Beams of sunlight woke Isadora.
She blinked awake to a tangle of dawn dancing in her eyes through the window. With a stretch, and a squeak, she elongated her arms over her head. Her toes unfurled along crinkly, cotton sheets. With a deep inhale, she recognized the scent of . . .
. . . vetiver.
A startled gasp brought her all the way awake.
She bolted upright.
A mostly unfamiliar room sprawled in elegant tones of dark wood, painted forest murals on the ceiling, and expensive curtains. Recollection served at the same time, and she sat there for several moments, a befuddled mess.
“The good gods,” she muttered, shoving hair out of her eyes. “There isn’t enough tea in the Central Network to help me cope with this.”
A glance to her right confirmed that Max’s side of the bed, which might as well have spanned a house itself, was empty. The heavy damask curtains were tied back, allowing sunlight to filter through glass window panes. He must have left for the castle already. The urge to slip into the paths, see what lay ahead, ran through her. She punted it off.
No, the time had come to live, not assess.
She’d check the paths later.
Isadora scooted out of bed, drew her shawl off the back of a chair and twirled it around her shoulders. Who put the shawl there? She hadn’t worn it last night nor pulled it from her bag. She shuddered in the cool air and stepped to the window.
A quick peek revealed the grounds she’d studied in the dark. Patchy snow spread all the way to the edge of the forest, where wild things overtook the tame land. Brittle vines, spiny undergrowth, trees, all manner of shrubs, cluttered Letum Wood in a warbling line. Fog lingered, burning away as sunlight appeared behind rolling clouds.
The flick of a horse's tail drew her gaze toward the stable. Was that a small cemetery tucked on the other side?
She stepped away, found a pair of slippers on the floor next to her bed. They felt like a familiar embrace as she stepped into them.
Slippers?
Had Max . . .
The trailing question disappeared. Her bag lay open on the floor not far away, only a few things unpacked. Her shawl, slippers, and what other toiletries scattered the room, strategically placed where she’d be most likely to use them. Max must have taken the time out of his morning to unpack her things.
“You know me well,” she murmured, impressed despite herself. Perhaps their time together in the Southern Network worked in their favor as a marriage precursor. A piece of parchment lay on top of her day dress, which draped the divan. His handwriting filled the interior in neat, stacked lines.
Isadora,
I’ve taken the liberty to unpack a few of your things, should you need them, in an attempt to ease your transition here.
If you want to explore when I return home from work, I’m happy to give the official tour, but you’re not restricted. You can go anywhere you like. I feel it’s fair to give some warning. Wildrose is not what you might think.
Faye may return to retrieve a few things. Don’t be alarmed if you see her. Pearl might also pop in. She has a habit of turning up at odd times. If you need help with anything, see Tavish in the stables. Ean may also wander through the kitchen.
I will return for dinner.
—M.S.
Isadora rolled the little letter into a tube and tapped it against her lips as she considered.
The name Faye had bounced around the Advocacy once or twice, mostly from Lucey, but no one really knew anyone else in the Advocacy. There could be correlation between this Faye in Max’s letter and that Faye with a reputation in the secret society, but she didn’t know for sure.
She’d been apart from the Advocacy for months now, though Max had never let her integrate very deeply. He’d spent most of their time bossing her around, yet managing to help her understand her magic better. A thrill of amusement slipped back through her.
Handfasted.
Ha!
On a whim, she sauntered out of the master suite, note in hand, and down the stairs. Daylight changed Wildrose irrevocably. Her white nightgown kept her decently covered, and he said not to expect anyone. Tavish, whoever that might be, would hopefully remain in the stables unless sought out.
Wildrose could reveal its own history.
* * *
Wildrose Manor held many shadows and even more secrets, as far as she could tell from a cursory walk-through. Isadora kept her shawl drawn tight, Max’s letter in hand, as she breezed down the halls, glancing through open doors. His warning rippled through her mind with each step.
I feel it’s fair to give some warning. Wildrose is not what you might think.
A vague sense of familiarity lingered in the old corners, the tall chandeliers glimmering against squared ceilings. Walls of elegant paintings stretched down hallways. The wooden floorboards creaked under her weight as she strolled by. Flat tacks kept dusty carpets pinned to the wooden floor beneath. Every now and then, she passed a vase. A bust. A handful of books left on a shelf within reach.
Quiet streams of light fell through tall windows, all of them the same size. Everything in Wildrose appeared intentional. Four-poster beds. Quilts with hints of time lingering in their designs.
Isadora hummed as she wandered, just to hear something.
A rustle of sound drifted up a stairwell on the second floor, after she passed a room that smelled like pipe tobacco and harbored countless wooden boxes. She paused, ear tilting the direction of the noise.
A whisper.
Isadora hurried silently down the carpeted stairs. She knew that voice, didn’t she? With a spell, she transported to the bedroom, swapped her nightgown for her day dress, and returned. The noise continued.
Was it Faye?
On the first floor again, she found herself near the kitchen. It tucked against the back corner, not far from a hidden woodshed. The flutter of a light blue fabric and dark skin passed barely within sight in the interior of the cooking room.
Isadora stepped into the doorway.
She didn’t recognize the woman in front of her, though she knew the song under her breath. Max had only allowed her into the headquarters of the Advocacy once or twice during her tenure. He was oddly protective of it. When she was there, she heard that song.
“Faye?”
The woman gasped, whirled around. She had friendly eyes set in a kind face. Her thin cheeks gave way to a broad nose. Eventually a smile.
“Isadora?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Are you Faye?”
“I am.” Her white teeth grinned. “I’m surprised you could tell, after all the transforming I did for the Advocacy.”
“We’ve met before?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Well, it’s good to officially meet you. I suppose there is a little familiarity . . .”
Faye laughed, an easy, tinkling thing. “I always kept my hair the same, though it was fun to vary the hue of my skin and my cheekbones. I didn’t know what it was like to be pale until the Advocacy necessitated such drastic changes!”
The strange sensation of a known voice in an unknown face washed through Isadora in a wave.
“So you know me?”
Faye hesitated. “Well, yes, to some extent. Mostly as Max’s protégé, as he didn’t often take witches under his wing personally.”
A fact she’d suspected, but never confirmed.
“I see.”
Faye gestured to her with a wave. “And now as his wife! Congratulations, I think?”
The exploratory question nearly sent a weak laugh through Isadora. This entire experience felt surreal.
“Max told you, I presume?”
Faye chuckled, set aside a basket filled with napkins, wooden spoons, and other sundries.
“No. Well, yes.” She tilted her head. “What a difficult web the Advocacy spun. Charlie told me. Max and I don’t have a lot to say to each other, though we’re friends. Of a sort. Anyway, I know that you handfasted to help us see the political climate through, and then . . . all the rest.”
Faye ended delicately, a fact that eased some of Isadora’s concern. The role she played in the closing out of inter-Network hostilities had her nerves on edge. Such power as a Watcher surely wouldn’t go unnoticed.
What that might mean, though, she couldn’t fathom.
“I’m not sad to see the Advocacy dwindling into quiet repose these days,” Faye continued, reaching for a dry rag. “Lucey aside, anyway. She’s been quite busy closing down the dwindling business, and the upkeep of those vagabonds that still need some help. Anyway, you and I have much to get acquainted with. What do you say to a drink of tea and a nice chat at my new place? I’d love to show it off to someone.”
* * *
Isadora followed Faye’s transportation spell to a quiet home on the far outskirts of Chatham City. Smoke, trees, and buildings littered the skyline from the top floor of a four-story house. A young orchard, a towering fence, and a pond ringed the periphery.
Hidden in the distant folds of Chatham City was a teeming pot of humanity. Chatham Castle stood stalwart above all, a behemoth Guardian in the sky, set against an even greater backdrop of forest.
The air smelled like cinnamon. Several boards lined the walls, filled with oddities that created a cozy home. Jars of different colored sand, of varying heights and widths, spread in a rainbow against the wooden walls. No divan. Giant pillows cluttered one corner, built up to a snug nook. Isadora wanted to grab one of the thin books and curl up around a fluffy pillow.
“You have a beautiful view,” Isadora said.
“Thank you, I thought so. I rent this floor from the elderly couple that lives below. After so many years at Wildrose, I wanted to be able to see something. Witches, mostly. While I loved my time in the country, I wanted a bit more . . . presence . . . to my day. I can’t lie, I’m quite fond of the markets and walking around the city. Charlie hates that I go alone, but . . .”
Faye shrugged, the smirk on her face clearly stating that Charlie’s opinion was his own problem. Isadora hid a smile.
She might have just found her new best friend.
“I see.”
Charlie. The thought ruminated in the back of her mind. Amongst all the other shocks in her recent life lay that of the High Priest, Charles, actually being the hidden Advocate all these years. A brilliant man, posing as a dunce.
Isadora turned away from Chatham City and its grayish splendor. Faye bustled around a small table. A wide bed, a set of two chairs, two plates, a pair of shoes too large to belong to a small-footed woman like Faye, and a hint of something masculine in the air, stacked several pieces of a growing puzzle.
“You and Charlie . . .?”
She allowed the implied question to gather its own power. Faye laughed again, softly this time.
“Yes. Me and Charlie.”
“Oh.”
“He’s unexpected in most ways, isn’t he?”
“Very,” Isadora said with a breath. “I . . . I’m still trying to take it all in, to be honest.”
“He told me you handled the truth about his role as the Advocate well. You’re in a very exclusive circle. The witches that know the truth about him are small, but growing.”
“Word of—”
“Yes, word of the Advocacy and his role in it will eventually spread, but he wants to delay that for now. There’s more to figure out in our world than who the High Priest is or pretends to be.”
Is there? Isadora wanted to ask. As brilliant as it was that Charlie could save so many witches, she couldn’t help a sense of uncertainty. Could they trust a witch so capable of great deceit?
Faye watched her closely.
“Max hasn’t told you about how he met me and Charlie, has he?” she asked, and Isadora was grateful for the diversion.
“No.”
“Has he told you about his family in the East?”
“A little. When we were in the Southern Network he told me a little about his pere and mere but . . . details are vague.”
Faye sighed. “Well, that’s expected. Charlie told me not to meddle in things with you and Max, but I think you’ve been put into an unfair situation. Max isn’t likely to tell you the details that I have about him, Charlie, Wildrose, and Ranulf, but I think you should know. If you’re going to stay with Max, anyway.”
“That’s the question he and I need to answer, I suppose.”
Faye studied her, then nodded. “Yes, I guess you will. Do you love him?”
“I do.”
“I can tell. Do you trust him?”
Isadora could only stare, shocked into silence. She didn’t know. The kind gesture of unpacking her bag, his openness in letting her roam Wildrose. Even the plea in his voice when he asked her to stay . . .
“I don’t know.”
No shock crossed Faye’s eyes. “Well, I don’t blame you. Max and I rarely see eye to eye. He can be a difficult personality, and I can be headstrong, but we’ve figured it out because of our love for Charlie. If there’s any witch that might speak against Max, it’s me. But even I will vouch for his character, though he’s far from perfect.”
Sensing a confidant, Isadora said, “I’d love more information. I . . . I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. The handfasting was just supposed to be in the Southern Network and now . . .”
She shrugged, at a loss.
Faye put her hand on the back of a chair and pulled it out.
“Sit, Isadora,” she said more firmly, in a command Isadora had no reason to refuse. “We might as well start at the beginning, when Charlie, Max, and I came together at Wildrose Manor. I won’t tell you everything—that’s not my place—but I will tell you the beginning between the three of us. That much will help.”