Chapter 4
A judge slips silver cuffs over my wrists. The cool metal engraved with symbols digs into my skin. These cuffs neutralize Morphic abilities. I’m defenseless. I should have known it was an illusion when the bindings from my vision didn’t restrain my Morphia.
Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes, but I hold them back. Today’s been humiliating enough. I won’t let them see me cry.
Father approaches the woman with the bleeding gash in her arm. He bends his head to speak with her. “I’m sorry,” he says in a shaky voice. “Jasper can take you to our physician.”
Jasper stands from his chair, moving slow like his legs are stuck in tree sap. He takes the woman’s uninjured arm and guides her from the ceremony room. He throws a glance over his shoulder, but I look away.
Maybe this is all a bad dream. A deathmare of mine. I’ll wake up, and the judges will arrive in a carriage, and they’ll file into the ceremony room and wait for my trial to begin. Please, Riveners, tell me it hasn’t happened yet. Tell me this is all a nightmare.
Father speaks to the judges seated behind the overturned table in a low voice. The judges ask if they can administer the potion to take my Morphia. Father inhales a long breath through his nose and lets it out.
“Yes … of course.” The words wobble out of him, weak and afraid.
My heart sinks. I don’t know why a part of me thought he’d protest. Father’s mind is always working, and he doesn’t let anyone influence him. The wild outrage he showed in the illusion no longer exists.
But I don’t recognize this man either.
Mother presses a hand to her chest and grips Eliza’s fingers tightly in her own. But she’s not upset. She wanted me to be like her. Mother approves of Father’s Morphia because of what it’s gotten him. Wealth, power, prestige.
But it’s not about any of that for me. Resurrection is a part of myself I can’t cut out as if it were diseased.
My knees quake, and my bottom lip quivers.
I take a tentative step forward, but the judges shrink back in their seats.
The man with glasses leaps back from me like he’s been burned. Just like the crowd at the ball.
My voice is a strangled choke. “Don’t do this,” I croak. “It was an accident.” It’s like I’m watching myself speak from the outside.
Without a word, the illusive with the tattoos removes the real potion from her case and sets it on the table.
I look to my father, and the tears fall despite how hard I tried to hold them back.
The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow.
Hard to talk. When he says nothing, my shoulders heave with sobs. I’m not dangerous. “Please.”
But I remember the rage coursing through my body. I remember the way it felt to tear into a human’s flesh. The wolf was solid, with teeth capable of shredding skin. For the first time, my spirits were capable of real destruction.
The slosh of liquid in the potion bottle makes my stomach churn. The judge removes the stopper from the bottle. Sickening fear drenches my clammy skin in sweat.
“Wait!” I yell, not caring how my voice echoes off the bare walls. “What about— What about the Celestial?”
The remaining judges exchange a glance and clear their throats without looking at my father.
I glimpse the left side of the room in time to catch the shake of Mother’s head.
Her pale blue dress crinkles as she rises to her feet.
“That ship is not the vacation you remember, Roe. Not for Morphics.” Her fingers curl around the fabric of her skirts. “It’s a punishment.”
“What choice do I have?” I whirl around to look at her. The tears dry on my cheeks, and the hot wave of anger returns. “It’s that or…” I can’t finish.
Lysandra’s voice makes my throat even tighter. “Maybe your mother’s right.”
Eliza smirks. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair with eyebrows raised. No help there. I look to my father, but his eyes are on the floor. When he finally does look at me, my tiny speck of defiance shrivels up and dies.
It’s shameful. A Damarcus child going to the very place his family built to keep Morphia contained—to keep dangerous Morphics from destroying Tamarynth—is unthinkable.
Father clears his throat and adjusts the pocket watch on his waistcoat.
He looks up and faces the judges with his usual rolled-back shoulders and lifted chin.
He presses his hands together and smiles.
It’s a forced, tight smile, but the judges relax when they see it.
“Out of respect for my family, would you be good enough to give us a couple of hours to decide?”
As judges, these three may hold higher positions in the Morphia Watch Program, but Father still outranks them. The judges exchange another weighted glance but plaster on their own fake smiles. “Of course,” the man says.
A judge unclasps the cuffs from my wrists, but I feel no less a prisoner.
Father thanks him with a deep bow of his head and grabs me by my shoulders.
The pinch of his brows and the emptiness in his dark eyes sends fear down my spine.
This isn’t the man who drizzled honey on my toast in the morning.
This is the man who locks away dangerous Morphics and mixes intricate potions for the apothecaries.
We exit the ceremony room and walk to the long hallway with dark walls and iron lanterns that leads to the bedrooms. Portraits of our ancestors hang on the walls, watching me as I pass.
Father’s too-tight grip on my shoulders makes me want to scream.
The pressure of his touch is too reminiscent of the forced skin contact required to summon family members. Something I might not feel again.
The fast click of heels assures me Mother’s close behind us, but my mind whirs too fast to care.
I’m working on a plan. A speech that will somehow convince my family to let me go.
If I can’t convince them, the judges will attend to Father’s wishes over mine.
They respect him enough to override my choice.
I can picture it now. Mother locking me in my room and refusing to let me anywhere near the port in Windmere Province until the ship is long gone on a charter.
Father opens the heavy wooden door to my suite and pushes me inside.
He shuts the door and locks it before my mother and sister have a chance to follow.
A vast four-poster bed with emerald-green blankets and a sheer black canopy rests against the wall.
I long to sink into it, but Father steers me to the chairs beside the windows.
An arrow snaps under his shoe. I sit in the chair across from him and focus on a pile of academic books on the floor.
A few weeks ago, I’d been wondering if I should agree to Father’s request for me to pursue university.
After seven painstaking years in boarding school, I’d finally had the option to move on to studying whatever I wanted at the University of Credence.
I could spend years researching the history of resurrectors uncovered from Illoryan holy texts or completing projects about the annual crafter fair in Kalenar.
I could train with the Hawks in the evenings and on school breaks if Father agreed to it.
Now the thought of any of those goals feels like a hollow dream.
“Roe.” Father’s voice is low and gravelly, chafing at the edges of my frayed nerves.
“Maybe … maybe it’s time to think about what life could look like without Morphia.
” I open my mouth, but he shakes his head to silence me.
“I know. I’m the last person you want to hear this from, but we can’t break the very laws my family helped to create. ”
He’s referring to his position on the High Council.
Council members are appointed by lords and ladies of each province every three years to settle disputes between provinces, regulate trade, and vote on laws affecting both Morphics and non-Morphics.
Although anyone can be appointed, the members only come from respected families, and the appointments tend to stay in those families.
If Father were to fall out of favor, it would mean a council without a single Morphic left.
“Then don’t break them.” My words come out in a fierce whisper. “Let me serve on the Celestial.”
Father pauses and looks away from me. “Do you know why we call it Morphia?” he asks, changing the subject. “It’s the magic of altering—of transformation. We manipulate and build upon matter or feelings that are already there. You draw upon the realm beyond life.”
I blink at him, wringing my hands. “Maybe we just need to alter your plans a little.” Father smiles, eyes crinkling with crow’s-feet.
“You will begin studying council duties with me—you can still achieve an appointment to the High Council one day without Morphia. You’ll still fight for Morphic causes.
” Father sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose.
“And I’ll talk to Gray about letting you start training with the Hawks.
Two evenings a week. I’ll expect you to attend university too. ”
Father stands and brushes invisible specks of dust off his pant legs. Silence stretches between us. Painful. Heavy.
That’s it. He wants me to give up. He’s so ashamed of his only Morphic child being reduced to a delinquent staff member in need of rehabilitation that he’s giving up on me.
I’ve heard of some upper-class families pressuring their children to give up their Morphia, but my father has always been vocal about the benefits of our gifts.
He’s always supported me until now. My mouth tastes dry and bitter.
I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. When I say nothing, he crosses to the door.
“Take some time alone. I’ll come back in an hour.
We’ll go back together. I’ll…” His voice cracks. “I’ll stay with you when they take it.”