Chapter Sixteen #2
With a quiet sigh, Emmy made a show of considering his apology, though, like Jack, he had yet to actually apologize. “I’m
not one to tattle.”
“Let’s have a fresh start.” He sank into a deep bow. “I’m Oliver Stratton, son of a meddling mother. I am occasionally known
to be an ass and often to be a rake.”
Honesty, for once. Emmy curtsied. “I’m Winnie Fairchild, sister to a meddling brother. I am occasionally known to throw masks and often to storm away.”
Emmy searched his grin for a crooked tooth or a tea stain, but alas, life was not fair.
“It’s time!” Mr. Villadom’s voice echoed across the field.
Mrs. Stratton pulled Emmy away, flashing her son a peeved look. But underneath her irritation, the meddling mother was clearly
all too pleased.
People were shrieking in delight as Caleb began his search. With Emmy in hand, Mrs. Stratton hurried toward the tree on the
edge of the pond. “Hold on tight, dear.”
Mrs. Stratton shut her eyes and squeezed her necklace. A relic—Emmy hadn’t noticed it before. A wind gathered at their ankles,
whipping Emmy’s hem. Mrs. Stratton’s face flushed with effort as the gale surged from the ground, lifting them into the air.
With a yelp, Emmy held Mrs. Stratton’s arm tighter, but the air conjurer did not break her focus until the wind carried them
to the top, where they perched on a branch that bowed underneath their weight.
With a satisfied smile, she settled onto the branch and dabbed her forehead. “Your turn.”
Judging by Mrs. Stratton’s sly look, this was a test of sorts. Emmy searched the tree for something she could transform. What,
exactly, could an earth conjurer do?
Running her hand along the bowed branch beneath them, Emmy made it as strong as the steel beams Jimmy had placed in Mistfield’s
walls, as thick as the old oaks that greeted her along the trails to the cliffs. Once the branch was sturdy, she swept her
fingers over the leaves, making them fuller and wider to hide them from view.
“I knew you had powerful blood.” Mrs. Stratton grinned appreciatively. “Do leave us a little peephole. We may be here for hours.”
Emmy complied, eager for a glimpse at charmed hide-and-seek.
They watched as Caleb managed to catch a few people, including Jimmy, who then joined his hunt.
Two seekers disappeared in the fog of the illusory forest while another cried out in pain, holding his arm in front of a fire that was, apparently, real.
As Caleb chased a pretty girl in a frilly magenta dress—one with a particularly bold pattern of enchanted cardinals swooping from neck to hem—she leaped, using her air conjury to soar high above his head.
Elemental conjury—air, earth, water, and fire, though only Jack wielded black flames—was certainly the most common gift on
display, along with the Villadoms’ illusions, which were a type of sensile conjury. But the Villadoms didn’t seem to be straining
themselves to maintain their faux forests. No, they must have commissioned Grace’s bridging conjury, a form of charmlinking.
The only type of conjury not on display was alchemical, like hers. And Papa’s.
How he would have loved to play such a game.
“Special, isn’t it?” Mrs. Stratton’s voice softened as they watched seekers splash into the pond, laughing as they chased
the couple hiding at the center. “All this conjury out in the open.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Emmy could not keep the reverence from her voice.
“Well, you’re one of us now, so you’ll see it every summer.” Mrs. Stratton leaned against the tree bark, her smile content.
“It’s always a risk, but it’s worth the risk to remember who we are. That we’re different from ordinary people. Though they may outnumber us two hundred to one,
we’re special. Every last one of us.”
Emmy might have been touched by her words had Mrs. Stratton not reached into the back of her dress to scratch her neck. Hiding
her smile, Emmy inched away. It was only a matter of time before the Society realized the outbreak on their hands and, with
any luck, the source. Soon, Claremont Originals just might be out of business.
Caleb was chasing the girl in the magenta gown again, grasping the air as she jumped out of reach.
His smile was real; Emmy could see from here.
But as she floated as high as the treetops, he set off in pursuit of a couple who’d peered out from behind the illusory waterfall.
Grace and Oliver. They were together, of course, which dimmed Emmy’s surprisingly good spirits.
Grace grabbed Oliver’s arm, reached for a pocket in her skirts—and disappeared.
Mrs. Stratton’s expression soured. “It seems Miss Montgomery still has some of her invisible maid’s conjury. Though rumor
has it, the girl quit after the mask ordeal.” She stole a glance at Emmy. “You wouldn’t happen to know where she ended up,
would you?”
There was no point denying it. Though Emmy hadn’t brought Mary today, lady’s maids were expected to be at their employers’
beck and call at many events. They’d all know soon. “I couldn’t let such exquisite conjury go to waste.”
Mrs. Stratton’s snicker was nothing short of delighted. “Well, well, well. Miss Fairchild has teeth of her own. Be sure to
bring the girl next—”
A shrill scream pierced the air, long and sharp.
Emmy gripped the branches, searching. It almost sounded as if it was above them, but—
The scream ended with an awful thud.
Mrs. Stratton gasped, her hands rushing to her mouth.
Emmy saw her then, the girl with the magenta gown. The one who had leaped out of Caleb’s way, her air conjury carrying her
far overhead.
She’d fallen.
More screams erupted, and as eager as Emmy was to get out of the tree, Mrs. Stratton hardly looked capable of conjury. But
she got them to the ground quickly, and they hurried toward the circle of people that had formed around the poor girl.
Her neck was as crooked as an elbow. Her eyes wide but unblinking.
“This has gone on for far too long!” Mrs. Stratton had pushed her way to the front of the circle, waving her fist at Keeper Windsor.
“Not now, Trudy.” He motioned for the guards, his complexion paling.
“They’re taking our brume!” Tears flooded Mrs. Stratton’s eyes. Oliver was beside her now, but she shook him away. “How many
of us must die before you finally let my husband do something about it?”
They’re taking our brume. Though they were a two-hour train ride from the city, she was blaming the immigrants. The Society’s scapegoats.
Numbly, Emmy stared at the dead girl. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen.
“Someone cover her,” Keeper Windsor said gruffly, “before her parents see her.”
Grief tinged his words. He had to be thinking of Elizabeth, his late daughter.
Blood darkened the girl’s dark hair. Like Papa, who’d lain on that tile floor, his head framed by a halo of crimson.
The Society grieved this loss. But they hadn’t blinked at Papa’s. Hadn’t given him a moment of compassion.
“C’mon.” A gentle hand took Emmy’s elbow. Jack’s. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, she thought she glimpsed tenderness
in his unyielding gray eyes. “Everyone’s leaving.”
As Jack led her away, Emmy stole one last glimpse at the dead girl.
The cardinals on her gown had ceased flying, as if their wings had failed them, too.