Chapter 13 #3
“I tried to plant it, after you and George shipped out for France,” she continued. “But it didn’t have any roots. The leaves shriveled up and I forgot all about it…”
Ezra felt his chest loosen. It was nice, to think that his magic had done something good, for once. “Me too,” he murmured.
Celia leaned back into her seat, picking at one of the stars on her dress in a thoughtful manner.
Biz watched the other woman, her cheeks now the color of camellias. “Could I have turned it into another tree? If I was a son?”
“Magic doesn’t care if you’re male or female. Those are the Order’s limitations.”
“And Hugo,” Biz said, a harder edge bracing her voice. “He wasn’t just throwing those parties for fun. He was harvesting us.”
“He was siphoning off your anima to bolster his own power, yes. That’s one of the reasons he was able to control you in the parlor,” Celia said.
It took every ounce of Ezra’s willpower not to storm out of the compartment and find Hugo Pratt’s train car.
Not to tear that jackal limb from limb. He looked back at the scepter and the jar on the scroll instead.
He thought of the Germans. “We can’t let Hugo become any more powerful than he already is. ”
“I’ll toast to that.” Vincent nodded. “Or, I would, if we were allowed to go to the dining car and order champagne.”
“How?” Biz wondered. “If we run into Hugo at the fourth pyramid, or even the next train station, what’s to stop him from turning me into a puppet again?”
Celia sighed. “A powerful shadow-stringer can take a person’s fears and bind them to his own will so thoroughly that they believe they’re acting of their own accord instead of being compelled.
But that’s what it is at the end of the day—compulsion.
You can fight it, if you understand what’s happening.
If you choose to ignore the first impulse of your fear. ”
Biz frowned. “So… what… just don’t be afraid?”
“Papa always told me that my mind was my strongest weapon.” Celia’s hand wandered up past her headband, where a thread of hair had started to shine. She plucked the idea out and held it up for the rest of the compartment to see.
Inside shimmered a panoramic view of the pyramids, with a string of camels leading to the fourth.
Vincent sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. “Wait, we can do that here?”
“You can manifest your dreams anywhere,” Celia explained. “And you can use them to cut through any shadows controlling you. So long as your hope is stronger than your fear.”
She fell into explanations of Sancts and Daydreamers and masques, while Biz pawed through her already tousled bob and Vincent combed back his golden locks.
Ezra looked back at the train window, where if he focused, the Nile’s moonlit veins disappeared into his own reflection.
Nothing glowed there. The face that stared back through the dark glass was unrecognizable—what does this stranger hope for? What does he fear, if not himself?
There was a flicker of light, but it hadn’t come from Ezra.
It was blue, for one thing.
Almost turquoise.
He pressed closer to the window, cupping his hand against the glass to get a better view of the night beyond.
His heart raced. He wasn’t sure what it expected to find.
Shadows blurred past, arranging themselves into palms and farmers’ huts as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Water buffalo dotted a nearby field. All was silver and black, but not the same silver as the winged woman he’d once seen at Amiens.
This was just starlight. The turquoise flash was gone—most likely a signal light for the train conductors.
“AHA!”
A cry of triumph called his attention back to Biz, who was holding a shining strand in her fingers.
Her hair was naturally fair, and this hadn’t changed much.
Inside, Ezra could see piles of gold—heaped like some pirate captain’s stash—more than enough to save Thornhill.
But even if Biz broke the idea open and filled their train with treasure, it would be useless.
Phantom coins to all but Enlightened eyes.
Vincent had managed to manifest a wish as well. Dimples betrayed his delight as he twisted the glowing strand back and forth, examining what lay inside.
Biz was watching too. “You dream about fruit?”
“Not just any fruit, my dear. The perfect pomegranate. One that doesn’t turn your walls into a murder scene when you try to peel it.”
“But…” His fiancée faltered. “You could imagine anything…”
There was a brilliant flash as Vincent snapped his imagining in half, a lusciously red pomegranate appearing in its place.
“Yes, well, I’m hungry.” He split the skin with a firm press from his thumb, revealing the richest seeds Ezra had ever seen.
They looked like garnets. “Would you rather I conjure another ring for you instead?”
He said this breezily—peeling off a piece of the pomegranate and offering it to his betrothed in the same moment—but Biz crossed her arms and shook her head.
“I can do that myself,” she replied.
“It’s better to save your imaginings,” Celia reminded them as she tucked her dream of the pyramids back into her headband, the way scholars sometimes stored stray pens. “Sooner or later, we’re going to need them.”