Chapter One Viola #2
The last words of the dead are sacred. Speak them, and you’ll meet your end.
Nan’s warning rings in my head, but I don’t keep secrets from my sister.
It’s been twelve years, and I’ve shared the last words of the dead with Olivia more times than I can count.
Sometimes, out of necessity; other times, to help me solve riddles.
And we’re both still alive. “Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the three people glaring at us from the living room as we walk by.
We’re almost to the entryway when a woman in her late fifties stops us. She looks like a younger version of the deceased. “Thank you for coming,” she croaks. “How did you know my mother?”
“I…” I didn’t.
Olivia lets go of my hand. In two steps, she’s hugging the woman. “We are so sorry about your mother,” she says. Then she quietly adds, “Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps.”
The woman’s eyes widen as Olivia lets go of her.
The pause between them gnaws at my insides.
I bite my lips, waiting. This can go one of two ways—Albion’s general sentiment around mages is either overt enthusiasm or downright fear.
As much as I tell myself I don’t care, it always hurts to see that flicker of terror across their eyes when they meet a mage.
It may not be directed at me, but it crushes me all the same.
I am not like the other mages, I always want to say.
I try to use my magic to help. Still, I cannot blame their sentiment. I do not fear mages. I hate them.
“He’s in the treehouse. My granddaughter’s cat.
Someone left the door open yesterday and Buttons ran out.
We thought we’d never see him again.” The woman’s eyes brim with tears.
She takes Olivia’s hands between hers. “Thank you,” she says.
Of course she would be grateful; their family worships the God of Death.
It’s ironic, how much Olivia fits into a world that isn’t her own; she carries magic with pride while I carry it as a burden.
“May Death light her way,” Olivia whispers, and I give the woman a quick nod, my cheeks warm with the thought of a child reunited with her cat. I don’t even notice the lull in my ears until Olivia and I walk out of the house.
“You’re welcome,” Olivia teases as we begin our fifteen-minute walk home. She enjoys everything that comes with being a mage, loves everything I despise. How wicked are the Gods? They gave magic to the wrong sister.
Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, with Nan’s rose garden spanning the front and back. After Nan died and Olivia left, tending to the roses became my only comfort. At first, they were dying, but over time, I’ve managed to grow thirty-three different varieties.
“Olivia,” Mother calls out from the front porch. She runs down the wobbly wooden stairs, down the pathway, her dress brushing along the fresh blooms of a rare hybrid I’ve been nurturing for the last three years. The petals fall to the ground, and my breath hitches.
Mother pushes me aside, taking Olivia in her arms. “What a lovely surprise—I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”
“Mama, I’ve missed you so.” Olivia kisses her cheeks. “I wish I could stay longer, but I’m only here to get a book to study for my promotional exam this week.”
“I can’t believe you’ll be promoted to High Magus soon,” our mother says, holding Olivia’s face. “I am so proud of you.”
I share both her pride and her disbelief, albeit for different reasons.
I don’t need any reason to be proud of Olivia, but I cannot believe she’s lasted four years at the institute without being caught.
When she passes her promotional exam, she’ll be the first nonmagi with a High Magus rank.
More importantly, she’ll finally be free to leave Gorhail.
After earning my mastery in botany last November, I’ve been counting the days until her graduation.
Leaving me behind, Mother walks Olivia to the house, trampling over the pink petals from my roses.
It’s always disconcerting seeing them together.
We may be sisters, but Olivia is a mirror of our mother.
They both look like they belong here in Albion, with their green eyes, mildly tan skin, and dark brown hair.
They even style it the same, loose curls falling mid-back.
I share Nan’s golden-brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair.
With her gone, I feel like the roses, scattered on the ground, crushed by the boots of a woman who should have nurtured them.
When I walk through the front door, Mother is already pouring two cups of tea.
I take off my shoes and dart across the kitchen, squeezing myself between the sideboard and the backs of the dining chairs, and make a beeline for the stairs.
Early this morning, the mailman brought two letters bearing the golden seal of DOTS, the Department of the Supernatural, for Olivia.
“Viola, do you not care that your sister is home?” Mother asks quietly. The silent threat between her words dares me to take the first step up the stairs. For a split second, I consider it, but her sharp inhale pulls me back.
“Of course I do.” My feet drag to the wooden kitchen table covered in a gaudy pumpkin-patterned tablecloth, where she placed two steaming cups of tea next to each other at the head of the table.
I settle in the seat farthest from them, although it makes no difference because any room with my mother in it feels small. Even smaller when Olivia is here.
“How is work?” Olivia’s eyes wince in apology. She slides her cup toward me even though I’m too far to reach it, but I shake my head. Mother’s tea is as bitter as her tongue.
“Good,” I reply. I know Olivia’s trying to include me, but the less I say, the fewer opportunities Mother has to ridicule me.
“You’ve been at that funeral home for four years now.” Mother takes a sip. There we go. “It’s not a forever job.”
“It pays.” I sigh. “I’m saving for a postgrad botany program in Osneau.”
“Osneau.” She lifts a brow. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was taking interest in my future. She crushes that thought immediately. “Pity you cannot join your sister. Gorhail takes care of all expenses.”
“It’s a pity indeed,” I mutter.
After a tense silence, Olivia taps her watch and gets up. “Mama, I am so sorry, I don’t have much time before curfew. I’ll get my book while the tea cools. Vi, will you help me?”
She doesn’t have to ask twice. I’m already out of my seat and climbing the stairs, grateful for any excuse to get out of there.
The attic door opens with a familiar creak that doubles as an alarm on the rare times Mother comes up here.
Despite it being the middle of the day, the single round window toward the back of the room only lights up a few feet.
I flip on the switch to the right of the entrance, and Nan’s favorite old chandelier that she picked up from a local thrift store illuminates the room, giving life to the rows of books on the walls.
It may be old and stuffy up here, but it wraps me with the same comfort as Nan’s embrace.
After Olivia left for Gorhail, I spent most of my days reading the stories in Nan’s journals, glossing over intricate drawings of skeletons straight out of a horror movie.
I perused thousands of handwritten notes about Gorhail’s Houses, classes, relics, and poachers who hunt mages that only strengthened my desire to stay away from that place.
The only silver lining was helping my sister with her death magic homework when she was at the academy.
“They don’t have wares like Nan’s chandelier at Gorhail,” she muses, studying the ceiling. “Sometimes, I miss the mundane.”
Before I’m able to reply, she skips her way to the wall of dusty books in the far left of the room.
I recently unpacked them from one of Nan’s old crates and haven’t gotten around to dusting them.
I’d wanted to sell Nan’s collection to the local bookshop to save for my move.
Their fascination with mage history would see them spend a hefty sum on these ancient tomes.
“Did you know Gorhail still doesn’t run on electricity?” she asks.
I have half a mind to veer the conversation back to her missing the mundane. It’s a good sign that she does; it means she’s ready to come home. But I know my sister. If I bring it up, she will avoid the discussion until she leaves.
“How many candles do they burn through in a year?” I join her, coughing as her pink sleeve turns brown from wiping the cover of a worn-out book. She frowns at it, then puts it back.
“You’re funny,” she deadpans. “They use lamps powered with magic dust,” she says, her eyes slightly widening in wonder like they do every time she talks about Gorhail.
“That sounds innovative. Unnecessary, but innovative. Do they hate nonmagi so much that they created their own form of electricity?” I jest. She once told me about Gorhail’s attempt to use more nonmagi technology, which was cut short when a fire broke out in one of their Magisters’ offices. Perhaps it’s best they keep to magic.
She laughs. “When I was at the academy, I remember learning that they were fed up with the constant power cuts.”
I can’t blame them. Albion has at least two power cuts a week, more when it rains.
Olivia reaches for a book on the top shelf, and her sweater catches on her armcuff. Muttering a curse, she unclasps it and slides the polished brass relic out of her sleeve. It looks nothing like the intricate one she wore the last time I saw her, one that looked identical to Nan’s cuff.
“Is this a new cuff?”
“It is.” My sister’s eyes snap up at me, a devious grin playing on her lips. “A real one this time—my friend broke through the magic that prevented nonmagi from wearing relics. It does nothing for me, of course. Do you want to try it on?” She hands me her cuff, but I recoil.