ONE
“I DIDN’T DO THIS!” Nathaniel insisted, leaning out the manor’s front door, gazing helplessly at the vines thrashing up along the thorn hedge, the animated topiaries prowling through the garden, and the threatening magical gale that howled around Thorn Manor, carrying past leaves and branches and loose cobblestones in a whirling cyclone. “I swear upon Baltasar’s unholy grave, I didn’t do a thing.”
Elisabeth gave him a skeptical look. “Most of the time when you say that, it turns out that actually—”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“Like when it started raining teacups on Laurel Avenue—”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”
“And the time a lightning strike blew off one of the Magisterium’s towers—”
“Point taken. But I didn’t have another nightmare last night, did I? You certainly would have noticed.”
She felt herself turn pink. “No. You didn’t.”
He grinned at her, looking unfairly handsome in just his nightshirt, with his sleeves billowing and his dark hair whipped in every direction by the wind. “Anyway, all of this must have something to do with the manor’s wards. Look at the street past the gates, it’s completely normal.”
She squinted through the streaks of swirling debris, and saw that he was right. The rest of Hemlock Park appeared to be enjoying a sunny, peaceful February morning. That failed to ease her mind. Especially because, standing just past the cyclone, a crowd had gathered; and at the very front stood a group of—
“Reporters,” Nathaniel said darkly.
“Elisabeth Scrivener!” they called out in excitement, noticing that the front door had opened. “Magister Thorn! Would you care to comment on the situation? Have you lost control of your magic? Is it true that your demon is back?”
Nathaniel only frowned. Then another reporter shouted, “Is this likely to impact your preparations for the Midwinter Ball next w—”
Elisabeth didn’t hear the rest, because Nathaniel had hastily drawn her inside and slammed the door behind them.
* * *
“You know, I find that I don’t mind it a great deal after all,” he said later that day, cheerfully watching a shrub sail past the foyer’s window. “In fact, I believe the view is growing on me.”
“You can’t leave it this way forever,” Elisabeth pointed out. “It’s trapping us inside, too. We’ll starve. Also, that looks like it came off the roof.”
Nathaniel used his cane to slide the curtain open a little wider, watching with interest as a giant chunk of masonry went spinning by. The crowd of spectators screamed and ducked. If anything, Nathaniel only looked more pleased.
“Oh, I’m sure we have enough provisions to last us a few weeks. And if the roof starts leaking, I can simply use magic… Scrivener?” he asked in alarm. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t answer, because she had drawn Demonslayer and charged out the door.
* * *
A moment later she charged back inside, chased by an army of vines swarming at her heels, their dagger-length thorns clattering angrily across the foyer’s tiles. She was wild-eyed, with leaves tangled in her hair.
“Their heads grow back!” she shouted, hacking at the vines.
“Of course they do!” Nathaniel yelled. “They’re magical topiaries! I could have told you that, if you hadn’t charged outside to fight them in your pajamas!” He summoned a gout of emerald fire that burnt several vines to ashes, filling the room with the potent stink of aetherial combustion. But it didn’t seem to help. As soon as the ashes pattered to the floor, another wave of vines swarmed inside to fill the gap.
They stretched from the hedge all the way indoors, their numbers inexhaustible. The more Elisabeth hacked at them, and the more Nathaniel scorched them with fireballs, the more they multiplied like the heads of a hydra. The tide of battle finally turned when Mercy emerged from the hall, let out a full-throated battle cry, and whacked the vines with a broom. This seemed to work for a moment, if only due to the element of surprise: the hedge shrank back, appearing rather shocked. Before it could rally, Elisabeth forced her way to the door and shoved it shut with all her strength, slamming it on a single thorny tendril that had enterprisingly snaked back inside. When it refused to retreat, she lopped off the end with her sword.
They all stood watching in silent horror as the vine flopped around on the carpet, still alive. Eventually Mercy had the presence of mind to trap it beneath an overturned dustbin.
“Suppose we’re stuck inside, then,” she observed as the dustbin hopped and rattled furiously across the carpet.
“So it would appear,” said Nathaniel cheerfully. “How terribly inconvenient. It’ll take me weeks to sort this out.”
Elisabeth paused, remembering what the reporter had started to say earlier, and then rounded on him. “What is the Midwinter Ball?”
He was busy dusting burnt-up vine ash off his sleeves. “Trust me, Scrivener, you’re better off not knowing. Imagine being stuffed into a sorcerer’s fusty old ballroom, where the chandeliers are enchanted to drip wax on anyone who criticizes the hors d’oeuvres, and getting tortured to death with small talk for hours.”
“It is a social occasion, mistress,” contributed a whispering voice from the hall.
“Exactly,” Nathaniel said.
Sometimes, Elisabeth still felt a frisson of surprise when Silas appeared. Standing in the hallway’s shadows, he looked like a ghost, and it was easy to imagine him as one—pale, insubstantial, his narrow silhouette poised to melt into the wainscoting at any moment. She had difficulty shaking the idea that he was a figment of her imagination, or even an illusion conjured by Nathaniel during one of his nightmares. But he was undeniably real. She had touched him. Earlier, he had served her breakfast.
She couldn’t make out his face, but she got the impression he was trying his best not to look at the layer of ash coating the foyer’s tiles—or, for that matter, notice the dustbin juddering its way determinedly toward the parlor. He continued softly, “It is a yearly tradition among sorcerers, meant to uphold the relations between houses. Every winter, a different magister is chosen to host the ball.”
Elisabeth evaluated Nathaniel in suspicion. Over the past few weeks, she had caught him feeding formal-looking letters into the fire. “You’re supposed to host it this year, aren’t you?”
“I don’t see why I should.” He had gone back to dusting off his sleeves. “Until barely two months ago, I was no longer a sorcerer.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to get out of it by using the manor’s wards?”
“No, but I wish I’d thought of that. Brilliant, isn’t it?” Outside, someone screamed.
“Reporter,” Mercy declared, peering through the curtains. “Still alive.”
“More’s the pity,” Nathaniel said.
At some point Silas had stepped into the light, though Elisabeth hadn’t seen him move. His marble-white features looked no less unearthly in the late-afternoon glow leaking through the leaded panes, which winked with the shapes of debris swooping past, casting flickers of shadow across the foyer’s checkered tiles. “Perhaps we might retire to the dining room. I have prepared your supper, which is growing cold.”