Chapter 3
The ballroom could belong to a stranger’s estate today.
Cherrywood walls stretch from ceiling to floor, bare and imposing.
The paintings of Damarcus family ancestors have been removed from their usual spots.
A long table rests at the far end of the room.
Four glasses of water sit in front of four solemn judges in iron-framed chairs.
I used to love dancing and singing in this room because of its echoing vastness. Today, the expanse of space is intimidating.
My hands tremble, but I clutch the fabric of my skirts tight to steady them.
My hair is pulled into an elaborate spectacle of braids and forced ringlets.
My lips are painted red while my hazel eyes are outlined with black paint.
I pull my shoulders back far enough that my shoulder blades might actually touch.
My dress gleams with the colors of autumn—gold, burnt orange, and deep scarlet. With a voluminous skirt and large teardrop earrings, I feel more like a dessert than a warrior preparing for battle. But that’s what today feels like. A battle to keep my Morphia.
With each step, my heels click against the polished wood. Each step draws me closer to the judges’ table. Their scrutinizing gazes make my stomach flip. They scribble with quills into thick, leather-bound books.
I force my gaze from the table and focus on the three rows of chairs on the left side of the room. Father, Mother, and Eliza sit in the front row. Mother flicks a hand nervously through her tawny brown hair. Who am I kidding? She’s more nervous that I’ll trip than she is about the trial.
There’s an empty chair next to my father—a gap between him and Lysandra.
She gives me a small wave and a white-toothed grin.
In the second row, a few of Father’s friends from the council sit with their hands in their laps, their faces grim.
Most of them have probably never attended a Morphic trial before.
Trials are usually private in wealthy families to lessen the shame of potential failure, but with Father, everything is a public affair.
Few of the prominent members in our province have Morphics in their close family.
The lords and ladies of Credence are mostly made up of ancient families whose properties sat atop lucrative gem mines long ago, or those who founded the first hospitals and schools.
Others in the high class are primarily non-Morphic families responsible for the innovation and construction that built the cruise ship years ago.
Father contests that we have Morphic crafters to thank for most innovation in construction.
But Father is rare. Morphics don’t often gain titles, even for exemplary service.
When I glimpse the third row, a heavy breath escapes my lips. Most of Leith’s friends from the Hawks are here. Gray and Jasper are among them. Jasper sticks his tongue out at me and reaches forward to tug one of Eliza’s ringlets. She bats his hand away with practiced swats.
For a fleeting moment, it’s almost like having Leith here. Father turns over his shoulder and gives Gray a look. Although Gray sits ramrod straight with his face arranged in solemn interest, he slaps Jasper on the forearm.
I can’t help smiling as I approach the table. Now that I’m here, wearing my heavy dress and wondering what banquet food’s waiting in the dining hall, I can’t believe I was so nervous. My body relaxes, and I hold my head high. I will not be afraid of my power in my own home.
One of the judges, a woman with medium beige skin and black ink tattoos on her arms, glances up from her writing. “Name?” she asks.
With a slow, steadying breath, I answer. “Rosaline Damarcus.”
All four of the judges scribble into their journals, and the woman speaks again. “Morphic ability?”
Another easy one. “Resurrection.”
More scribbling. More tense silence. It doesn’t unnerve me this time.
It all feels mildly absurd. Like a performance where I need to remember my lines, but no one gave me any to memorize.
The judges aren’t anyone to fear. Most judges for Morphic trials belong to the Morphia Watch Program, a respected division of Morphics and non-Morphics dedicated to exposing problems created by Morphia within the realm.
I wonder how many other Morphics will have a trial this year.
Other trials across the nine provinces often take place in barns or fields in case the Morphia gets out of control.
Rarely do they happen in the grand halls of an estate.
Another woman clears her throat and taps her quill to the end of her jutting chin.
Her red hair hangs short, tucked behind pink-toned ears. She leans forward. The others follow.
Here we go.
“As you know, the Morphic trials were created to prevent dangerous Morphics from ruining the prosperity of Tamarynth. We owe the Damarcus family a great debt for this simple test that keeps us safe.” The woman turns her head so she’s looking at my father and not me.
“You have Spokesman Malyk’s and the High Council’s deepest gratitude. ”
Ah, yes. The age-old Damarcus family bedtime story: How a Damarcus Saved the Realm.
Hundreds of years ago, Morphics roamed Tamarynth freely, unregulated.
Morphics, desiring more power, rebelled in a war against the non-Morphic council.
Family members turned on one another as the realm divided into Morphic and non-Morphic armies.
Father’s too-many-greats-to-remember grandfather petitioned the past council with an idea to keep the peace.
He devised the trials meant to prevent dangerous Morphics from keeping their magic, but that wasn’t all.
Great-Grandfather Damarcus knew Morphia made us all better and that people still wanted to experience it.
So he came up with the idea for the Celestial.
As the inventor, he owned a majority stake in the ship and oversaw its development.
He maintained that the ship would lock up the dangerous Morphics but highlight the beauty of Morphia at the same time.
I scrounge up memories of family voyages aboard the cruise ship. Seeing as it’s an expensive family heirloom, we got free stays every year. It was always magical. I hardly thought about what it was like for the Morphics working there.
Dangerous Morphics. They were serving time until they got a retrial—if they got a retrial.
Father inclines his head with a stiffness I seldom see. There’s a note of bitterness in the curved lines of his tight smile. The judges may be thanking him for our family’s past contributions, but Father tells me there’s always a higher rung to climb.
The woman continues with her introduction without acknowledging the tension in Father’s shoulders.
“Morphics channel their magic into something useful, but once it leaves the body, it’s unpredictable.
If that raw magic were released, the realm would see vicious creatures roaming the forests and objects transforming in unpredictable ways.
The Celestial keeps extracted Morphia contained aboard and out of Tamarynth. ”
I think of Mr. Barrington, who sells clothing in one of Credence’s markets. Father tells me he used to be a crafter, but during his trial, the clothing he created to morph to each judge’s shape strangled and burned them. Even when they yelled at him to stop, he’d kept going.
After time aboard the Celestial, now he sits in front of his shabby stall, muttering.
He never earned a retrial and had his Morphia extracted.
But he still mumbles about haunted hallways “trying to kill him” and bosses who left him with two fewer fingers.
As a child, I was both frightened and intrigued by him, unsure if I believed the rumors about the ship. I’m still not sure what I believe.
The woman’s voice jolts me from my thoughts. “This trial date has been set since the day of your fourth birthday to be completed between the ages of eighteen and nineteen. Those who try to hide their Morphia and escape trial face dire consequences.” She presses her lips together.
Blood roars in my ears. Every time I think I’m over the nerves, they come racing back.
The woman taps her chin with a long finger decorated with rings.
“This trial will force you into a high-stress situation to examine your reaction. If you fail, you will have two choices.” She holds up one finger.
“One, have your Morphia extracted from your body. Your magic will be sent to the Celestial cruise ship for containment, and you can rejoin society as a non-Morphic.” She holds up another finger.
“Two, you may choose to serve a punishment sentence on the Celestial. There, you will donate your Morphia in increments to help power the ship and earn a chance to win your retrial.”
That’s the part nobody likes to talk about. If you’re sent to work on the Celestial, what does the punishment look like? When I attended as a guest, I never noticed staff looking particularly miserable. Then again, I was seven or eight, and I know what Mr. Barrington looks like now.
I can picture extraction. Morphics drink a potion of my great-grandfather’s making, and they cry tears into a jar—tears of their magic.
I’ve seen the jars of raw Morphia carted from extractions to the ship.
Technically, anyone could steal a jar and use raw Morphia the way a Morphic would, but it’s very dangerous for non-Morphics.
They become physically ill if they use it enough.
Those jars are only meant to be stored on board the ship.
The thought makes me sick now that it’s my Morphia on the line.
A man with brown skin and glasses coughs. “Rosaline? We asked you a question.”
Shit. I have no clue what he asked. The man sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Do you understand?”
I smile, ready to get this over with. Ready to show them what I can do. “Yes.”