I sat on Catherine’s bed, hugging my knees to my chest. As children, we had often sat on Mama’s bed, watching Mama transform through the artifice of her maid from an ordinary mother into something resplendent and strange. I did not know if Catherine was thinking of our old habit when she summoned me or of flaunting her debutante status.
Catherine’s maid attached a small coronet of pearls to my sister’s mahogany hair. Catherine surveyed her reflection in the ornate mirror, smiling at the effect. Her image seemed unfamiliar, her usual severity softened by the glass and the late-afternoon light. Behind her, I could see the smaller circle of my face, a pale smear of flesh with dark holes for eyes.
I disliked mirrors. Sometimes when I looked at them aslant, I caught an uncanny doubled image, as if I were not one person but two—as if I were a stranger in my own skin. I never knew if such reflections were a by-product of my lack of magic or merely a defect in my vision.
Catherine must have seen something in my look to distrust, because she whirled suddenly. “Anna, you will be good, won’t you? You know how much tonight means. I have worked so hard for this moment.”
I did know. Catherine was almost frightening in her single-mindedness, and the only thing she wanted more than a dazzling marriage was a position in the Circle, the elite group of Luminate who governed all magic. If her debut spells were suitably impressive, she might be invited to apprentice with one of the Circle members, lifting her into the highest echelon of Luminate society.
“What would I possibly do? I won’t be anywhere near you.” Except at midnight, in the gardens.
“Strange things happen around you. You’re so very…” She paused, searching for the right word.
“Quixotic? Unconventional? Immodest?” All those, and worse, had been hurled at me by exasperated governesses in the past.
Her brows drew together, a faint tuck of disapproval. “You’ll never get a husband with that attitude.”
“Perhaps I don’t want one.” My eyes dropped to the soul sign glimmering above Catherine’s collarbone: the illusion all full-blooded Luminates learned to craft upon entering society, evidence of their magic, just as their jewels witnessed their wealth, and their titles their lineage. Hers was a white rose with fire in its heart. I thought of the sign I would craft, if I could: a peregrine falcon, perhaps—fierce, swift, and strong.
Catherine could not know how galling it was to live in our world as I did. Every noble-born came into their Luminate magic after their Confirmation at age eight—except me. Without magic, everything about me was suspect: my lineage, my quality, my education, my very self. I had no hope of belonging to Luminate society unless I could marry into power, but as Mama frequently pointed out, no one of any position would choose someone so flawed. I would have no fancy debut, as Catherine would, because it would serve no purpose. Yet my noble blood barred me from seeking an occupation among commoners unless I wished to cut myself off from my family.
Until Freddy, I had not realized I might have a future.
My sister ran her fingers along the rim of the cut glass vase now holding Freddy’s roses. “Lord Markson Worthing will be there. He has been so attentive lately.” She glanced at me from under her eyelashes, a demure trick I could never hope to master. “I know you like him, Anna. But you should understand he would never look at you. Not seriously. His father intends him to marry me.”
My hands curled tightly on the coverlet of Catherine’s bed. What was it Freddy wished to tell me? That he loved me—or that he meant to court Catherine? I did not think I could bear it if he married her. She only cared for his name and his title and his family.
She did not deserve him.
At ten minutes to midnight, I set down my book of poetry and smoothed the sleek coils of dark hair around my ears. As a treat, James and I had been served some of the supper dishes in the schoolroom: lobster, dressed crab, rice croquettes, tongue sliced so thin it was almost transparent, pastries, cheeses, pulled bread, and iced pudding. James had eaten himself into a stupor and was now snoring on the rug, a book of fairy tales long forgotten beside him. I covered him with a quilt and crept down the stairs to my father’s library.
I hesitated in the doorway, listening. Were I an Elementalist like Papa, capable of manipulating wind and light, I could set a spell on the air to tell me whether anyone lurked nearby. As it was, I had to rely on my own senses. Beneath the distant echo of voices and music, I heard only the quiet spit and crackle of fire in the grate, so I plunged into the room, crossed the carpet, and pushed my way out the large French doors into the garden.
A gentle breeze caressed my cheek, part of the wind charm Papa used to keep the smoke and fog of London from our garden. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, smelling green and growing things. After the threatening sky of the afternoon, the evening had come on clear. Papa did not often use his magic, but when he did, his handiwork was always finely wrought.
I followed a little-used path toward Grandmama’s herb garden. I loved her garden, especially in summer when the air was sharp with mint and basil. Even in winter I loved it: the bare, orderly plots waiting for spring, the neat circular walkway around the center.
The garden was empty when I arrived. The darkness of the night crept up my arms, settled under my heart. Freddy was not here.
A gust of wind brought with it the scent of roses from the ballroom, and I shivered. Perhaps Freddy was having difficulty getting away or negotiating the garden in the darkness.
Footsteps crunched on gravel behind me. My heart thumped, and I crouched down below the shadow of the hedge. I could not be seen. I was not supposed to be here.
A man’s low voice sounded; it was not Freddy. “There’s fighting again in Manchester, bloody lower classes demanding access to magic. Why can’t they simply accept the order of things? If they were meant to have magic, they’d have been born Luminate. There’s no magic in common blood. Riots and petitions for magic will not change that.”
A pause, then a second voice. “The commoners questioning is bad enough. But they say Arden is a heretic, wants to do away with the Binding.”
“Madness. How can he not see that breaking the Binding will undo the very social order that supports us?”
The hair at the nape of my neck lifted. Why should these men link Papa with the worker riots? He was no heretic. He believed in the sanctity of the Binding, the great spell that held all magic in a vast reservoir of power, accessible only to those with Luminate blood.
“So I’ve heard. But his younger daughter’s Barren and his son’s nearly so. What more would you expect from such a family?”