Night Market Magic (Regency Tales of Love and Magic #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

S he’d had a family once.

She had only vague memories of them, but she revisited them in her dreams. Her mother’s face remained elusive, but she knew the scent of her—lilac and honey, rosemary and yeast. She still felt the warm comfort of her embrace, recalled feeling tight and cranky and full of too much magic until she burrowed into her mother’s lap, where she was soothed with songs and caresses and given a golden bauble to fill with the excess power that sometimes pressed and stretched her like a drum.

The memories of her father were largely audible. She could hear the echo of his booming laugh and the bubbling of her own giddy giggles when he tickled her or threw her high in the air. She dreamt the thrilling drop of her stomach as she fell out of the sky and into his arms. How she missed that utter confidence—that he would catch her without fail and hug her tight.

She dreamt the end of it all, too.

The fear in her mother’s voice. The admonition to stay quiet, stay hidden. The shouts. The pleas. The cries of pain. The roar of her father’s arrival. Her hiding place had trembled at the force of his furious battle, at the release of his grief and wrath.

Then came the quiet. The puzzlement on emerging from her hiding spot to find herself quite completely alone. In her dreams she felt again the disbelief and the indignation. The small innocent she’d been could not grasp the enormity of her loss. She knew only the strange sensation of being alone, of hunger and longing, and, at last, of determination to find her loved ones.

Even her dreams skipped over much of the long, treacherous, lonely journey that followed. Her adult self knew it had to have been her magic that allowed her to survive. How else had she stayed hidden and fed? How else had she wandered so far and come out unscathed? Sometimes she would dream a flash of an image from that time. A small, stunted berry bush growing instantly lush and full of fruit. An empty puddle filling with fresh water. The snarl of a predator turning to a confused whine as it shook its head and wandered away. A withered apple on a branch, falling ripe and plump into her hand.

But her dreams of the end of her journey always came focused and detailed. She saw herself emerge, dirty and thin, from a wood and into a clearing that had been taken over by a market. Shadows reached from the trees, but they also seemed to hang over the bedraggled collection of tents and stalls. Her filthy feet shrank from the sharp stones that lined the winding ways between them. Listless faces watched her go by. Faded colors, indifferent smells. She wandered from one booth to the next. Almost, by that point, she had forgotten her parents and her previous life. But she knew she was looking for someone. Or something? Had been looking for a long while.

Suddenly, she found it.

The tent was perhaps a little larger than the others, but it certainly looked as tired and neglected. Still, it whispered to her, calling her forward, pulling at the magic moving under her skin. Pushing through the flap, she stopped in surprise.

The inside stretched farther than it should and was filled with wonders, crammed with strange and fascinating objects. Some were clearly broken, like the great pair of wings that stretched across the top of the tent, harness straps dangling and one wing drooping, snapped mid-span. Others showed signs of obvious care, like the plants that filled the nooks and crannies of the room. It was a treasure trove, but at the center sat a spindly desk, crooked and empty.

A creak drew her attention to a corner, where a spinning wheel turned sluggishly, the foot pedal rising and falling on its own. Behind it, slowly feeding it, sat an old woman, her lined face gone slack with surprise.

“What’s this, then?” The question came quick and sharp.

She had only stared. Her magic twisted inside her.

“What is your name, child?”

How long had it been since anyone had spoken to her? She’d almost forgotten she had a name. But she remembered her mother crooning it in her ear. “Clio,” she answered. My sweet little Clio .

Frowning, the old woman set her flax aside. “Come here, Clio.”

She went, hungry for contact, for conversation, for care. As she drew closer, the old woman’s face changed. Her gaze narrowed, and desperate hope warred with dread. “Oh, my little love. Is it you? Have you come at last?”

Clio didn’t know how to answer. Magic still moved restlessly under her skin. It could be dangerous. She desperately did not want anything to go wrong.

The old woman turned to one side, where a pedestal stood. Atop it sat a metal pot hook, elaborately carved into a dragon standing on two widespread feet. It had a sinuous tail and a long, curved neck. Its glowing eyes stared at Clio. The mouth stretched permanently open, and a long tongue snaked forward. Hooked over its tongue hung a lantern.

Squat and round, the lantern hid a small flame behind a hazy, glazed window. The round window had a hinge on one side and a latch on the other. Even as she noticed it, the latch formed a finger which slowly crooked at her.

“Can you open the lantern, Clio?” The old woman whispered the question.

Her magic was roiling now. She should go. Something bad could happen. But the finger crooked again, and she reached for the latch. The window swung open, and Clio looked with sorrow at the tiny flame inside. So weak. Feeble. Without thought, she reached for it.

It reached for her, too. Eager flames engulfed her fingers, but it didn’t burn. It pulled , drinking in great gulps of her magic. Clio gasped at the relief of it.

“My stars!” the old woman gasped. “It is you! At last!” Very gently, she took Clio’s fingers away from the flame, which now burned tall and many times brighter. “Now, child, you must learn to control it. The Night Market is a greedy thing. You must learn to feed it carefully. Like this.” She made a motion with her two hands, like stretching out a string between them. “Narrow the flow. It will stay constant and connected. Can you see mine?”

Clio squinted and made out the thin filament of magic that connected the old woman to the lantern.

“Thin the connection,” the old woman instructed. “The Market is hungry, but you must control the flow. It’s better for both of you to keep it slow and steady.”

Concentrating, Clio managed to mimic the old woman’s thin thread of connection. Her power pooled, golden and warm, inside her. She felt at peace, in balance, for the first time in a long time. For the first time since she’d last sat in her mother’s lap and filled a golden bauble with her excess magic. Drawing a deep breath, she grinned at the old woman and reveled in that feeling of well-being.

“I had signs that you were coming, but I scarcely allowed myself to believe it.” Knees cracking, the old woman stood. “Come, Clio. Someone arrived yesterday. I should have known she was here to meet you.”

The old woman crossed to a large plant. It stood thick and tall in a pot that bore a Green Man’s face. Parting the branches, she gestured for Clio to look inside.

Clio let out a long breath. A nest sat inside, large and sturdy and filled with owlets. Three were larger and covered in grey down. The smaller one was a white and beige ball of fluff with great yellow eyes. It looked up at her, clacked its beak and made a hissing sound.

“Her name is Athena!” Clio said, delighted.

Clio and the old woman both turned as sounds of excitement came from outside. They left the owl babies, and the old woman threw the tent flap open. Peering out, Clio blinked. The rocky path she’d followed here was changing. The sharp-edged rocks were sinking, and from the tent rolled a thick carpet of green, sweet-smelling grass. Cries of surprise and delight came from around the maze of tents as the transformation raced through.

“Well, then,” the old woman said with satisfaction. “And so the new era begins.”