CHAPTER TWO #2
A smudge, a single stray, hair-thin scratch, one stroke out of order, could end in her eyes turned purple, or bloodshot, or inside out. He penned each glyph, shining red, one over the other, meticulous. Change, eye, color, pink. Cherry blossom. Like a petal in his palm.
It was delicate, intricate work. When it was finished, it would look identical to any paraglyph that any properly trained scribe had crafted.
But there was an art to it, as well, something that couldn’t be taught.
Something in the crafting of it that produced a finer result.
Whatever it was, Sy had it. It was why Duchess Abigail made such demands on him.
It was how someone from his upbringing had become a scribe in the first place.
When it was finished, he inspected it for mistakes. Satisfied, he set the paper in the petri dish. Last, the finishing touch, one final piece of himself: his breath.
As he blew on it, the vellum disintegrated. In its place, the dish filled with a sparkling crimson dust, like pummeled rubies, or sugar dyed with crushed strawberries.
For something like hair, or skin, he would simply brush the spell upon the surface, make a paste if necessary. For an internal fix, it could be consumed in a tea.
For her eyes, the most effective means was a dropper. He poured the vial of distilled water into the dish, mixing it with the dust, making it nearly liquid again. He dipped in the eye dropper, squeezing and sucking up what once was his blood, what was now magic.
He brandished it, regarding the duchess, her brown eyes still wide and fixed on the red liquid. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, then tilted back her head.
He hovered the dropper over her awaiting eye. He squeezed. One drop, then another.
Her eyes screwed shut, and for a horrifying moment, he held his breath.
But when she opened them, her eyes beamed a pretty, confectionery pink. She immediately reached for her hand mirror and peered at herself.
“Oh, Sylas,” she squealed, delighted. “They’re marvelous!”
“My pleasure,” he said, unable to keep his eyes from the purse on the table. It was more than enough to last him another month. He should take it now and run. She was so pleased, perhaps–
“But you know,” she said, peering at herself in the mirror, “it could match my hair better, don’t you think? Perhaps cherry blossom was not the right shade.”
He suppressed a sigh. He’d almost let himself believe she would be satisfied.
“Nonsense,” he said. “It’s a subtle effect. Much more striking than an ostentatious blue.”
“Oh Sylas, you must understand,” she said, her pink eyes wide and pleading. “It can be so difficult to know what I want to look like until I see it myself. I haven’t the imagination.”
To keep his rebuttal where it belonged, Sy did his best to imagine a tongue-tying spell upon his own tongue.
As he packed his materials, she pressed on. “And then, no one else is as skilled as you. It would take a lesser scribe all afternoon to accomplish what you did in five minutes.”
“I’m afraid I really must refuse.”
“But I so rarely see you. And with the Midsummer Gala approaching–” Her lips pressed together.
She had more imagination than she let on, for he knew she was imagining all the attention Countess Herceg would receive at the last event of the season; attention she felt would be better directed upon herself.
“Why, I simply can’t afford to look anything less than perfect. ”
“My lady, you look perfect already,” he said. “I have taken great pains over the years to be sure of it.”
“Sylas,” she said, with an air of confidentiality, as though they were good friends.
Knowing what came next, but powerless against it, he paused his packing and looked up at her.
“You know, I do sympathize. I know how difficult things must be for you, in that tiny apartment of yours. Coming from where you do, making your way among such esteemed company. And with your…well.” She nodded at his gloves, as if mentioning what lay under was an unspeakable affliction.
Vulgar.
Then, she withdrew her checkbook and an ink pen from a drawer in her side table. As always, she had been prepared.
“I’m willing to compensate you generously, of course.” She flipped open the book, scrawled her name, and his, on the first blank check. “For your time, and your…resources.”
He eyed his pen, where his blood was already congealing.
He would have to clean it out, thoroughly, and draw more.
For each spell, he would have to draw more.
He only had two needles left; he’d have to reuse at least one of them.
But summer was nearing; his highest paying clients would be leaving the city until nearly the end of the year.
All except Edgard, who rarely left the palace, let alone the city.
She’ll suck you dry, David had said. But David was being dramatic; Sy knew he was more than recovered from his last job, and if he kept Abigail happy, he wouldn’t need to take another for weeks. A chance to fully recover. A chance to spend one summer at ease.
David. His eyes returned to the blank check.
His thoughts, to the stack of bills on his vanity.
To the piles of ink wells, empty as skulls.
To dinner, that night, with David, and the other King’s Wizards from their cohort.
David paying for him, covertly, so the others wouldn’t know, again and again, and never asking anything in return.
Never asking for anything more.
He pasted his most charming smile back on his face. “Where shall we begin?”