Chapter One #2
Mustard yellow thread unspools with a whisper. I clip off a length with my teeth and tie it into a wide loop, then wind my fingers through it. The fibers settle into the spaces between my fingers, taut and vibrating, as if eager to begin.
One breath to still my nerves.
Another to still my fingers.
Then I begin.
My Weaving is effortless and swift. Newton 204 is an advanced knot, but that doesn’t daunt me.
There are forty-one steps, and within seconds, I’m halfway done.
A web is forming between my hands, slackening and tightening as I Weave, faster and faster.
Mother Bridgid is nodding to herself, her eyes tracking my every move.
But as skillful as my work is, I know it’s not truly what she is judging. This is the easy part, for me.
There are two steps to executing a spell—first the Weave, then the magic.
Lay out the boundaries of the spell, the pattern it will take, and then flood it with the energy to make it come alive.
The thread wants to be woven, it urges me on, and my fingers move almost faster than my thoughts can follow, driven by a deep instinct I’ve always had inside me.
Ever since I was a little girl, I could see a Weave once and replicate it perfectly the next day.
I have an instinct for patterns, and thank the Fates for that, else I’d never have been able to keep up in my classes.
I may have been putting it mildly when I said my magic has always been weak.
But I learned years ago how to stretch a teaspoon of magic further than most girls could a pint.
When the knot is complete, I go still; sunlight lancing through the leaded windows illuminates the spellknot and turns the yellow fibers into gold. Motes of dust sink through the geometric gaps in the Weave, bright sparks in the sun.
“Neatly done,” Mother Bridgid says. “But then, there was never any doubt as to your skill. Please continue.”
I hesitate, drawing a few deep breaths before beginning the second stage of the Weave. But with every rise and fall of my lungs, my heart beats faster, fluttering like a trapped moth.
Don’t ruin this, Rose.
Don’t sabotage yourself.
You didn’t survive two years of your aunt’s torments or twelve years of grueling lessons and endless practice only to falter now.
I recall the beloved opening line of The Westminster Weaving Primer: All it takes to change your fate is a bit of thread.
I close my eyes and let out a final breath, then open the channels and doors and conduits inside me, and I reach.
Living energy pulses in the ferns arranged behind the headmistress’s desk.
It courses through the ivy clinging to the outside wall.
It bubbles in the moss between the paving stones lining the yard.
Even here in the heart of London, where all is stone and brick, there is living energy.
And at my touch, it responds, reaching back to me, curious.
I pull it in, twining it up and around my mind like wool around a spindle, harvesting it in strands and strings.
I gather it all up inside me, living threads bundled together in my heart, where it is spun into magic.
But it’s not enough.
My heart is already squeezing with pain. It’s like gasping for air while a hand is tightening on my throat—I reach, and I sense the energy around me, but I can’t pull enough in. My skin turns clammy; if I’m going to fail, this is where it happens. This is where it always happens.
Not this time.
Not this time, please, Fates above!
Opening my eyes, I let out a breath and attempt to channel what meager energy I’ve gathered into the thread stretched between my hands. The magic rushes from my clenching heart, scouring me from the inside out.
For a moment, light begins to glow at my fingertips and wicks into the thread.
Then it goes out.
Panic spikes in my gut. No, no, no!
I grasp desperately at the uncoiling strands of energy, but it’s too late.
They’re torn apart like a spiderweb in a gale, and the magic releases from me in an untidy wind that gusts around the office.
Papers on the desk flutter high; ash in the hearth clouds the air and sets Mother Bridgid to coughing.
She pulls out her thread and Weaves a fast settling spell that returns the ashes back to the fireplace, seeming to make time run in reverse. In the chaos I sink, trembling, to my knees.
“I can try again,” I whisper. “If I wait a moment, it will work.”
I look up at Mother Bridgid. She must see the naked desperation in my eyes, because she sighs and shakes her head, even as she coughs into her kerchief.
“Sister Rose, I am sorry.”
My lungs squeeze, depriving me of breath. “Sorry for what?”
“For you. For our school, in what it loses in you. It’s undeniable that you are uncommonly skilled in your technique. It’s been many years since we had a teacher as clever. But the neatest Weaves in the world are useless if you cannot fill them with magic.”
“But I can,” I whisper. This will pass. Surely it must pass.
I am not a woman of high ambition. I don’t wish to embroider for the queen or Weave in battle with the Telarii.
I don’t wish to sit at a loom in Westminster Abbey.
I want only to teach. To help other girls like me find their way in the world. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“I’m sorry, dear.” Mother Bridgid rises to her feet. Her tone is firm, but the pity in her eyes is worse than any pain in my chest. It is the expression of a doctor informing his patient that her illness is much worse than she’d feared. “I am afraid I have no choice but to—”
“I just need time!” I say, before she can go further and speak the words I fear most. “To rest, to recover. Please, Mother.”
Her lips press together, as if she is warring against her own conscience.
I hang upon her expression, breathless with dread, waiting to see which way she will go.
Her eyes, though sunken into her lined face, are bright and calculating as she studies me.
I keep my shoulders straight and try not to look too desperate, but I fear I am not accomplished enough a liar to be convincing.
“This school is my home. My entire life.” I rest my hands on my knees, palms up and pleading. One small white scar shines on my wrist where the sleeve pulls up.
“Time, then,” she says at last, and my eyelids flutter with relief. “A year’s leave. If your pains persist after that, however, I am afraid I will have no choice but to dismiss you from the Order.”
I swallow a knot of sudden dismay. A year. I’d hoped for a week, a month at most, but a year . . . ! Still, better this than the alternative—being dismissed entirely. Which I am sure she was about to do.
She gives my hand a soft pat. “This is for your own good, my dear. You are playing a dangerous game. My uncle had a bad heart, you know, and he was a Weaver. We told him to give it up, or he’d kill himself.”
I wait, my voice frozen in my throat.
“He didn’t listen, and he’s dead now,” she adds, her words slow with emphasis. She gives me a hard look. “Magic, my dear, is not for the faint of heart.”