CHAPTER TWO
The walk from Upper Bunting to ?bender Heights was almost disgustingly pleasant.
Sy’s tiny apartment in Upper Bunting put him close enough to Edgard to be at his beck and call, but far enough to be able to afford a roof.
To the south and the west, and parts of the north – really, anywhere Edgard could not see from the palace windows – the streets became less picturesque.
But to the east of the palace, the streets were blindingly white, stately and serene.
That way was ?bender Heights, the city’s premier residential neighborhood, empty most of the year.
All along the way, every street was paved, every pathway bereft of litter or solicitors, every vendor safely ensconced behind a varnished shop front or restaurant awning charmingly adorned with blooming flora and pastel ribbons and wrought iron gaslights.
A soft, almost cloying scent drifted on the wind.
Past the ten-foot iron gate into ?bender Heights, blossoming cherry trees lined the avenue, littering the pristine stone in a riot of pink.
Petals drifted around Sy like snow. He caught one in his gloved palm, feelings its softness with his bare fingertips before letting it flutter to the white stone pavement.
He let a small smile slip past his lips. It might still be a rose-colored day.
As he approached the duchess’s white-faced and black-gabled manor, however, he felt his smile start to fade.
Adjusting his earring, he pasted on a better smile: a brighter, more impressive one.
A smile not his own, one equal parts approachable authority and subdued deference.
His finest accomplishment, perfected over years.
Though his spell work had always been impeccable, and he wouldn’t have gotten far without it, that smile did more to earn him clients than the finest education money could buy, than hard work, ever had.
Sy expected Hugo’s wrinkled smile to greet him at the door, but a stranger answered and led him inside. The new footman walked with a subtle but distinguishable limp. Hugo was always good for a chat; this man was silent.
Sy let his curiosity get the better of him. “Where is Hugo? Promoted, finally?”
“Dead,” said the new footman. “Sir. Of pneumonia.”
“Ah,” Sy said, startled at both the news and the man’s bluntness. “I’m – I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“We’re all very sorry,” said the new footman. “I am, however, quite grateful for the employment.”
“Of course,” Sy agreed, suddenly even more uneasy, and nostalgic for the man’s silence.
The new footman brought him without ceremony to the sitting room, where Duchess Abigail Skeylor awaited, tea already in hand.
Even familiar with her beauty as he was, Sy’s breath caught a bit at the sight of her.
It was more than her immaculate looks. Her brown eyes sparkled with rest and delight.
Her cheeks glowed with a diet rich in fat and candies, red meat and luscious fruits.
Her aura radiated a pure ecstasy only simple happiness could buy.
Simple happiness, comfort, and a bottomless coffer.
And, of course, a touch of magic.
She wore a gorgeous tea gown of white and blue silk damask, the bodice and skirt embroidered with turquoise and what could be paste but certainly looked like diamonds. Effluent tiers of lace spilled from her shoulders. Her earrings, also turquoise and diamond, took the shape of bows.
Today, her hair was the color of a golden sunrise, glistening when she turned with highlights of pink and blue.
One of Sy’s own spells, penned the last time he had visited.
Duchess Abigail professed to trust Sy – and only Sy – with the responsibility of her beauty, and he must admit: she was a vision.
My greatest work of art, he thought bitterly, sitting directly across from her.
The colors in the room should clash, but if there was one thing Sy admired about Abigail, it was her way with color.
Bright canary armchairs crouched on a deep burgundy carpet embroidered with ruby and gold florals.
Her cherry wood tables and chests were decorated with artfully arranged glass lamps, lace doilies, glass flowers, vases of various shapes and brightly painted porcelain figurines.
The pink trees outside the floor-to-ceiling windows cast the room in a dewy rose glow.
While she chatted, filling him in on all the gossip since his last visit, his gaze rested on a new painting on the wall behind her.
Broad strokes and vague colors. A landscape of the latest style.
Damn, what was it called? He used to know these things. He wondered if he knew the artist.
Beneath it, a tiny yellow parakeet perched in an iridescent mother-of-pearl cage, hopping about and chirping incessantly, drawing his attention back to the room. If he was feeling fanciful, he could almost imagine it was calling for help.
“I do think,” said the duchess, finally, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at him, “I would like them the color of the cherry blossoms.”
He forced on his smile. “A wonderful choice. It would complement your hair beautifully.”
“And the spring flora,” she chirped. “I am so glad you came today. We’re leaving for the country next week, you know.”
Yes, he was keenly aware most of the city’s wealthy would be relocating soon – and taking their wages with them.
He continued smiling.
“I know it’s so vulgar to talk about money,” she said, her bejeweled dress glistening in the sunlight as she readjusted her knees. “But I do of course have the promised sum prepared.”
She gestured at a side table, where a pleasantly fat black velvet purse awaited.
So did a hand mirror. She lifted the mirror and admired her brown eyes, one of her only features yet unaltered.
A note of apprehension crept into her voice, but she did not allow a wrinkle to cross her smooth forehead. “It is a difficult spell, you said?”
“It is, but not outside my capability,” he assured her. He pulled his kit from his satchel. “But as with any spell upon the eye, I will remind you of the risk of blindness. Nothing I can’t fix within a minute or two, but it could be uncomfortable.”
“Beauty is pain,” she said bravely. “And Nicolette has just had her eyes turned sky blue and wants everyone to know she thinks she’s quite fashionable. She’ll faint when she sees mine.”
Nicolette. The name rankled him before he remembered why: Nicolette Herceg, a countess, and one of David’s frequent clients.
He drew a breath. “You’ll be more beautiful than the spring herself.”
Without further ado, or chatting, he hoped, he removed the necessary components from his kit. A petri dish, a vial of distilled water, a glass eyedropper. Last, his pen.
It was a handsome tool. Made of gold and glass, etched with fine filigree, as dangerous as it was delightful.
Most of his clients asked to examine it before he began.
In order to keep their references, he could not refuse his clients much; but this, he steadfastly forbade.
If a regular fountain pen was temperamental, this one must be handled with the delicacy of the rarest feather.
Never mind the risk of a malfunction while spelling; he simply couldn’t afford to replace it.
Abigail had seen it – and been denied the pleasure of handling it – frequently enough that she no longer asked.
He uncapped the pen, exposing the gleaming point of the solid gold nib, sharp as a lancing knife. His thumb slid down the lever on the underside until it clicked into place, switching the nib for a needle.
The next steps came without thinking. Roll up his sleeve, tourniquet his upper arm, expose the soft inside of his elbow.
Dab the cotton in alcohol, feel the cold press against his skin, careful not to wince if the bruise was still fresh.
Clients did not like to see a spellscribe wince.
Unscrew the end cap, revealing the plunger.
Find a vein not recently punctured. Hitch his breath.
Insert the needle into his still bruised skin. Draw. Slow, and even. Spellscribes needed steady hands for more than writing.
As usual, Abigail watched, eyes wide, as the glass chamber of the pen slowly filled with his wine-red blood.
Many clients avoided watching this part, or even demanded he do it in another room.
For her, it never lost its macabre glory.
Though she was prim and pampered as a pastry, Sy suspected watching him gore himself was part of the thrill for her.
The parakeet chirped noisily, its wings flapping uselessly against the bars of the pearlescent cage, but he ignored it, focused on the slowly rising tide of blood.
There was no point in filling the barrel completely; he wouldn’t use it all before it began to coagulate, rendering it useless.
Still, he needed enough to allow the blood to stay fresh and red as long as possible, enough to force the blood through the nib.
Enough to allow for mistakes. Part of the reason he never made them – he always accounted for them.
After wrapping his arm, he clicked the slider and dislodged the needle before sliding it back up, replacing the nib.
He released a breath, and glanced up at Abigail, her brown eyes still wide.
Next, he removed a scrap of calfskin vellum, the finest writing material money could buy, usually reserved for religious and legal documents.
Any paper would do; in his academy days, after a late night punctuated with too much brandy and an ill-considered nose reshaping, he’d even seen a successful spell written on an old newspaper used to wrap fried fish.
But vellum was the most effective, and more importantly, impressive.
Most of his work – the kind that paid well – was in the aesthetic.
He placed his mahogany drawing board on his lap. Secured the vellum in the silver clip.
Then, slowly but deftly, careful not to miss a stroke, he began to write the spell.