Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(13)

Mrs. Winter cleared her throat. “And on that note, you must adjust to calling me something other than, ‘ma’am.’ I know that an increased familiarity between the two of us could result in some… discomfort for both. But it’s more important to convince my peers not only that you belong in their class, but that you are a member of my family. I do not believe we will be able to accomplish this if you’re calling me ‘ma’am’ in that spineless manner. You will call me ‘Aunt Aneira’ or if a mischievous, though self-destructive, urge should strike, ‘Auntie.’”

I stared at her, my mouth hanging open. Mrs. Winter raised her eyebrow and stared at my mouth. I closed it quickly, clacking my teeth together. She added, “Now, after your breakfast, you may sit in the garden for an hour to take some fresh air.”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am.” I caught myself and pronounced the familial endearment as if it were a foreign word. “Yes, Aunt Aneira.”





4





Eavesdroppers Rarely Hear Good News





After the ordeal of strapping me into the yellow gown, it took a lot of help from Mrs. Winter to get me down the stairs and through the rear garden door. It would have been easier to lower me out of a window with a rope. But I now understand why little Guardian girls never seemed to scamper around at play. They couldn’t move.

Mrs. Winter led me through the grounds my father carefully cultivated, when he was sharp enough to focus on giving the Winters little islands of color on their rolling lawns. While Mrs. Winter gave Papa a design to follow, she never troubled herself with anything less than her precious magical specimens. Rounded beds of tall elegant irises in every shade, a statue of Morgana surrounded by a pool of delicate periwinkle, mixed rosebushes arranged so that their reds, pinks, oranges and yellows resembled a summer sunrise. Every bloom was well cared for. Every blade of grass was carefully tended by my father’s hands, but he was nowhere to be found.

Mrs. Winter steered me to a smooth stone bench beneath an arbor of wisteria. She’d arranged a table stacked with books, my mother’s still-warm strawberry tarts and a jug of milk. It was not lost on me that she was, in effect, serving me, though I certainly didn’t think the gesture came from kindness. She wanted to keep Mary and Mum away from me, just like she had no doubt directed my father away from the garden while I was here. I noticed that she lingered, on the edge of my vision, pretending to inspect her prized fairy roses until I nibbled at one of the tarts.

Mrs. Winter helped me arrange my skirts on the bench and opened what looked like a children’s book in my lap. I frowned at the cartoonish rendering of a Guardian child manipulating a dancing tin soldier.

“A Magical Primer for Children?” I asked. “But you said that the sort of magic I performed showed an advanced talent.”

She poured a tall mug of milk and pressed it into my hand. “Untutored and advanced. You must learn to control your power before you try anything else that requires finesse. That means that you will begin at the beginning.”

I frowned at the book. It felt like an insult, but I read, as instructed. Something in the gardens caught Mrs. Winter’s attention, and she crossed to the ornamental pond, leaving me to my reading.

A few moments later, a sleek songbird with jewel-bright blue-green feathers landed at the end of my bench. It twittered sweetly, hopping toward me with its little head cocked, a bright, black eye on the tarts. I thought I detected a glimmer of hope in its look. My lips twitching, I broke off a piece of tart and dipped it in the milk.

“You’re in luck. I happen to be in a generous mood,” I said and I dropped the soggy mass at its feet. The bird didn’t shy away. In fact, it skittered across the polished stone surface, bold as you please, and pecked at the milky crumbs without so much as a thank you.

“You’re a very entitled little bird.”

I read through the primer, ignoring the brightly colored, childish illustrations of a young witch and her orange tabby cat skipping across a meadow. The bird stayed at the end of the bench, pacing back and forth, eyeing the tarts. I sipped the milk and picked at the buttery pastries.

I relaxed against the curve of the stone bench. I could not remember the last time I simply sat in the sun and enjoyed a book. Explanations of magical babies being the result of moonbeams shining through the windowpanes of deserving magical couples weren’t particularly interesting, but it was pleasant to just sit and do nothing. Even on my days off, I was so busy with chores at our own home that I rarely had time for leisure until after dark. The heat and light felt good on my skin, even through the material of the dress. The relatively warm early autumn wind feathered over my cheeks and I realized that I could breathe deeply for the first time in as long as I could remember.

I knew I was feeling better because the suppressors were fading from my system, but the better I felt, the sharper my guilt. My family was only a short distance away. I missed my mother so badly, my stomach ached with it. Could I sneak away from the garden, through the herb and vegetable beds, to the kitchen window without Mrs. Winter spotting me? No. It was better to wait, to show Mrs. Winter that I could be trusted alone… so she might relax her guard long enough to let me sneak behind her back.

I would worry about my willingness to deceive and sneak at some other time.

I finished the primer, feeling no more informed about magic than when I started. Though I did learn that magical children were very gullible about their origins.