Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)
Molly Harper
1
Changeling
Lightbourne, Northern England
One wrong step and my ankle would snap like greenwood kindling.
I bolted down the cobblestone walkway connecting Rabbit’s Warren to the maze of side streets that cushioned the elegant neighborhoods of Lightbourne from our neighborhoods. Heaven forbid our Guardians smell the “humors” drifting out of the more modest Snipe houses.
I ran through the early morning fog as fast as I dared on my unsteady legs, lungs burning, clutching the canvas bag to my chest. Mum had been so tired the night before, she’d taken a shirt of Owen Winter’s home for mending, rather than staying late. Mum rarely took anything from Raven’s Rest, for fear it would get soiled in our grimy little house or worse, that she’d be accused of stealing.
Unfortunately, Mum was also tired enough to forget the shirt when we left our house before dawn. She sent me to fetch it because she needed Mary’s help getting the day started. Since starting as a maid-of-all-work at Raven’s Rest two years before, I’d been trusted with small tasks like hanging sheets and drying dishes, but Mum needed Mary’s help with jobs I was simply too sickly to do.
The house ran on a precise schedule. The Winters woke up at exactly six, followed by breakfast at seven. Washing day chores were immediately followed by dusting, sweeping, and scrubbing the water closets before any of the Winters woke. Owen left for classes at the Palmer School for Young Men at nine, while Mr. Winter retired to his study to work. Mum met with Mrs. Winter to discuss menus and upcoming social engagements before luncheon. We spent the afternoon helping Mum prepare an elaborate formal dinner, which we served and cleaned up before retreating home just before midnight to collapse into our beds and start all over the next morning.
I supposed that I should have been grateful that unlike my friends’ families, we were allowed to live off-site in the Snipe district known as Rabbit’s Warren. My friend, Elizabeth’s, family was required to live with their Guardians full-time as a term of their employment, meaning they were available to serve around the clock. But given the uneven pavement and my weak ankles, living on-site sounded pretty good just about now.
I ran, careful to look for any cray-fire carriages that might have wandered into our neighborhood. The richer magical families could afford the new horseless carriages; quiet, smooth-running vehicles powered by the cray-fire engine and steered by coachmen. The magically super-charged crystals provided the speed and safety of a horse-driven carriage without the earthy drawbacks. The problem was that when these magical marvels inadvertently found their way into the Warren, the coachmen tended to drive at breakneck speed to get their esteemed passengers back out.
I rounded the last corner to Armitage Lane, rallying the last reserves of energy it would take to get to Raven’s Rest. And I bounced face-first off of a warm mass that smelled of sandalwood and ozone. I yelped, sprawling back on the stone walkway, losing my grip on the shirt. Barely feeling the pain radiating through my backside, I scrambled to my knees, searching for the canvas bag. The rough fabric would protect Owen’s fine shirt from street dirt, but not a puddle. If I damaged that shirt, Mum would make me regret it, and then Mrs. Winter would get a hold of me.
Large hands wrapped around my thin arms and pulled me to my feet. I winced as the lift stretched my abused leg muscles. A smooth tenor said, “I’m so sorry.”
My head snapped up, finally registering that there was a finely dressed Guardian man holding me up by my elbows. I squinted up at him. No, not a man, though he was the tallest boy I’d ever seen. He was sixteen or so, on that awkward edge between gangly adolescence and growing up. He had the high cheekbones and long, refined features of the upper class, with large blue eyes and thick dark hair so long it brushed his high collar. An expression of bemused mortification made his features almost approachable. He was wearing the black suit and blue-and-grey striped tie that marked him as a Palmer’s student. His pristine white shirt was marked with soot from my face.
I cringed in his grip, expecting at least a good telling off.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, letting go of my arms. The sudden release of bloodflow to my hands made me suddenly aware of how badly I’d skinned my hands on the stone.
I raised an eyebrow. He was slouching down over me, turning my scraped palms over in his hands, inspecting the damage to my pale skin.
“I just wasn’t watching where I was going. It’s a terrible habit of mine when I’m in the middle of a good think. Alicia says I wouldn’t notice if dragons fell out of the sky and did a dance on my head,” he said in that soothing voice. He didn’t seem at all worried about the sandy grit on my hands or the dirt embedded under my ragged nails. He just cupped them in his own hands, sending a pleasant warmth blooming through my stinging fingers.
Was this a trick? It felt like a trick.
I groaned at the sight of even more smudges on his cuffs. “Your shirt.”
He scoffed at his cuffs, which were accented with silver cufflinks shaped like lanterns.
“Never mind the shirt. I can fix it. Are you all right? You bounced off that sidewalk like an India rubber ball.” He was inspecting my face, craning his neck down to make up for the considerable difference in our heights. Not for the first time, I wished I was built like Mary. While my sixteen-year-old sister bloomed with health, I was under-sized and had a permanent sickly look to me that made me look several years younger than fourteen.