My first Waking had been terrifying. It was before Jember worked for the church that moved us away from this far more dangerous town, and a one-room cube of wood and mud with a tin roof was no place to leave a five-year-old by herself all night. So Jember had taken me with him to see a client. I’d sat through the Waking, staring through trembling fingers as he worked, and for weeks afterward I’d had nightmares of a Manifestation made of long fingernails, crawling up the wall like a scorpion.
Eventually I got used to monsters. Eventually I learned that the world was scarier than anything the Evil Eye could manifest. A merciless upbringing had left me literally scarred, whereas no curse could lay a finger on me.
But after my first night in this house, I knew I was wrong. My God … how could I have been so wrong?
I don’t remember climbing into bed, but I awoke buried in my blanket, shaking. From the cold or from lingering terror, I couldn’t tell.
The wind. The stinging cold. Those violent hands. Everything had felt so real, now all reduced to the memory of a nightmare.
I was almost too nervous to leave my room, but I was there to earn my keep, not huddle in bed all day. I dressed underneath the covers, then forced myself out into the open. A chill shot through my leg as I placed my foot on the ground. If I was going to survive the next few weeks here, I’d have to ask for warmer clothing. After my interaction with Mr. Rochester the night before, I doubted I’d get it.
I would ask Esjay. He seemed to be the only person with sense in this house.
I paused at the door, watching the hearth blaze. Someone had been in my room. I appreciated the heat, but the idea that someone could unlock the door and come in while I was sleeping scared me a little.
And I’d barricaded it, too. Wait, had I? Because the chair was in its original spot near the fire, as if I hadn’t touched it.
I rushed into the hall, only glancing at Mr. Rochester’s shut door before heading down the stairs. The steps were in perfect form. There was no rat horde, or hands either, thank God. All the spiritual activity in the house seemed quiet.
Still, I hadn’t signed the contract. There was still time to run.
Run back to what?
I needed the money. I had nowhere else to go except back to the street. But the thought of spending another Waking in this house petrified me, despite the amenities that came with living here. My first Waking all over again, amplified ten times over.
From now on I would stick to cleansing the house during the day.
I don’t know why, but when I turned the corner into the dining room I half expected to be greeted by a corpse. The memory of the last corpse I’d seen popped into my head. Jember had made me dig a hole—what he’d called “a character-building sport”—and when I followed him back later, I saw him dump in something very human-shaped wrapped in rough cloth. The curiosity had worn off quickly enough that I’d never gotten around to asking, and Jember wasn’t the type to kill and tell.
But there was nothing dead on the other side of the wall, unless one counted Peggy’s dead-eyed glare as she exited the kitchen.
She put a steaming bowl on the table. “Come eat, child,” she said, as if I was already late. I took my seat without a word. It was some sort of tan mush. Porridge, probably, though not done well. Whoever had made the spread last night clearly hadn’t cooked this morning. But it was a blessing I had food at all, and it was nice and hot.
“Peggy.” Emma leaned in the doorway, her cheeks red, her breath a bit heavy as if she’d been rushing around. “Have you seen Edward?”
“Did you check the stables?” Peggy responded harshly.
“He’s not there.” Emma’s eyes were wide. “Do you think he—?”
“He’s there,” Peggy snapped, her sharp reaction jolting me a little. “Of course he’s there. And if not, he’s somewhere else. Go, get on with your day.”
Emma hesitated, her eyes glistening a bit in the firelight. And then she disappeared around the corner again, her hurried steps disappearing down the hall.
One thing was certain—I would have to do everything in my power to avoid dealing with Peggy. Stabbing my employer’s housekeeper was most likely grounds for immediate termination, no matter how detestably she carried herself.
I ate my mush with a cup of water, and then followed Peggy down the hall—but a few safe feet behind, because her hands were in her apron pockets and I hated that I couldn’t see them. It was silly when I thought about it—Peggy wasn’t going to attack me. She was rude, but obviously not a killer. And even if she was, I had quick reflexes.
You’re in a grand house, Andi. Get your mind off the streets.
Peggy turned a corner, and I rushed to catch up, nearly bumping into another woman. She looked a little older than me. Her head was shaved, and her skin was dark and smooth, radiant against her simple yellow dress—not at all equipped for the cold. She was tall and athletic and beautiful. I wondered if she was Mr. Rochester’s wife.
But if she was a rich lady of the house, Peggy would’ve acknowledged her when she passed her in the hall, especially since she looked as if she was trying to hold back tears.
I opened my mouth to comfort her … then remembered the last time I’d tried to comfort someone and instead rushed to catch up with Peggy. It was seven years ago, when seven of my peers decided they didn’t like me being kind to a girl they’d already deemed not worth their time. I’d paid for it with a beating and a knife to the face.
“Whose life is more important to you?” Jember asked. “Yours, or that stranger who will never think of you again?”
“God loves us both,” I’d replied, struggling to see him through swollen eyes.
“Your empathy has created poor survival habits.” Jember handed me a bottle of alcohol to disinfect my wounds. “Next time I’ll let them kill you.”
There was no next time. I never tried to protect anyone but myself again.
That wasn’t about to change now.
“Wake up, child,” Peggy snapped.
I blinked away the memory, and we were in front of an open doorway.
“He wants to see you,” she said. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
I stepped inside. Sunlight bathed the room from the large windows, rows of tall bookshelves cutting stark shadows into the light on the floor. Mr. Rochester sat in an armchair facing the blazing fireplace, leaning forward with a large pad of paper on his knees. He drew with a grey pencil, a red one tucked in his mess of soft curls, which were long enough to reach the bottom of his chin. His skin was the color of wet sand, but there was also something pale about his complexion, almost ill. It lacked the golden glow of someone who’d seen the sun anytime recently. But his cheekbones. Like blades. He stared at the wall for a while, as if deep in thought, then looked back down at his paper. Some sort of bell or metal at his wrist jingled with the movement of his hand.
I looked at the wall he seemed to be drawing. It was a fireplace backed by red and black paisley wallpaper. Over it was mounted a large portrait, littered with darts and scratches, of a white man with a thick sandy-blond beard, holding a swaddled baby. The man looked sad, and a little angry, as if he knew his portrait was marred by darts. I felt bad for the baby.
I knocked on the open door. “Sir?”
“Who is it?” he asked, without looking up.
“It’s Andr—”
“Right, yes.” He pushed a wayward curl at his temple behind his ear. “Come in.”
His voice was light and casual, not at all like the person I’d met the night before. I stepped into the room and Mr. Rochester continued, without looking at me, “I must get my subject down on paper before she notices. Help yourself to cherry tarts and coffee.”
Cherry tarts for breakfast? Odd, but I was still hungry after that mush. I sat on the puffy fabric chair on the other side of the small round table and took a tart, then glanced at the wall again. All I saw was the ill-tempered man and the baby, and yet he had said “she.” Who exactly was he drawing?
I peered at his drawing and gasped. On top of the fireplace stood a woman wearing a red kaba, the ornate bridal cape and crown fit for royalty. Blood gushed from her mouth, staining her white dress—the only use of the red pencil other than her kaba. The rest of the drawing was shaded in eerie tones of grey.
I looked at the lack of woman against the actual wall, and then back to the drawing. A chill ran down my spine. “Are you seeing … her … right now?”
“Only in my memory.”
“Does she appear often?”
“Every day. I call her the Librarian, because she loves to rearrange my books.” He grinned. “Spiteful, tidy woman.” He drew one last line and held the pad at arm’s length, his wrists jingling sharply at the movement, then turned the drawing to me. “What do you think?”
“Why is she bleeding?”
“I used to ask, and then she would leave threatening book passages open the next morning for me to read with breakfast,” he said, gesturing to the table beside us. “I no longer ask.”
“I notice you didn’t include the portrait in your drawing.”
“Yes, well. I don’t draw monsters.”
I hesitated. That had to be a painting of his father … didn’t it? “Why not take the portrait down, then?”
“Target practice.” He signed and dated his work and then tucked it beside the chair, exchanging his pencil for a tart. Finally, his eyes met mine, and a gentle, almost relieved expression slipped to his face. It was as if all the rudeness and anger I’d seen in him hinged on this one human interaction.
And then his eyes shifted lower and widened. “God. You have a massive scar on your face.”
My cheeks flared with shame. Perhaps I’d read his expression wrong, because the eye contact hadn’t changed him one bit. Still as rude as last night.
“You make a terrible first impression, you know,” he went on, and took a bite of his tart. “Weren’t you supposed to arrive yesterday?”
“I did arrive yesterday.” He paused and blinked at me, so I added, “We spoke before bed.”
“Hm. I don’t remember that.”
“You were…” Fussy. Like a baby. “Tired, sir.”
“Call me Magnus. I don’t like the formality of titles. It makes us such strangers, and I don’t like strangers in my house.”
I paused. “I am employed by you, sir. I don’t think—”
“I like the brown of your eyes,” he said, with wonder in his voice. “Tilt your head toward the light?”
“Tilt my head?”
“I just want to see the highlights.”
I hesitated, then turned my face halfway to the fire, hoping he’d look at my eyes and move on from the topic.
“Umber undertones,” he murmured. “Yes. Like steeped tea…”
“Is there a reason you wanted to see me?” I asked, settling back in the chair and looking him firmly in the eye.
“I can tell you’re annoyed just by looking in your eyes.” He sounded almost … pleased about it.
Is there something wrong with you? was at the tip of my tongue, but I needed this job, and insulting my employer wasn’t the way to keep it.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked suddenly. “Here.”
He pulled off his sweater—it was the color of rust, bright compared to what the rest of the household wore—and I froze as he put it over my head. I sat speechless for a moment, his sweater swallowing my torso, and then hesitantly put my arms through the holes. The knit was still warm from his body and smelled like cologne and nutmeg. It was an oddly intimate experience.
Magnus didn’t seem to notice my discomfort as he went on. “Peggy was supposed to provide you with proper clothing.” He scratched his head, discovering the red pencil tucked in his hair. He laid it beside the other with a fond grin, as if he were crossing paths with a friend. “Oh well, I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Get used to calling me Magnus, or I’ll replace you with someone who will. Saba!” He called, and I winced against his sudden volume. “Saba, come here!”
After a moment the woman with the shaved head appeared in the doorway. Now that I was seeing her again, she looked a little like Magnus. Their cheekbones, maybe, and the shape of her eyes. His sister? But then why was she treated so poorly?
“Saba, see if you can find our guest something warmer to wear.”
The woman shuffled away, and Magnus turned his attention back to me. “So, down to business. Let me tell you a little about my situation. My mother married my father and cursed him with the Evil Eye. My father then had the nerve to get himself killed three years ago and pass it on to me. Because of that, I had to move from my comfortable mansion in England to live in a giant icebox with a handful of tiresome adults in order to keep the general population out of danger. I’ll be twenty-one soon, and Esjay thinks it’s important that Thorne Manor is cleansed before that time, since I’ll have to take over my father’s business upon my birthday. In summary, adults are useless, and you have seven months to do three years’ worth of work. Do you have any questions so far?”
“Is every Waking in your house so … violent?”
“It’s an unfortunate thing. But it’s the reason we have a curfew in place. Anyone out in the halls after ten o’clock knows the risks.”
“How can it still be so bad after three years?”
He sighed heavily, as if he was sick of hearing about it. “Every time we lose a debtera I feel like less and less progress is made. The servants’ quarters are cleansed, some of the bedrooms, the dining room and kitchen. But that’s nothing compared to the number of rooms that are left.”
I folded a tart into a napkin while he wasn’t looking, then slipped it into my pocket for later. “What did you mean you ‘lose’ debtera?”
“I’m sure Esjay told you you’re not the first.”
“How many have you had, exactly?”
“Oh, you know…” He hesitated, his cheeks growing rosy. “Eleven.”
I almost dropped my next tart in my lap. “Eleven debtera in three years?”
“Including you. But that’s a nice even number to stop on, don’t you agree?”
“You mean odd.”
“What’s odd about it?” He put down his cup with a clink. “Let’s get to the point. I know why you sent me your résumé. Do you know why I chose yours out of the pile?”
“It was the next in line?” I said dryly.
“You’re unlicensed. Which means you’re seeking a patron, correct?”
Magnus checked all the right boxes for a proper patron. Wealthy. Well connected. Someone who would vouch for my ability in exchange for successfully cleansing his house. With his support I wouldn’t need a license to get more work. But he rubbed me the wrong way as if he was born to do it, and if there was any other option I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
He raised his thick eyebrows at me, and I had no choice but to nod. “You picked me solely because I’m unlicensed?”
“Esjay used to be in charge of the hiring, but you can see how that’s gone so far.” He rolled his eyes. “So, I looked at the top of each résumé until I found one that didn’t list a license. The others have nothing substantial to lose or gain, whereas the two of us have everything. You need this job as much as I need your skill, making this the perfect partnership.”
“I … suppose that’s true.”
He looked very satisfied with himself. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me about yourself.”
“Myself?”
“Esjay said you studied with Jember, which seems to be an impressive accomplishment. How many years did you train?”
“I’ve been around the craft my entire life, but couldn’t officially begin my mentorship until I turned sixteen.”
“That seems a little late to begin learning such an intricate skill.”
We learned the hymns before then, but never amulet work. Strange that someone who had employed ten others before me didn’t already know that. “It takes a certain amount of patience and maturity to construct amulets, and silver is too expensive to waste on the unsteady hands of children.”
“Silver’s not that expensive,” he said, waving his hand carelessly. “And don’t worry, I have plenty of it here for you, so you can mess up to your heart’s content. As long as the Evil Eye is gone at the end of it, I don’t care how many attempts it takes.”
I wanted to dump my coffee on his expensive rug. “Yes, sir.”
“Magnus.” He paused, shifting to lean his elbow on the arm of the chair, his hand blocking his chin and mouth as he studied me. “I get the feeling you were never hugged as a child.”
I choked on my coffee. Not just because it was an incredibly rude thing to say, but because he was right. Jember had nerve damage that made skin contact painful, so we rarely touched. On top of that, he considered too much affection to be a poor survival habit. So my experience with hugs was limited.
I wiped my mouth on the oversized sweater sleeve. “What does that have to do with cleansing your house?”
“You’re just very formal. Tense.”
“Should I not be formal at an interview?”
He shrugged. “You already have the position. So, tell me: Why did you choose to become a debtera?”
“I don’t think anyone chooses to serve the church. God puts the desire in you.”
“An extremely uninteresting answer, Andromeda.” He raised his cup to his lips. “Try again.”
My muscles flexed slightly as I leveled a firm glare at him. “I’m not here to amuse you. I’m here to cleanse your house of the Evil Eye. Do you want my help or don’t you?”
“I don’t know. What makes you better equipped for it than the ten debtera before you?”
“You selected me by my résumé, or else I wouldn’t be here.”
“Weren’t you listening? I didn’t read your résumé.” He looked around for it briefly, then shrugged. “Esjay tells me it’s very impressive, despite the lack of licensure. But you don’t really expect me to let a stranger stay in my house without knowing a bit about her? Normally the debtera you trained with would offer a character reference, but I take it Jember didn’t supply one while throwing you out.”
I stiffened. There was no way he could’ve known Jember had thrown me out. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re unlicensed, which means he either refused to finish training you or you quit. Why?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Not really.”
I took a breath and wished for the hundredth time that I had the financial freedom to storm out of there. “Let’s just say we didn’t see eye to eye on things.”
“If I was being trained by the best debtera alive, I wouldn’t care if he had different views than me. Come, it had to be something else. Were you just fed up? He’s brutal to deal with, I hear, even if you aren’t his mentee.”
“Depends who you ask.”
“I asked every debtera before you. Are you telling me you’re tougher than all those grown men?”
“Women usually are.”
Magnus laughed. “Finally, some honesty in this house. That’s good, because I need you to be frank with your response to my next question.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Magnus.”
I sighed. “Yes, Magnus.”
“What would you do if I asked you to kill me?”
I felt paralyzed. Breathless. “What?”
He leaned toward me. “Would you do it?”
There was something in his expression that unsettled me. Like anticipation, like … hope. But before I could answer, his light brown eyes lit up. “Ah, your clothes.”
He stood—oh God, there were bells on his ankles, too?—and crossed to the door, where he accepted a stack of folded clothes from the downtrodden woman from before. “Thank you, Saba. Here, Andromeda, go get yourself suited up against the cold, and then I’ll give you a tour of the house.”