To most eyes, nothing changed. Jean recovered his good spirits, and we went on planning our wedding and honeymoon. He spent hours in the oldest parts of the library, studying the writings of the ancient warlocks, as one would expect of a mage, but also made time to go on picnics and engage in play of all sorts. He laughed often, but the unadulterated exuberance had leaked out of him. I grieved for that, and I would sometimes wake, trembling, in the middle of the night, from dreams haunted by flashes of lightning.
Those dreams I understood. The one that baffled me was about a beast in the shape of a man, but with teeth and claws and appetite as wicked as a lion’s, stalking Claire in the shadows. If it ate her, it would be because I hadn’t gotten there in time. I tried to call, tried to run to warn her, but my voice was muffled, and my limbs mired in quicksand.
I woke up, gasping. Thrashing around in my sleep had gotten my legs so tangled in the bedclothes I couldn’t move them. I fought with the sheets and blankets until free, then flung the whole lot towards the end of the bed. They landed on the footboard, hung for a second, then slithered to the floor.
Why couldn’t my sense of danger tell me something useful? A year ago, I had saved Claire from the lion on the challenge path. Dreaming about that monster now made no sense.
I hit the floor with a bone-jarring thump and heaved the bedclothes back onto the bed. It was early, but I didn’t get back in. I’d had enough warning.
I was eager to see old friends, but I’d been away from Lesser Campton for a year, and the village was no longer home. I intended to visit my stepmother first, but as I crossed the commons, Danielle, the butcher’s wife, screamed, “Lucinda’s back! Look here, everybody! Lucinda’s back!”
My proud new hat, emblazoned with the Fire Guild’s dancing flames, elicited another shriek. “You are a witch—I knew it!” The news ran like wildfire through the village, and within moments I was mobbed.
For the better part of five hours, I told and retold my story as more old friends crowded in. Shrieks and whistles greeted demonstrations of fire magic; shudders and gasps accompanied encounters with the Fire Office and the Frost Maiden. But they met the revelation I had rescued and intended to marry the retired Fire Warlock first with dead silence and then with jeers and catcalls.
A debate over my sanity raged around me while I handed out wedding invitations, and the smith fetched the pastor from Old Campton. He read the invitations, doubling as passes through the Earth Guild tunnels to the Warren, and vouched that they agreed with what I had said.
The verdict was unanimous. They had, every single one, known all along I was a scorcher of a fire witch, and the village would come, en masse, to the wedding to inspect the warlock I was marrying. He must be a warlock as no lesser man would dare, but my delusion he had been the Fire Warlock must be a spell gone bad. Mine, his, who knew?
“Although,” Mrs Miller said, “if you insist on leaving Frankland, it would be a mercy to know he really was the old Fire Warlock. It’s dangerous out there, but you’d be safe with the Fire Warlock looking after you.”
I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and let it out again. Tell them he was training me to fight like a male warlock? To call down the lightning? Might as well say, yes, we were both mad.
In mid-afternoon I escaped with a raw throat and trudged down the lane to my father’s house. The garden had gone to seed; last autumn’s leaves lay in windrows against the walls. A shutter swung loose in the breeze. I stood by the gate for several minutes before clenching my jaw and going in. I had been lying to myself in thinking I would come here first. If I had meant to, I would have skirted the commons and slipped down the lane behind the mill.
My stepmother opened the door a crack and peered through the gap, then flung the door open wide. She engulfed me in a hug worthy of an earth witch, and pulled me inside, with exclamations and questions coming faster than I could respond. Over biscuits and tea with lemon and honey, I croaked out my story, once again.
She said, “I’m so glad. You have no idea how worried I’ve been over you. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re marrying somebody who can take care of you.”
“Right. Well.” At least she believed me. “Tell me about Claire.”
“She got sick, about three months after you left. I thought she was dying. Granny Martha said it wasn’t anything she’d ever dealt with before. She took her through the tunnels to another granny in Gastòn.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
Mother Janet’s breath came in gasps. “No…I couldn’t. A city… Never…”
But your own daughter. I clamped my mouth shut and glowered.
“Besides,” she said, “the Earth Guild never lets anybody who isn’t on their deathbed through the tunnels.”
“They do, if the person is accompanying an ill family member.” I watched her fluttering hands, and fumed. “Go on.”
“The other granny said it was serious, something she needed to keep an eye on, even after she got better, so Claire’s been there ever since.”
“Why? What did she have?”
“I don’t know; they didn’t say. I think she didn’t want to come back. She’s making some money—not much, mind you—doing piecework for a needlework shop.”
Claire, working? “How can I find her? I want to see her.”
“Oh, would you? That would be such a relief. I’ve been so worried about her. Bless you, dear.”
She told me how to find Claire, and I should have gone then, but I could not abide the mess. While she rambled on and on, alternating between a year’s worth of gossip and tears over the fat purse I was leaving her, I scrubbed, scoured, dusted, and mopped. I gave up after opening the door to Father’s study. The bookshelves’ stripped skeletons nearly made me lose my composure, but I held back the tears until I had said goodbye and was out of sight.
The next day I set out for Gastòn with butterflies in my stomach and a chill in my bones. My studies in self-defence had not armed me against glamour spells, and knowing one is at work does not make it easier to take. I’d almost rather face the unthawed Frost Maiden than Claire’s glamour spell.
If it protected her from an unprincipled rogue, there could be some merit to it. She might lure a man into a marriage he didn’t want rather than being lured herself into disgrace. But being stuck with him wouldn’t be much of an improvement.
The Fire Warlock’s gate opened into a busy square in the centre of Gastòn. Passers-by bowed and curtsied, showing proper deference to a high-ranking fire witch. No one panicked, no one ran, no one appeared in a hurry to avoid me, but I walked through the jostling crowd untouched. Within seconds the footpath was clear.
Except for one snarling nobleman—his attitude gave him away even before I saw the sword—who moved to stand square in the middle of the footpath. I would have to walk around him or smack into him.
Arrogant bastard. The nobles resented the talented as much as the commoners resented the nobles, but I’d not been on the receiving end before. I walked around him without otherwise acknowledging his existence. He called something after me. I didn’t dignify his insult with a response, tempting though it was to flame him. It wouldn’t teach him a lesson, and I would get into trouble.
Shame. The nobles would be a lot less obnoxious if the Fire Office didn’t shield them from death or permanent injury. Whoever thought up those shields must have had cinders for brains.
Two blocks later, I was sweating. The commoners’ deference had been heady, but even out of sight of the gate, my hat drew too much attention. I wasn’t experienced enough to pick threats out of a crowd. I expected—hoped—that Jean was keeping an eye on me from the Fortress, but I came close to panic before the crowd thinned. Fighter training wasn’t a bad idea, after all.
Mother Janet’s directions led to a quiet street a long way from the centre of town. With few pedestrians about, I had relaxed by the time I found Mrs Wetherby’s boarding house. Indistinguishable from its neighbours, its only oddity was a hex emanating from a sign saying, ‘Women only.’ I was searching for other protective spells when an eagle-eyed earth witch emerged from a sitting room by the front door.
“Morning, miss. I’m Mrs Wetherby. Are you looking for someone?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for my stepsister, Claire Nelson.”
The woman’s long face brightened. “You’re Miss Lucinda, then? She talks about you quite a bit, and I’d gathered you were a fire witch, but I’m surprised she didn’t mention you were a top-ranking one. Come in and have a seat. She went out for a walk. She won’t be long.”
I sensed no anger or jealousy. Were earth witches immune to glamour spells? I perched on the edge of the sofa. “You’ve gotten to know her well? I’m glad—I’ve been worried about her coming here by herself, with no one to warn her which men are cads and blackguards.”
“That’s what I’m here for. The girls listen to me—if they don’t I give them the boot—and I take stock of every man who comes courting. If his intentions are bad, he’ll forget where we are and never find his way here again.”
A weight dropped off my shoulders, and I relaxed against the sofa. “You’re using magic to conceal the women?”
“Of course. The Earth Guild provides safe houses for women on their own, and this is as safe a place as you’ll find in this city. That’s why I set up out here. Closer to the Earl’s palace, with all those nobles about, would be dangerous. When one of my guests goes to the centre of town, she’ll get a nobleman’s attention only if she wants it.”
“How do you do that? What spells do you use?”
Her lips pressed together in a prim frown. “Guild secrets.”
“Fine.” I shrugged. I would ask Hazel, later. “I’m glad Claire found this place. It was lucky for her.”
“Wasn’t luck. Granny Helene sent her here.”
“Granny Helene?”
“The healer. She’s been keeping an eye on Claire for months now.”
That was all she would tell me.
Claire’s shriek—Lucinda!—was as eardrum-piercing as Danielle’s had been.
She looked thrilled to see me. Of course she would. That’s how glamour spells work.
With my talents hidden by my lock and the Fire Guild emblem tucked into my pocket, we set out for the nearest inn. I treated her to a beef pie and cider, and we sat down to have a long heart-to-heart chat. Customers and staff in the inn turned to stare, ignoring me, gawking open-mouthed at Claire. She was, as ever, sparkling and golden. The waitress who brought us our food stammered and blushed, Claire made pleasant small talk, and the woman walked away smiling.
Claire insisted on hearing my story before she told me hers. I couldn’t figure out what she wanted. She couldn’t be interested. Had she acted this way in Lesser Campton? I couldn’t remember. The last few conversations I could remember clearly were from years ago, before the glamour spell.
When I described unlocking my abilities as a warlock, she said with satisfaction, “That explains everything. I knew all along you were a witch. You had to be.”
“I never said I didn’t have an affinity for the Fire Guild, but—”
“Not that. You always acted like a witch—never admitting anybody else was your better, not being afraid of anything—”
“There are lots of things I’m afraid of.”
“Like what?”
“Drowning, Storm King, lightning…”
“That’s it, isn’t it? Big things. Little things like spiders and dogs and broken arms never scared you. And you always acted like you were going to marry for love. Who else besides a witch or a rich man’s daughter can do that?”
“I what? I did not.”
“Of course you did. All those stories you told—your favourites all had the hero falling in love with a witch. The boys who came courting you—didn’t I end up entertaining them after you got bored with them? You could’ve had them wrapped around your finger if you’d wanted to. And now you’re getting married, and you’re in love, aren’t you?”
I felt as if I’d been sandbagged. “How do you know I’m getting married? I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
“Because if you weren’t you would have started with, ‘I haven’t found a husband, but it doesn’t matter because I’m a witch.’ Go on with your story.”
We finished our pies long before I finished talking. The crowd in the dining room thinned and the innkeeper brought us a pot of coffee, telling us we could stay and talk as long as we liked. Claire pulled a piece of embroidery out of her bag and set to work with a flashing needle. Claire, working?
The little I knew of glamour spells suggested it was unlikely she would have given it up, but I probed while I talked, and found no trace. I finished my story and asked about her. She waved that aside and peppered me with questions. Where would we live? Did I have a wedding dress? What could I do besides start fires?
She acted as if she cared. Could this be real, and not the spell at work?
“Marrying the Fire Warlock,” she said, “sounds like something out of a fairy tale. And I said nothing much scares you—any other girl would run away, screaming. At least you know he can protect you from the wicked men out there.”
Through clenched teeth I said, “I don’t need anybody to protect me.”
“Of course you don’t, but you can’t let him know that. A man wants to take care of his wife. How’s he going to think he’s a good husband if you don’t need him?”
“I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody. I…” Less than three hours ago I had been hoping he was keeping an eye on me, to spot enemies in the crowd. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. “Claire, enough about me. How are you? Tell me.”
“There isn’t much to tell. I’ve made new friends, and met some nice men, and people like my embroidery enough to pay for it. Can you imagine? Getting paid to do something I would do for fun anyway.”
True, she had sewn for pleasure even when she had been too lazy to do chores. “You’ve always had a good eye for colour. That whatever-it-is you’re working on—”
“Table runner.”
“—Is gorgeous.”
“Thanks. I’d feel like a miser if I kept it to myself when someone else could enjoy it.”
A year ago, she would have preened when complimented on her skills. But caring that it gave someone else pleasure? I wanted the change in her to be real. “Claire, I am so glad you stopped using that glamour spell.”
She looked up from her embroidery, and stabbed herself with the needle. We both winced. She stuck her finger in her mouth, and I almost sucked on mine.
She said, “What glamour spell?”