I turned and began to walk home, listening as the magicians scrambled to follow me.
Imonie heard us coming, long before I even laid a hand on our gate. She heard me and the tread of unfamiliar boots in my wake, and she threw open the door with a murderous look on her face.
“You’re late, Clementine.”
I came to a stop on the stoop, narrowing my eyes at her. “Yes, well, I ran into these two magicians on the street.”
She scrutinized them over my shoulder. A long, uncomfortable moment passed. “I see that.” She brought her eyes back to mine and said, “Go and tell your father we have company.”
I did just as she bade, and found my father still in bed, flushed from fever.
“Who did you bring home?” he croaked at me.
I stood in the center of his chamber and stared at him, realizing he was worse than before.
Dread unfurled within me, and I set the book of nightmares back on his desk.
“I found two magicians wandering the town, seeking you. I brought them here, so they’re off the streets tonight.”
“You what?” He was suddenly ripping the quilts away, stumbling to his feet. I reached out to steady him, because he looked like he was a breath from fainting, his eyes unfocused until they found me. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know their names yet.”
“Are they from the Luminous Society?”
“No, they’re not.”
Papa stared at me, but he was not seeing me. His gaze was very distant, and he was suddenly shaking.
“You need to lie down . . .” I tried to direct him back to bed, but he broke from my grip, lumbering to his wardrobe and drawing out fresh clothes. A long-sleeved linen shirt, a green waistcoat with golden embroidery, a white cravat, a black jacket . . .
“Papa.”
“Go and change, Clementine, and then return to me here,” he said, pausing to lean on the wardrobe. “We both must look our best tonight.”
He must sense it, then. He was being challenged by upstarts for his town, for our home.
I left his chamber and shut the door, tarrying in the upper hallway, listening. Imonie was setting two more places at the table; she set the china down with clinking intensity. The magicians were quiet, but I heard them walking in the room beneath me, the floor protesting their elegant steps.
I slipped into my bedroom.
A few candelabras were lit, casting uneven shadows on the walls. My window was closed and shuttered tonight, because of the new moon. The desk before it was messy, crowded with my journals of spells and illustrations, a tray of pastels and charcoal and half-drawn imaginings. Imonie had already laid out clothes: my favorite black-and-white striped skirt with pockets, my weapon belt, a stark white chemise with billowy sleeves, a velvet bodice that laced up the front.
But I chose not to wear any of it. I poured lavender-steeped water into my basin and washed my face and arms. And then I went to my wardrobe and found the dress I wanted. A long-sleeved gown made of black velvet. I had only worn it once before, to a winter solstice party that my father didn’t attend, and the looks I had drawn made me so self-conscious that I decided I wouldn’t wear it again.
But this night seemed to call for it.
I undressed, remembered I still had tiny trinkets in my pockets, and returned them to their proper size. I drew the black dress on, pulling the golden ribbon at the bodice tight.
I brushed my hair but left it down, and I fastened my leather weapon belt to my waist. Two small daggers gleamed at my hips as I walked back to Papa’s room. The belt had been his gift to me on my fifteenth birthday two years ago, when he had at last allowed me to join him in fighting on the new moons. In my mind, it marked my coming of age.
He was sitting in his chair this time, dressed in his finest and out of breath from the effort. This was truly going to be a disastrous night, I thought, and watched him frown at my choice of clothes.
“Where did that come from?” he asked.
“It’s one of Mama’s old dresses,” I said. “She sent it to me last year.”
His frown deepened, but then he coughed, and it seemed he forgot about the gown. I poured him a cup of water, which he drained, and then he stood and motioned for me to come closer.
“How are your stores, Clem?”
I knew he was asking about my reserved magic, the amount I had available to burn. Magicians could fuel their spells in one of three ways: body, mind, or heart. Depending on what energy force the magicians preferred to cast with, we needed things like food, drink, sleep, good company, books, art, music, and solitude to refill, or risked burning ourselves into oblivion.
I often cast with my mind and my body, and while the dream divination had drained a portion of my reserves, I measured myself and found that I still had plenty to give.
“My stores are good.”
“Then I need you to glamour me.”
“Glamour you? This fever must truly be making you senseless.”
“Yes, just a little. To hide that I’m ill.”
He waited for me to do something. I merely gaped up at him.
“Papa . . . I don’t think—”
“This is a good idea,” he said, reading my mind. “Please, daughter. This night is important, and I must make an appearance with the arrival of these . . . visitors.”
“But I don’t think you should fight tonight,” I said. “You’re far too sick for it.”
“We’ll see. Perhaps I’ll feel better after dinner.”
Unlikely. But he was right; these magicians had come all the way to Hereswith to see him, and he looked terrible.
I drew in a deep breath and worked a gentle charm over him. Another spell of my mother’s. One that brushed away his paleness, the perspiration on his brow, his glazed eyes, the lankness of his hair, the uneven tilt of his shoulders. But the glamour wavered, and I saw a much different version of him. There was no gray at his temples, no hollowed cheekbones, no furrows in his skin. It was like catching a glimpse of him from the past when he had been younger, before I had been born, and it rattled me a moment. As soon as it came, the vision was gone, and I thought it must have been influenced by my glamour. He now looked vibrant and hale, just as I knew him to be, and I exhaled a soft sigh.
My father rushed his palms over the front of his jacket, which was already pristine under Imonie’s care. He was nervous, I realized, and I reached out to take his hand. The fever still burned beneath his skin. I felt a stab of fear for him.
“Whatever the reason they’ve come,” I began, “I’m sure it’s not as terrible as we both imagine.”
He only smiled at me, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.
Together, we descended.
5
The blond magician was beside the hearth, where the shelves overflowed with books. The dark-headed one was standing on the threshold of the solarium, gazing into the small glass chamber, where Papa and I grew an array of plants. The magicians reeked of curiosity and judgment, as if our provincial lives were something they would later spin into a joke they told at court, and I stiffened the moment they both turned toward my father and me.
Imonie had already taken their cloaks, and I could see they were dressed in the latest fashion: cream cravats, waistcoats embroidered with moon phases and stars, black jackets with coattails, trousers with silver trim running up the sides, knee-high boots that only carried a hint of dust from the road, and belts with rapiers sheathed at their sides.