“What is that?” she asked, curious.
“Oh, just a little idea I have,” he said as he rummaged through a recently packed box. “Something to let me do my thing while blending in with the natives. Ah, this one will do.”
He pulled out a silver hand mirror, the sort a gentleman might own, with a not-very-ornate handle and simple, bold lines around the reflecting surface. “Here, you hold it and ask. You knew her better. She was…not much of a reader. The usual kind of reader.”
Rosalind took the mirror. It was heavier than it looked, or she was weaker than she expected; it caused her hand to dip.
“Show me Vashti,” she ordered.
Lévi peered over her shoulder, curious.
Nothing happened.
The mirror remained a mirror, reflecting her face with just a hint of fog. Her nose, Rosalind noticed distractedly, was red and unattractive in its current state.
“Mirror,” she said, more loudly this time. “Show me Vashti. Where is she?”
The gleaming surface did fog this time. But it revealed nothing beyond a matte, stark black. Eventually this, too, dissipated and it went back to being a mirror.
“It’s not working,” Rosalind said stubbornly, holding the mirror out to its maker.
“Rosalind,” Lévi said softly. “She is gone. You know that.”
Rosalind bit her lip, determined not to cry. Her face felt huge, as if all the tears she was keeping back were filling up her skull and her eyes and forehead. If Vashti was dead, there was nothing she could do now.
The Enchantress thrust the mirror into Lévi’s hands and turned away, sobbing and retching. Her morning sickness, magically gone on the first day of her second trimester, suddenly came back with a vengeance.
“Oh, Rose,” Lévi said sadly without looking at the mirror. He put an arm around her.
“She would…she would never have just left her home that way. She would put her things in order. Her family has been here for centuries as healers…she would have known she was going to die…of something natural. Something has happened to her, Lévi. Someone has done something to her.”
The bookseller didn’t say anything but watched her quietly, seeing the change on her face that reflected the emotions roiling within her.
“She will be avenged. I will have justice,” Rosalind growled, torn between throwing up, being comforted, and destroying everything in a great inferno. “This isn’t the dark ages!”
“Every age has its darkness,” Lévi said quietly. “Rosalind. Take your family and move far away from here. I mean it. You’re not safe. None of us are. I myself am going to the New World. I think they’re mostly done with their witch trials there. And Providence is supposed to be a city of great religious freedom.”
Rosalind’s mind spun. She was the greatest enchantress in these magic-poor times, but she didn’t have the power or ability to defeat the anonymous, loosely connected bands of ruffians and hatemongers who seemed to be taking over the kingdom. Once she found them, she could turn them all into pigs or stones or insects, of course.
Rosalind thought. “I shall go to the king and queen. They are the only ones who can stop this. They must. Surely unrest and crime have to be a threat to the kingdom. Even…even despite what happened to their guards. They have to see this can’t go on.”
“And how will you get in to see them?” Lévi said curiously.
“Their…son. The little prince. I did not attend the christening,” she said, warming to the plan even as she thought of it. It felt right. Ancient. Grand. “I will come bearing some sort of charm or blessing to bestow. Just like we used to, in the old days, when there was newborn royalty.”
Lévi sighed. “It’s not a bad idea. Just don’t expect too much. And maybe have an escape plan ready.”
He looked around at his half-packed boxes and then at Rosalind’s belly, which she was holding with both hands.
Outfitted in the most impressive, angelic, and magicked outfit she could manage, Rosalind walked into the castle with head held high, alder wand gripped firmly in her right hand. The guards stepped aside as she approached; she ignored the distrustful look in their eyes.
In the throne room the young king and queen sat with their princeling—well, the toddler was held by his wet nurse—all three in deep shades of matching velvet.
“Your Highnesses,” Rosalind said with a mild head nod—generally unacceptable as a way of greeting royalty, but, after all, she was an enchantress.
“Enchantress,” the queen said in an equally neutral tone. Her features were beautiful, if harsh: white-blond hair and razor-sharp cheekbones, ice-blue eyes. Motherhood had softened her looks not at all.
“This is an unusual visit,” the king said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He had long dark-brown hair drawn back into a ponytail, with the front part curled over his forehead in a way that was currently very fashionable. Neither one wore a crown, for it was not considered modern. But they were each covered in sparkling pins and jeweled brooches, golden buckles, and rich, rich cloth.
“I have come to offer a blessing on your child, the royal prince,” Rosalind began, turning to him.
“That will not be necessary,” the king said languidly. “These are modern times. We appreciate your sentiment and allow your presence out of respect for ancient traditions, but your blessing is no more than words, your charm no more than meaningless well-wishing.”
Rosalind stared hard at the king, trying not to show how taken aback she was. In this kingdom! The last refuge of ancient traditions and les charmantes.
Magic was being forced out of the world entirely. She shivered—was this really the end?
“In that case, let me attend to the other issue I came here for,” she said, spreading her hands and now lowering her eyes. “I beg your intercession on behalf of my people. They are being harassed, beaten, sometimes murdered. Let their persecution come to an end and defend your innocent citizens.”
“And which citizens would that be, Enchantress?” the king asked mockingly. “The good and natural citizens of this kingdom? Or are you allying yourself with some of the more unpatriotic and unnatural creatures who dwell in our fair land, threatening our citizens and disrupting our peaceful life?”
Rosalind ground her teeth, trying to keep the look of a mild petitioner. Trying to control the anger Maurice always warned her about. She looked around the room but the servants and royal entourage all seemed to be doing a very good job of not paying attention to what was going on. The Prince was playing with a ball that looked like it was made out of real gold.
She took a deep breath. “If I may be so bold, what unpatriotic creatures? Who has been threatening you?”
“Their existence is threat enough,” the queen said. “They—you—all have abilities which make our muskets and swords seem like toys. And they show no hesitation at using these powers at the slightest provocation…as if this is some medieval fairy tale and not the age of laws and reason!”
“A boy is dead because of his interest in a charmante girl and the anger of her warlock boyfriend,” the king pointed out. “And the unrest that followed, the attacks on our own soldiers, destroyed even more lives.”