The earliest memory Sydney let herself have was of learning magic, and the first spells that she remembered learning were for silence. After that, spells for obfuscation and deflection—things that would counterfeit invisibility, make people look away, not see, ignore, forget. True invisibility came later, but it was a soonish sort of later.
After that, after she had learned the names of nine qualities and thirteen degrees of silence, after she had learned to wrap herself in shadows, or a fold in a wall, or step into a tree and pull its bark closed after her, only then did Sydney learn how to cast other magic. And it was always, always, cast alongside those spells designed to hide her, to render her not just invisible, but utterly disappeared. The Unseen World prided itself on its invisibility; the House of Shadows was the rumor of its secrets. Even after she had left Shadows, Sydney had been a kept secret, a hidden thing, made to wait until the Turning to reveal herself.
Tonight, Sydney planned on being seen.
The Turning always officially opened with a party. An excuse for the Houses and aspirants to mingle in an armed truce. The first duel would be fought there, but tradition held that it would be little more than friendly rivalry. Spectacle rather than spite. A feint to gauge the strength of possible opponents.
Sydney didn’t believe in feints.
She walked through the gates of House Dee in a dress the color of fresh blood, her lips painted to match. It wasn’t that no heads turned to take in her progress across the marble floor, that no eyes followed the bend of her wrist as she plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray. It was that those eyes paid her no more attention than they would have given any other beautiful woman. For now that was fine. Proof that she had done her job so far. She’d provide a focus for their attention soon enough.
House Dee in its architectural incarnation was old and elaborate, the kind of space meant to remind people that it, and its inhabitants, had been here a while and were likely to remain. Set-dressed to exude power and wealth, it was warm and baroque. Light glinted off crystal glasses and chandeliers. It shone on wallpaper rich in texture and color; it warmed the beeswax polish on the furniture. Establishment and tradition perfumed the air.
Smile on face, glass in hand, Sydney passed through the crowd, pausing at the edge of a conversation to eavesdrop as the crème of the Unseen World, tuxedoed and begowned, arranged their faces in social masks and gossiped about her.
“Some nobody, and representing an upstart House. Could you imagine if he’s hired an outsider? He won’t make it past tonight with magic like that.”
“Beauchamps came from money, didn’t he? And is friends with the Prospero boy. You’d think he could do better.”
“Not the Prospero boy any longer, remember. Miranda kicked him out, erased his name from the family tree. He’s an upstart this Turning, too.”
“Really. What will Miranda do?”
“Kill him, probably. She’s hired Ian Merlin.”
That name an invocation strong enough to send whispers racing even into the corners of the room. Sydney placed her half-full glass on a passing tray. This would complicate things. The former heir of a House now allied with his father’s greatest rival. Ian Merlin had been worth watching even without that because of House Merlin’s connections to Shadows—but also because he was one of the few magicians strong enough that Sydney thought he might be an actual challenge. And now he had just gotten a lot more interesting.
Shara would want to know about this turn of events, and Sydney would need to rethink her own strategies, but those were considerations for later, not for now. Now was for personal considerations.
She continued to make her way through the crowd, looking for Miranda Prospero.
There.
Straight-backed and elegant, dark hair with one thick streak of white in it. Legend was that section of her hair had turned white overnight in the previous Turning, the night her husband had been killed, a sign of her grief. Diamonds dripped from her ears and sparkled like ice on her hands. She radiated power.
Sydney stepped back, out of Miranda’s eyeline. Later would be soon enough for that particular introduction.
Elizabeth Dee strode to the center of the room to officially open the Turning. “Thank you all for joining us tonight as we host the first duel and celebrate the spinning of Fortune’s Wheel.”
Sydney let the speech flow over her, tuning out continuous mentions of Fortune’s Wheel and the saccharine description of the Turning as an event designed to ensure that the Unseen World was led by the strongest, most capable magicians. The Turning might be about many things—individual duels might even be decided by magical strength and ability—but finding the strongest and most capable magicians was certainly not its purpose.
She refocused when Elizabeth spoke the words that officially began the duel: “House Dee accepts the challenge of the candidate House Beauchamps.”
The type of spell had been negotiated as part of the offered and accepted challenge. Tonight’s was influence. As the challenged House, Dee had the right to choose whether to cast first or second. Not so critical at this early stage, with everyone expecting things to be simply a warm-up, a collective thrown gauntlet, but as things progressed, it would matter. One could always alter a spell after seeing what the opponent chose, to make it flashier or more beautiful, to fine-tune the response. Sydney had known Dee would choose to cast first, that they would be certain that a hired proxy for a candidate House would be nobody that they would need to concern themselves with.
She wouldn’t need to fine-tune her response. She knew precisely what she was here to do.
House Dee took pride in representing itself from within. Not through its heir, of course—there was no need to be reckless—but her younger brother. Bryce Dee stepped out onto the floor, removed his tuxedo jacket and cuff links, and rolled back his sleeves. The edge of Sydney’s mouth curled. He shouldn’t attempt showmanship if that was the best he could muster.
Bryce raised his hands and squinted, and—as one—all of the waiters raised their silver trays of drinks over their heads. They looked right, left, stomped their feet. Bryce sent them moving through the crowd like a precision dance team.
The challenge had been influence. The spell was adequate. Competent. It looked flashy enough, all of those sharp moves and percussive steps, and Bryce had been smart to use the waitstaff—the matching uniforms made for an arresting visual—but there was nothing beyond the surface. Plus, Bryce’s arms were trembling, and sweat stained the armpits of his shirt. Too much visible effort for such a simple spell.
Sydney could see the other magicians recognizing that as well. Miranda Prospero wasn’t even bothering to hide her contempt.
He really should have kept the jacket on.