CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Heart in her altered throat, Anya clasped a hand over her borrowed satchel and followed Mira into her parlor. She did not look at Sy as she passed; looking at him undid her. Already, she had come dangerously close to revealing herself, and that would ruin everything.
She had found the manor with relative ease.
She set out at night; the stars sang secrets to her, still, after everything.
Now that Anya knew the melody of the magic coursing through her, in fact, she saw the forest with more clarity than ever – crystal, celestial.
No beast accosted her; no dread spirits led her astray.
Her path was certain, her purpose true. Soon, the wind joined the stars’ chorus, and the pines, and the fireflies, earthbound stars themselves.
They rejoiced in her return. They led her through the wood, and she followed.
And as the fireflies faded, and the first notes of sunrise chimed, and the stars chanted their soft denouement, Bosquet Mire rose into view.
The iron gate had swung open as if she had been expected.
Upon crossing its threshold, the sunrise had dimmed into an eerie, overcast violet, as if the estate existed in perpetual twilight.
The manor had loomed alpine above her. Even though blades were useless against the witch, Anya felt weak and exposed without her weapons.
But there was no entering the manor with them.
And besides, Ortolan Gander had never held a hatchet in his life. And, though she barely knew how to use it, she did have Sy’s pen.
Better yet, she had a plan.
The parlor was as white and unadorned as the rest of the cavernous home, except for the gray settee and sofa, and a black iron poker by the empty fireplace. The fiddlehead footman stood planted beside it, ready should his mistress need accommodating, or should Bosquet Mire’s visitor need subduing.
Mira leaned casually against the arm of the sofa, glowing a sunlit orange, the center of the room no matter where she stood.
And Sy stood beside his mistress, utterly unrecognizable, watching the witch with all the servile attention of an affection-starved house cat.
Anya knew if she ran a finger along the length of his bare arm, she would find no stabbing wound, no angry veins, no lingering bruise.
But Mira’s bond had transformed him more than his own spell had – his hair paler, dressed all in white, fawning over someone he would ordinarily despise. Barely a shade of himself.
Even then, he was all she could see.
And while Ortolan Gander, spellscribe and king’s emissary, might find Sy attractive, he certainly would not wish to offend his hostess by staring at her familiar like a lovesick fool.
Nothing would give Anya away quicker than that.
Sabina, delighted with such clay to mold, had done a thorough job of disguising her – and, much to the spellscribe’s quick disappointment and eternal chagrin, of making her look plain.
In the end, after copious grumbling about “waste of blood and talent,” Anya had won.
Outwardly, she was unrecognizable. Nonthreatening. The rest was up to her.
There had been a moment, at the door, she thought she had given up the game.
But she couldn’t help herself. Seeing him in the doorway, alone with him for even a moment, she’d forgotten everything but that he was in front of her, that he was alive.
She forgot she wasn’t supposed to know him; forgot the enchantment upon him; forgot the danger she was in.
She forgot everything but that seeing him, no matter how he happened to look, was a rare and fortunate beauty.
Then he’d urged her to run. Tried to save her to the last, even when he thought she was a stranger. He was not lost. He was not lost to her.
But he was still Mira’s puppet, and the only way to save him from her was to cut the strings.
So Anya focused on her quarry, who was currently sporting a grin Anya knew well; one that meant she would need all her wiles.
Despite her gut simmering with hatred, she kept her pulse steady, her face placid.
The witch had the upper hand. There were many unknown quantities to this endeavor, but Anya relied upon two things.
The first, of course, was being the most cunning creature in the Lichtenwald. Murderess of the mimic, butcher of the bramble slake, captor of the phoenix. Warden of the wood.
And second, more certain than the turning of autumn leaves: Mira’s high opinion of herself.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Your Ladyship,” Anya began with an extravagant bow, the tail of her hair falling over her shoulder and scraping the ground. “I presume I have the privilege of addressing the revered Countess Mirabelle Corveau?”
Mira’s dangerous smile fell. “I haven’t heard that name spoken in a very long time.”
“A pity, my lady, for it is a name spoken with great reverence in the halls of Sangfeder, as on the streets of ?bender. You are, and have been, a legend.”
Mira didn’t preen, exactly, but she did lift her chin.
Anya bit back a satisfied smile. It was almost a pity how easy it was.
“Your flattery is noted.” Despite being shorter than Anya and halfway across the room, Mira managed to peer down her nose. “Spit it out. Why have you come?”
“To rectify past wrongs.” Anya withdrew a gilded scroll from her satchel – forged expertly, after much convincing that to do so did not, in fact, violate any of the terms in the wizard’s oath, by David.
She unrolled it. A license to practice wizardry.
One elegant eyebrow rose.
“I have a copy for you, and need only a copy for our records, signed by your hand. His Majesty the King recognizes you as the rightful owner of the phoenix and has called the hunt to its conclusion. His Majesty most vociferously regrets his past treatment of you and was pleased to hear of your victory. As a sign of respect, and remorse, he wishes to offer you what should have been yours these past ninety years.”
She paused, a supplicating smile plastered to her teeth, waiting for Mira to melt into the praise like petals in spring rain.
“How dare you,” said Mira, stepping closer, her cape rippling like a storm cloud. “He wants to bargain now I have something he wants. Will he still wish to bargain if I send you back to him in pieces?”
Involuntarily, Anya’s fingers twitched for her knife – the one she didn’t have, on the belt she wasn’t wearing. But the spellscribe Ortolan Gander didn’t have a violent bone in his body. He would be properly afraid.
She caught herself, clutched her fingers to her chest, donned a mask of alarm.
Mira’s expression betrayed nothing.
But Sy’s forehead went crooked. With memory or suspicion, it didn’t matter. He’d seen her twitch; his attention had been captured.
And Mira did notice that. Her lips spread.
Anya suddenly wished very badly for her knife. “I meant no disrespect, Your Ladyship,” she began, not disguising the very real quaver in her voice.
“At last, something to make my familiar’s heart beat faster.” Her smile softened. “You sense it too, don’t you, familiar? Our guest. He’s hiding something.”
Already, Anya was dangerously close to losing her footing. “No, Your Ladyship, I assure you–”
“He’s here for you,” Mira cut in. Anya’s heart stopped as Sy considered her disguised visage with new eyes.
Wounded, suspicious eyes. “To take you back to ?bender. To Edgard. Why, you’re more valuable to him than ever – quite the return on his investment.
In fact, you’re quite priceless. Spellscribes can change faces, can they not? Our emissary could be anyone.”
“His Majesty has no interest in stealing your prize, Madame.” Every word left a foul taste in her mouth, but her voice was steady. She didn’t look at Sy; she couldn’t.
“He’s lying,” Mira went on, genuinely curious, “but still your heart flutters.”
Then she lifted a finger, and Anya went rigid as Mira effortlessly froze her in place.
“What do you say, Sylas? Shall we keep him?” Mira grabbed Sy by the shoulders and steered him to face Anya. “You see? I can be generous. Would that open you up to me?” Her voice curdled as she spoke sourly in his ear. “Would that finally make you happy?”
Anya’s breath tightened; Sy’s gaze never left her.
With apparent effort, he turned his gaze back to Mira. “Nothing would make me happier than to see you get your rightful due, Your Ladyship.”
Mira was startled, and, evidently, pleased. With a wave, she released her grip on Anya, who exhaled sharply as her body relaxed.
“That is my only motive,” Anya said quickly, rubbing her throat.
“On behalf of those who have wronged you. Not to take the phoenix, but to bring you what you deserve. To see justice served.” She paused, heart hammering against her ribs.
It was a risk; oh, it was a risk. “Knowledge should never be hoarded like a dragon’s gold. ”
Now Sy’s eyes snapped to hers. Her heart hammered harder. Did he know? Did it matter?
“It is the least I deserve,” Mira conceded, oblivious. “But I have lived too long to trust the word of kings or men – and I’ll never trust a scribe. Familiar.” The way she spoke to him sent a ripple of flaming hatred up Anya’s spine. “Confiscate his pen.”
After a moment’s hesitation – too short, really, to discern as hesitation – he approached Anya. As he rummaged through her satchel – his – did he recognize it? – she kept her gaze, genial and even, on Mira.
He found the golden pen and took it, laying it upon the table beside the witch.
Alright; it wasn’t a death sentence. She had prepared for this. She kept her face placid, her posture straight.
“Now,” said Mira, “lay a curse upon him.”
This time, Anya did not have to feign her fear.
And Sy hesitated – again, brief enough that it was barely detectable. “A curse, Your Ladyship?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Sylas. It’s tedious. And do try to remember what we discussed upstairs. It seems you’ve already forgotten.”
Briefly, his eyes fluttered closed. Dutifully, he approached Anya. Lifted a hand over her chest.