Chapter 7
Anouk pushed up to her feet, wincing as her joints popped, and attempted to disentangle herself from the makeshift sling she’d fashioned out of Mada Vittora’s fur coat. Her pants were torn. Her hair was undone and snarled. Her legs were soaked in snow up to her knees. The only thing about her that seemed in one piece was the Faustine jacket. She made an attempt to brush snow and dirt off herself, but as usual, it was useless.
Now that her eyes had adjusted, she saw that behind the grand fireplace were three sets of curving staircases, two that led to an upper level and one that plunged downward into darkness. The stone floor was slick as ice, polished smooth from centuries of footsteps, and there were uneven marks where she assumed pews had once stood.
There were five girls in all. The tall black girl with the British accent, who looked like the oldest. At her table there was a girl with a storm cloud of black hair down to her waist and eyebrows in desperate need of tweezing, and a pretty girl with glasses who peered at Anouk curiously. At the other table were two girls who looked to be at least five years apart in age, but, judging by their stocky frames and their identical shade of red hair pulled back into the same severe bun, they must have been sisters.
Anouk gazed at the fire longingly. What she wouldn’t give to strip out of her soaked clothes, kick off her frozen boots, wrap herself in a blanket, and warm herself and Little Beau by the flames.
The girl with the storm cloud of black hair stood, circled Anouk with a suspicious scowl, and then peered up at the stained-glass window. The other girls didn’t move.
The older of the sisters grinned and said in a German accent, “You’d better turn around and leave, whoever you are.”
The younger sister frowned at the puddle of melting ice beneath Anouk’s feet. “You’ll have a better chance with the cold things out there than the warm things in here.”
The dark-haired girl loomed close to Anouk, like a shadow come to life. She reeked of sweat and onions. She narrowed her eyes and grunted.
Anouk moved a few feet away from the girl. “We’ll freeze if we go back out there.”
“Heida is right—you’d better leave,” the British girl said regretfully. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about this place, but it isn’t some school for magic. It’s a graveyard for the soon-to-be departed.”
The storm-cloud girl dropped to her hands and knees and began inspecting Anouk’s fur coat, which was crumpled on the floor. She ran the strands between her fingers. Little Beau let out a low growl, and the girl bared her teeth and growled back. She picked up a piece of vine and sniffed the leaf.
“Magic!” She pointed an accusing finger at Anouk.
All the girls became quiet. Their eyes went from Anouk to the piece of vine and back.
“Jermis,” the girl with glasses said quietly, and hearing a spell on a Pretty’s lips jolted Anouk for a second. Pretties, like these girls, couldn’t cast magic, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know the wording of spells. “She used the jermis spell. Growing.” She sniffed the air. “With mint as the life-essence.”
“Witch!” the storm-cloud girl cried, then she jabbed an accusing finger at Little Beau. “Witch’s demon!”
The British girl rolled her eyes at the other girl’s ramblings. She cocked her head toward Anouk. “Can you really cast whispers?”
Anouk felt skewered by five sharp sets of eyes. These were Pretty girls who had clawed their way here through that forest of death, only to face even more danger.
Anouk hesitated, then said, “Let me to talk to the Duke. I’ll make my case. He’ll accept me.”
“Will I?”
All eyes turned to the top of the stairs. A hulk of a man stood on the upper level, dressed in a full-length red cloak more suited to a knight from one of Luc’s fairy tales than the headmaster of an academy. His hair was graying at the temples, though everything else about him spoke of immense strength. He had deep-set eyes and wore wire-rimmed spectacles. Around his neck hung a gold chain that held a vial of powder. The cloak did little to disguise his massive stature; two thousand years ago he might have been a gladiator. What struck Anouk most was his unkempt shadow of a beard. It was rare to see anything less than coiffed perfection among the Royals.
“Who has come knocking in the thick of a storm,” he asked, observing Anouk, “with a mongrel on her heels and a whisper on her lips? Not a Pretty acolyte, surely. This is a place for those who seek magic, not those who already have it.”
Anouk hugged her jacket around herself as if it were battle armor. “I know a few tricks and whispers, but I need more. I need to become a witch.”
There were bags under his eyes—he looked as though he’d been up late squinting at a book by poor light—and yet now a spark lit up his gaze. He made a point of checking the time on a massive clock at the front of the hall, set into a full rack of elk antlers that had been intricately carved with depictions of forests. One of the antler tips was broken off. Anouk felt for the broken piece in her pocket, wondering if the Duke knew she possessed it.
“She made a vine grow in the snow,” the younger redhead said.
The Duke circled Anouk slowly, his cloak dragging on the floor. “You aren’t a witch, though you can do magic,” he mused. “You aren’t a Pretty, though you seem of their world.” He brushed back her hair. “No pointed ears. Not a Goblin.”
Anouk’s gaze shifted toward Little Beau, and the Duke followed her eyes and then raised an eyebrow.
“Ah. Interesting.” He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “I thought the last of your kind had been killed centuries ago. I can’t fathom how you ended up on my doorstep, beastie, but this isn’t the place for you.”
She lifted her chin. “I deserve a chance as much as anyone else.”
He stroked his unshaven chin in consideration. “So you’ve come in search of stronger magic than you possess. I wonder what you’ve been told of this place.”
Anouk told the Duke what she’d gleaned from overheard conversations in the townhouse: that for centuries it had been the place Pretty girls went to become witches. She’d assumed it involved learning spells and making potions, dangerous tests and having to prove one’s mettle. “You evaluate them and determine who is worthy,” she finished. “There’s a ceremony, the Coal Baths. All the Royals come to light the flames and bear witness.”
The older redhead snorted. “She doesn’t know anything.” She turned back to the table and bit off a hefty piece of her hunk of bread, apparently finding her supper more interesting than Anouk.
“My dear,” the Duke said to Anouk, “you’ve been misinformed. I do not decide anyone’s fate. It is the Coals and the Coals alone that determine whether to burn a girl or birth a witch. I am merely a guide on the journey. It is up to each girl to find her own path to magic—her missing crux.”
“Crux?” Anouk was tired and cold and wet, and the last thing she wanted was more riddles. She rubbed her bleary eyes. “I don’t know what that is. But whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”
He dismissed her weariness with a tsk. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. The Coal Baths are in less than six weeks. Most of these girls have been here for the better part of a year. The last acolyte to come arrived two months ago. Now, with the Baths so close? No. I cannot.”