Chapter Three
The clamouring chaos of the morning after was unbearable. The hissed gossip of my demonic worship, constant irritated scowls from passing tutors and the silence from Master Hale.
Worse were the muttered rumours about a potential sighting of the mysterious Lord Blackthorn in the Institute last night, which only sharpened my fear.
I’d already checked the partnership papers three times as Alma and I moved through the arched hallways and high-walled Mages’ Garden on our way to the portal office. Still real. Still there despite the impossibility of them.
I reached up to make sure the sharp points of my Kysillian ears were tucked neatly beneath my braided crown. A foolish habit considering my strange, luminous skin was impossible to hide, along with my bright lavender eyes.
The papers in my hands were nothing more than a crumpled cylinder that I rolled tighter with every panicked thought as my anxious eyes dragged over every detail of the portal office, drenched in the low winter sunlight.
It was a vast space, with a decorative, tiled floor of reds and golds polished to a high gleam so the chandeliers’ light could bounce around the room. The curving staircases to the higher levels were set back against the ceiling-high record shelves, depictions of phoenixes sitting on each banister with torches in their grasp.
The stench of dust from the old books was pungent, as the smell of bitter coffee and men’s cologne sat thick in the air. The portal clerks scratched away at their desks, writing incantations for the Council Mages’ travel plans that week.
I’d hoped Master Hale would be here to greet us, but the waiting benches were all vacant. I glanced down at the pages in my hand that had sent Alma into a frenzy of nervous energy last night, only to get worse when a message arrived from Master Hale, a hurried note asking me to leave at my earliest convenience this morning. More things he wasn’t telling me.
I couldn’t decide what worried me more, that a supposedly dead Lord was offering me a partnership, or how unbothered Master Hale was about the whole affair.
Run. That voice mocked in the back of my mind just as a sharp pinch came at my forearm, jolting me to look down at the annoyed face of Alma.
‘Ow !’ I shoved her hand away, rubbing the underside of my arm.
‘This whole bloody mess is your fault. The least you could do is pay attention,’ she scolded. Her pupils taking on the horizontal slits of a prey animal, needing them to better sense the threats lingering here.
‘I thought you weren’t talking to me,’ I noted dryly. She’d slipped into silence despite her frenzied activity after the papers arrived, which only deepened when Master Hale’s orders came next.
‘I’m taking a reprieve to make certain you’re not getting any more reckless ideas.’ She straightened the sleeves of her dull maid’s dress, as her eyes darted accusingly around every inch of the office she didn’t want to be in.
‘What trouble could I get into in a portal office?’ I tried to smile in reassurance, but her glare only intensified, dark, bumpy scales of slate-grey becoming more prominent beneath the collar of her dress.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’ She slapped a crease out of her simple black cloak, my art folder and our meagre bags at her feet. ‘You should have let the bastard get soul-snatched.’
‘Alma!’ I hissed, glancing around to see if any of the clerks had heard her.
‘It’s what he deserves.’ She shrugged. I couldn’t argue with her there. I wasn’t in the business of wishing foul fates on people, but the spoiled brat deserved more than he’d got.
Alma quickly resumed her hawk-like watch of the room. Ignoring the messenger boys who hurried by and the glances they gave, almost stumbling over their own feet at the fierce, dark beauty of Alma that no drab maid’s uniform could dent.
‘The maids spread terrible rumours about Lord Blackthorn,’ she said quietly, oblivious to the commotion her mere presence had caused. ‘They say he killed his sister and that he was born of a witch’s curse.’
‘They say many things,’ I hedged, being slightly relieved they hadn’t said he was a lecher at least.
‘Apparently he doesn’t make appearances because he’s riddled with a rotting disease after the war,’ she continued, straightening the cuff of her dress. ‘He probably only has one tooth left in his head.’
‘Really, Alma. The rubbish you listen to.’ I sighed in an effort to resist asking just exactly what rotting disease they thought it was and just what dark entity had caused it. In Blackthorn’s line of work, the possibilities were endless.
‘Katherine Woodrow.’ My name echoed around the chamber. The scratching of quills stopped.
Clerk Roberts strode towards us, considering me over his small oval glasses, a stack of portal papers in his grasp.
‘Clerk Roberts, I hope you’re well.’ I bowed in greeting.
‘Well enough,’ he replied curtly, reaching up to straighten the collar of his maroon tunic. ‘Weren’t you causing chaos in the ruins last night? I’m certain that’s a removable offence.’
Of course he’d know about that. The whole Institute probably knew.
I ignored the remark, my smile sharp as I held out the papers. ‘I have my partnership papers.’
The old bastard reluctantly took them, his beady eyes growing wide as they drifted over the papers, once and then again. From his suddenly grey pallor, the papers were real.
Roberts’ eyes darted from the papers to my face, the edges of his glasses beginning to fog.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked politely, ignoring his hateful gaze. ‘If you wish to summon Lord Blackthorn, I don’t mind waiting.’
He continued to glare, something working behind his eyes, building up to a familiar cutting insult. Master Hale’s whore … or maybe his bastard.
‘Does she need to repeat herself?’ The deep voice of Master Hale came from behind me, making the clerk nearly drop his papers in shock.
‘No, sir,’ Roberts grumbled as he bowed deeply, turning on his heel and snapping commands at the gate assistant perched on a low stool, awaiting instructions.
Hale hobbled closer, his breath laboured as his navy robes were buttoned up wrong and his cloak was in need of a good pressing.
‘Good morning, Alma,’ he greeted, laying a reassuring hand on Alma’s shoulder, which slumped in relief, colour filling her paled cheeks.
‘Good morning, Sir.’ She smiled.
His tired gaze came to me, a redness to his eyes. There was something distant about his expression, which worried me that his ailing mind was catching up to him.
‘Master Hale?’ I frowned in concern, wondering if he’d taken any of the healing draughts I’d made for him.
He shook his head as if to dismiss a dark thought with the weakest of smiles, and instead extended the large volume he had tucked under his arm, holding it out to me, a thick red ribbon tied around it like a gift. The roughness of the leather was familiar to me, as were the delicate spine and yellowed pages.
The Myths of Shadow by Bartholomew Browbeak . The most revered text in the ancient study of magic. Few volumes remained, and none in such good condition as Hale’s. It contained the most powerful spells, even those of forbidden dark magic that lingered beneath the earth. A complete collection of magical histories without the Council’s sterilisation . Hale had allowed me access to his copy a few times, but it was closely guarded in his study.
‘This is your first edition.’ I took it from him reluctantly. It was his most prized possession.
‘Now it’s yours. To commemorate your achievement.’ He smiled.
My being under his care put him at risk, almost as much as it protected me, so perhaps this was for the best. A dying man deserved some peace after all.
‘Thank you.’ Yet, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, ‘Is this Lord Blackthorn the same one the Council have recorded as deceased?’ I’d made it my mission to know all my enemies within the Institute, and being dead meant Blackthorn hadn’t been added to my list.
‘The Council have recorded numerous things incorrectly,’ was his dry response as his gaze drifted absently around the portal office and the gawping portal clerks pretending they were working.
‘Besides, Occult studies has been one of your interests for as long as you’ve been here. It could help with your dark healing papers and Lord Blackthorn is an expert in that field. There is much you can learn from him.’ His smile didn’t falter despite the lie I sensed pressed between his words.
‘I’m sure Alma will be glad to see the back of this place and experience the countryside too,’ he continued, sensing my suspicion.
I couldn’t argue with that. Alma hated the Institute more than me, and the further I could get her away from prying eyes the better. Her magic was just as deadly as my own and less inclined to behave.
‘Trust me, Katherine. Blackthorn is …’ He hesitated, seeming unsure of his next words before he reluctantly pushed on. An intensity crept into his gaze that unnerved me more than my current situation. ‘See this as a blessing. You need all the help you can get.’
‘I do trust you.’ I hated the bitterness that lie left on my tongue. He had done nothing but protect me thus far and he didn’t deserve my doubt.
‘I have other clients who need the portal,’ the dry tone of Clerk Roberts interrupted us.
The gate loomed behind him, a large doorway made of metal dials and cogs that contained magic from the earth, meaning it responded to incantations and opened with the right level of skill. The clattering of the wheel grew louder with the potency of the spell.
‘Go on.’ Hale nudged me forward. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you when you’re settled in your new role.’
Of course, having a partner mage finally got me a Grand Library key, but even such an elusive gift couldn’t distract me from the horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might not see him again despite his words.
There was too much to say and I knew my hesitation was only causing Alma further discomfort.
‘Come on, Alma.’ I smiled weakly.
Thankfully she gathered our belongings and followed without argument.
‘I expect you’ll be back for another disciplinary shortly.’ Roberts smirked, pushing his glasses up his greasy nose, as he returned the papers to me.
‘I look forward to your disappointment,’ I retorted as the clacking of the portal grew louder, telling me it was safe to cross. The waft of heat from the spell drenched my exposed skin like a flaring hearth. The doorway glowed, the marble dissolving with magic as bright white light filled the space.
‘Kat,’ Alma whispered cautiously, her hand finding my own as I pulled her through the doorway, unwilling to linger a moment longer.
There was a brightness, the familiar sting of enchantment, before we were greeted with the bustle and noise of the busy, crowded streets of the carriage station, with the unnerving screeching of steam engines in the distance.
I should have been joyous at the bitter fresh air on my cheeks, but all that consumed me was dread. Dirty smoke filled my lungs as the bustle of the crowd bumped into us, knocking the bags from Alma’s grip. I bent to retrieve them, tucking my art folder under my arm, straightening only to catch sight of the continuous trembling of Alma’s hands, sweat on her brow catching the lamp light.
This was more than nerves.
‘Have you taken your tonic?’ I asked, a new fear creeping into my chest.
‘There wasn’t time,’ she admitted weakly, the unusual paleness to her darker skin more obvious beneath the harsh station lights. No, I hadn’t given her time.
I moved us out of the crushing swell of passengers, through the station and out towards the carriage stops. Beggars rattled their cups under my nose, thin boys sold hot pies wrapped in newspaper and women gossipped while waiting for their trains. There was nothing that the loud bustle could do to distract me from the large sign hanging on the back of a waiting-room door.
No beggars. No fey.
‘Miss Woodrow !’ came a voice from across the packed platform, almost swallowed by the shrill whistle of a departing train. The gangly form of a young man hurried towards us, skilfully navigating the busy crowd. He had fiery red hair, a handsome young face covered in freckles, warm brown eyes and dimpled cheeks emphasised by his beaming smile. He came to a stop, pulled off his cap and bowed in greeting, revealing two short dark horns that protruded from his curls.
‘William Roydon,’ he announced in a thick Devrick accent. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and if he was put off by the imposing nature of my Kysillian height, he didn’t show it. ‘I’ve come from Blackthorn House to fetch you.’
‘Mr Roydon.’ I bowed, trying not to seem too flustered by how strangely this day was unfolding. Startled as to how he had recognised me. Then again, Kysillian’s weren’t a familiar sight in the south.
‘William,’ he corrected, looking past me in confusion. ‘I thought you had a maid?’
I turned, expecting to see Alma standing safely behind me. But in her place, sitting on the dirty platform, peeking out from the pile of Alma’s dress and underthings, was a small tabby cat.
‘Alma.’ I reached for her, just as another swarming crowd surged forward, kicking one of her shoes across the platform and trampling all over her dress. My hand was almost crushed as I yanked it from beneath the passengers’ filthy boots. Alma let out a hiss of annoyance as her small body leapt onto the safety of my shoulders.
Frustrated tears burned in my eyes as I stuffed her dress into my bag. Feeling her small paws kneed my shoulder.
I should have noticed, should have known she was close to changing. I mentally cursed myself turning for her shoes and underthings, only to find William kneeling next to me on the grimy platform, stopping the crowd trampling over us. The rest of her things were neatly folded, along with her shoes, piled in his hands.
‘Thank you.’ I smiled with a relieved breath, pushing them into the bag as I got back to my feet. William picking up the rest of the luggage effortlessly, like he dealt with stray clothes and vanishing maids all the time.
‘This is Alma Darcy. She’s working on her transformations,’ I explained, as I clutched my art folder to my front, waiting for his harsh comment or disbelieving glance as his warm eyes fell to the cat on my shoulder. Alma meowed in greeting from her perch, her tail brushing my other cheek, clearly more sociable in her feline form than her human one.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Alma.’ William bowed again with that same welcoming smile as he put his cap back on. ‘I have the carriage waiting for us.’
His polite businesslike manner returned as he struggled with the bags through the packed crowd, leading the way. I gathered up my skirts and tucked my art folder more securely under my arm and followed, knowing there was no turning back, and that might have been the most terrifying thing of all.