lovely.” And she kissed her on the nose. “Though I wish you’d forget about that foolish RosePetal.”

“RosePetal?” I snorted and Starling rolled her eyes.

“Lady Gwynn, I have something of yours to return.” Blackbird retrieved her wooden box and set it down next to me, then poured herself a glass of wine.

I paused in opening the box—hadn’t there been only two glasses on the cart?

Starling saw me looking. “Magic cocktail cart,” she assured me. “Only one like it ever. Daddy got it as a reward. He could pick anything he wanted and the man picks a cart that never runs out of booze and always has enough clean glasses for everyone.”

Sounded like a man after my own heart. “A reward for what?”

“The usual heroics.” Blackbird waved that away as unimportant.

“If you’re a half-breed, then he’s human—like me?” I looked from mother to daughter, who both nodded solemnly. “How did he get here?”

“There are many of your kind here, Lady Gwynn.”

“And, like you, Daddy came from the other world,” Starling added.

“Where is he? Can I meet him?”

They exchanged exasperated looks. “No,” Blackbird sighed. “Not this time. I’m afraid he’s off chasing another rumor on how to get back through the veil. He’s been gone months now. He’ll turn up one day and mope around for a while.”

“What rumor is he chasing?”

“Nonsense, is what it is.” Blackbird sounded gentle but intractable. “Open your box, dear.”

I obeyed, my mind chewing on how to meet this man. Then I breathed out a sigh. My Ann Taylor dress. She had promised and I should have never doubted. My silk panties lay neatly folded in there, too. Perched on top, a sedate version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers, were my Nine West heels. Already the clothes seemed like an ancestor’s relic found in the attic, remnants of another world, another time.

“I’ve never seen undergarments like that,” Starling said. “Mama only let me look at them, not touch.”

“So you wouldn’t disturb the magic,” Blackbird said over her shoulder. “That’s why I washed them myself, in rainwater.”

“You think my dress is magic because I was wearing it…before?” I still didn’t feel comfortable saying “cast a spell”—made me think of the witch in
Snow White
standing on the cliffside, terrifying in purple-black, lightning flashing around her. The idea that something I’d once touched with magic became magic was not something my teachers had discussed—though they had mentioned that magic fixed in objects was something I could explore later. They hadn’t mentioned magical cocktail carts, or chamber pots and water pails, for that matter, either.

I never asked questions of them, of course. At last Rogue got what he wanted. Too bad he’d missed it.

“Because you wore it the first time your magic manifested. We always save the garments a child is wearing when their magic first comes alive, refashioning it into charms as the fabric wears over time. It’s just tradition—I don’t really understand such things.”

I was beginning to suspect that any time Blackbird avowed ignorance it was a cover for a deeper insight than she wanted to let on.

“Thank you, Lady Blackbird—it means a great deal to me to have this back, regardless of the purpose. And thank you for all this…” I gestured to the clothes. “I hate to sound ungrateful, or cynical, but I’m wondering about the cost?”

Blackbird chuckled, sipping her wine. “No, you don’t owe anything further. You’re receiving credit now for your magical services. I just draw from your accounts.”

“But I thought that my services were paying off a debt.”

“That too.”

“So how can I be both paying a debt and earning credit?”

Starling and Blackbird peered quizzically at me with matching bright eyes.

“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll take your word for it. And the dresses, with grat…appreciation.” I was careful not to kiss anyone—though I wasn’t sure that was what had done it before.

“We’ll leave you then. Come along, Starling, so Lady Gwynn can bathe in peace.”

They left the cocktail cart with me, though I protested that I hardly needed to indulge further. I stood at the window, sipping the lovely warm whiskey, watching the shadows lengthen and turn drowsy, while servants—very normal-looking ones—tromped in and out preparing a bath for me. No magic buckets here, no indoor plumbing, no uncanny silence, just heavy manual labor and a significant servant class. Not that I wanted to argue. I was fine with being one of the waited-upon at this point. Much better than my recent status. Amazing how a little—or a lot of—privation can make you happy to be spoiled.

It seemed to be late summer, by the way the apples hung heavy on the trees. But time also passed in a funny way here, and the air always held a bit of cool which the soft sunlight never quite burned away. It seemed Castle Brightness threw off its own radiance, more pronounced now in the gloaming, as the shadows in the trees darkened and the leaves glinted in reflected golden light.

The shadows moved. There, under the edge of the orchard, glass-black separated from the normal shadows.

The Dog. He paced out and sat below my window, amber eyes shining, torches in the night.

I realized I was holding my breath, caught high in my throat, and that I was grasping my neck with one hand, the carotid pulse under my thumb and fingertips tripping a fast and frantic beat. Hatred and terror roared through me. He opened his mouth in a slavering grin. A little whine escaped my lips.

I flung my glass of whiskey at him. My teachers would have punished me greatly for my unreasoned action, but I was free of them and threw it at him with all the childish fear and anger in my heart. The emotion and my desire to hit him with the glass held it to a true course several stories down, but as it sailed, tumbling end over end scattering whiskey in bright drops, the glass slowed. It righted itself in the air and dropped gracefully to land upright before the Dog, as if set there by an invisible hand. The Dog, blazing eyes locked on mine, bent down and delicately licked out the crystal goblet, then licked his chops, savoring every bit.

He grinned at me again and melted back into the shadows. I stared at the empty dark, but didn’t see him again.

With a mental shake I took hold of myself. Turning back to the room, I breathed out and dropped my hand from my throat. I clasped my wrist instead, the pulse jumping against my thumb. Then I saw that the cocktail cart had produced a new glass for me, just like the one I’d impulsively thrown.

Almost like. On the thin crystal rim glimmered a drop of bright blood.