Chapter 1
Father hosts a yearly soiree where I summon every dead person in the province.
The festivities flood the ballroom of Father’s grand estate, and I’m the party trick.
Even now, as I stare out from the dais over the mass of guests in their finery, I wonder how many more spirits I have left to bring back.
Twenty, maybe thirty, if some of our guests expect both grandparents.
I look forward to this all year, but I’m also starving.
Father’s servants have pulled out all the stops, as they often do.
The rich mahogany floors of Damarcus Estate gleam like a mirror’s surface.
Gold chandeliers hang from the arched wooden rafters, lighting the banquet table.
A maroon tablecloth stretches under the weight of platters of roast chicken, decanters of wine I’m not allowed to drink when Mother’s looking, and towering trays of chocolate truffles filled with raspberry sauce.
Those are my favorites, though I doubt I’ll get any before midnight.
The line to the dais is almost out the door.
I crane my neck, surveying the guests crammed in front.
A forced smile tugs at my lips, and I smooth the front of my dress to mask twitching fingers. I wasn’t expecting this many people.
Mother places her hand on my arm, digging gold nails into my skin. “Rosaline, take Lady Sandralyn’s hand.”
My lips purse at Mother’s clipped tone and her insistence on using my full name for the evening. But one look from Father’s scrutinizing brown eyes and lowering bushy brows assures me now is not the time to argue with her.
It’s an important night for the Damarcus family. I know that better than anyone.
Lady Sandralyn stands on the step below me and reaches out to grasp my hand.
My insides writhe when I think of her clammy palm in mine, but the momentary repulsion is necessary.
I close my eyes, arm steady as our fingers clasp.
The electric spark of her life flows from her veins to mine.
Her hand trembles with the fear and awe trapped beneath her skin.
The dizzying exhilaration of summoning takes over me.
Heat builds in my fingertips and races up my arms. The comforting warmth gathers in my chest, expanding with each breath I take.
Nothing feels better than this.
“Who do you want to see?” My words come out soft, but sudden nerves flutter in my stomach like caged fireflies.
Where is this coming from? I’m never nervous.
Then again, this could be my last Resurrection Ball.
Pushing the thought as far down as it will go, I open my eyes to look at Lady Sandralyn.
Father tells me this puts non-Morphics at ease.
Let them look in your eyes and see that you appear human before showing them you’re not, he often says.
“I want to see my father,” Lady Sandralyn murmurs, a whispered secret between the two of us. “He … he died last year.” She swallows hard. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before. Should I tell you what he looks like?”
“No need.” The bonds between family are stronger than with any other deceased spirits. Without warning, my eyes drift to the family portrait on the far wall across from the dais. It stretches from ceiling to floor. My gaze lingers there.
Easy to bring back family members as long as they’re not mine.
My palm heats, itching with the energy of Lady Sandralyn’s life force.
I dig deeper and search through every particle for the bright connection to her father.
I cannot afford any mistakes tonight. Panic claws up my throat as I reach for him, but I force myself to stay calm.
Relief eases the tension in my shoulders as the familiar pull of the spirit beckons me.
There he is. A hot bubble of fire in her cool energy.
A floating sensation makes it feel like I’m lifting off the ground, but I’m still standing in uncomfortable four-inch heels. Wisps of glowing white light burst from my clasped hand, and a body takes shape.
The spirit of a man stands beside Lady Sandralyn, but he appears solid and lifelike.
Lady Sandralyn sucks in a sharp breath, and her eyes brim with tears.
The crowd gasps and erupts into applause upon seeing the emergence of yet another spirit.
Father beams, eyes shining with pride. I bask in this moment, letting the warm tingle of admiration wash over me.
It’s not only the adrenaline pumping through my limbs or the warm gaze of my father that makes me look forward to this all year.
It’s the way I control this moment. The power I wield on this night fills me with more satisfaction than any drink or delectable truffle ever could.
But I watch closely. When resurrected spirits stay for too long, their solid forms begin to rot. Their bodies stink, and they take on the wounds of their last moments of life. That tends to scare the guests, so I cut the interactions before they get to that point.
“Thank you, Lady Roe. Thank you,” Lady Sandralyn says, relieved.
The spirit of her father places his hands on his hips. “What happened with my estate?” He narrows his eyes at his daughter. “You better not have let your husband make those renovations.”
Good, this spirit feels like talking. Sometimes they don’t.
After a few minutes, Mother clinks her nails against the green hourglass on the small table beside us.
“Time’s up,” she says. Lady Sandralyn won’t see her father again until next year.
I roll my shoulders back and lift my chin as Lady Sandralyn leaves.
There will be a next year. I force myself to think it. I’ve proved myself thus far tonight.
Father places his hand on my shoulder. He smiles, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes.
Not everyone gets to see this side of Lord Cyrion Damarcus.
He’s one of those people who saves his smiles for those who earn them.
“You’re doing beautifully, Roe.” He hands me a round glass bottle with indigo liquid inside.
My cheeks heat, but I snag it from him, hoping our guests won’t notice.
I’ve been taking this concoction each night at dinner to steady my nerves and focus while summoning, but it’s embarrassing to need it.
My father’s gift as an alchemer allows him to create potions that aid with a variety of ailments.
Before Father found the right mix of ingredients, I became overwhelmed and unable to stop unwanted spirits from bursting forth and following me throughout the day.
This was a nuisance at home and rather disturbing in public—spirits don’t always look pleasant.
I swallow the indigo potion and relish the familiar taste of warm cinnamon and the tingling in my nostrils as it sizzles down my throat.
My nerves from this evening give it a bitter aftertaste.
“You’ve been up here long enough.” Father takes my empty glass and kisses my cheek.
He waves his arm over the line of guests and indicates the crowded dance floor. “Take a break.”
“Thank you.” I curtsy to the long line of strangers and acquaintances. Anytime I bring back a whole host of spirits, I pay with deathmares. I definitely won’t sleep tonight. That’s the way it is with Morphia. Every power has a price.
Our guests do their best not to groan, but they’ve waited over an hour. Let them wait.
I descend the dais, careful of my heavy maroon skirt, and do all I can not to race to the refreshment table.
The best I manage is a fast walk across the dance floor.
I stop at the table and drink two glasses of sparkling berry punch and grab a handful of truffles before I realize who I’m standing beside.
I curse internally but plaster a wide smile on my face. “Having a good time, Eliza?”
“Yes,” she answers as she folds her hands over her lilac bodice.
Her light brown hair bobs as she nods. I’ve always been jealous of her perfect brown ringlets and light blue eyes, but that sneer she’s got on her face is all Mother.
She can keep that. Sparkling sapphire jewels decorate her long, sheer sleeves.
With my gold beaded bodice reflecting the light of the chandelier, the two of us must look like a constellation of stars.
Neither of us hold back on fancy occasions.
And tonight is more than a fancy occasion. Tonight, Father reminds everyone why he is Lord of Damarcus Estate and a member of the High Council. Tonight, we celebrate my eighteenth year of life and the impending trial that comes with it.
I swallow hard and shove the fear as far down as it will go, grateful for the potion helping me focus. Eliza won’t get to see me shatter.
“I hope you’re having a good time, dear sister,” she says. “After all, it may be your last.”
Her choker is tied so tight it threatens to sever her windpipe. If only. My fingers pulverize the small napkin in my hand, but I won’t let her ruin this for me. Annoyance contorts my words into a sharp-edged hiss. “Let’s not do this now. Come stand on the dais with me.”
Eliza scoffs and pops a dark chocolate–coated strawberry into her mouth. The rosy undertones of her pale cheeks flush bright red. “Please. They don’t care about non-Morphics. You’re the one they want.”
I don’t say the words burning like fire in my mouth. She could’ve been like me. She could heal broken bones and cure sickness with her tears, but she gave up her life as a mender. Voluntarily.
She peers down at me. She may be a lady, but she’s got the intensity of a hurricane and she turns it on me. “I’m surprised you’re acting so calm about all this. You have two days left until your trial. Less than that, really. Aren’t you worried?”
Her voice lifts on the last word. She’s loving this. Usually, she can’t get to me, but she knows I care about my gift. If I fail my trial, the High Council will strip the Morphia from my body. I’ll never resurrect again …