Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(15)

The very thought of him set my teeth on edge. Once upon a time, I thought we were friends, but I hadn’t had much use for him since he was nine. The young boy with whom I’d once played pirates in the petunias had grown up to be cold and haughty. He rarely had a kind word for anyone but Horus.

Of course, just because Owen could get away with using such a tone toward his mother, didn’t mean that I’d actually heard him use it. Though he was her darling boy, Owen was just as scared of his mother as the rest of us. I crept quietly toward the hedge, dragging my heavy skirts over the grass.

“Owen, I appreciate your opinion on this subject, but what’s done is done,” Mrs. Winter responded calmly. “We cannot let Sarah’s abilities become known to the authorities. You know what that would do to our reputation. Not to mention the consequences for Sarah herself. We have struck a bargain with the Smiths and if we have taught you anything, it’s that a Winter stands by his or her word.”

“There was no reason to contact the Institute on Sarah’s behalf! There are alternatives you haven’t considered. Continued suppression, re-location – just send her across the pond and let her stay with some of your American relatives.”

Through the metal slats, I could see Owen towering over his mother. He was dressed in the typical uniform for his classes, an exquisitely tailored black suit with a high-creased, heavily starched, white collar and a black-and-silver striped tie. Like most young men of fashion, he showed his family allegiance through the silver raven pin securing his tie. His auburn hair, a cross between his mother’s gold and… whatever darker shade Mr. Winter had before he’d elected to shave it off, was slicked back behind his ears. He was the very picture of elegance, breeding and all things valued by his class at the ripe old age of fourteen.

Mrs. Winter sat on a stone bench in a slate blue muslin morning gown, her version of gardening clothes, culling rosemary stems. Owen threw off his silk coat and vest, choosing to rant at his mother in his shirtsleeves.

He rolled those sleeves up to his elbows as he paced, exclaiming, “No one we know will believe this charade. No one in our circle will believe Sarah comes from a proper Guardian household. Send her back to her family before you ruin us all.”

I felt that sting much deeper than I expected. Owen wanted me back in the scullery where I belonged. Although we’d never been what you would call close friends, I didn’t think I’d done anything to earn his disdain. But now he was afraid that I would embarrass him, that all his fancy Guardian friends would know that his mother was trotting out a servant, treating her like a show dog.

“Owen, that is enough.” Mrs. Winter’s voice rose to a volume I’d never heard her use. “Cassandra has become a part of this household. She will be a credit to the Winter name. And if she is not, there are other, more final, solutions under consideration. But for now, we will simply have to make the best of this current situation.”

I pressed my hands over my mouth. A more final solution? What exactly did that mean? What did Mrs. Winter have planned? I’d come to think of my employer as a constant in this shifting sea of tension, but could I really trust her? Could I trust anyone?

“She’s a plain little mouse, afraid of her shadow, and you want to teach her magic?” Owen scoffed, his full mouth curling into a scowl. “You’d be better off trying to teach my cat to waltz.”

I dropped my book to ground, yelping when it landed on my toe.

Owen turned at my sound and saw me standing at the gate. His pale face flushed with guilt as he caught sight of my wounded expression. I backed away from the gate, willing away the hot angry tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. I gathered my skirts in both hands and turned on my heel, praying that I wouldn’t trip while I ran back into the house.

I ignored Owen’s voice as he shouted after me. “Sarah! Come back!”





5





Second-Rate First Impressions





Riding in the smart black carriage along McGavock Street, I stared out the window, rubbing my gloved hands together.

I tried to focus on the novelty of riding inside the cray-fire carriage, instead of merely staring after them from the street. I would arrive at Miss Castwell’s with the faint ozone of a cray-fire engine clinging to my clothes, which was considered a mark of distinction among Guardian ladies. That didn’t do as much for my confidence as I’d hoped it would.

My weeks living as “Cassandra” in Raven’s Rest had not left me feeling at all prepared for this morning. In this new identity, my life was in danger. My family was in danger. And the only thing keeping them safe was me being able to pretend this fairy tale girl – Cassandra Reed – to life. If I couldn’t convince the girls of Miss Castwell’s Institute for the Magical Instruction of Young Ladies that I was a proper, pampered little witch, I would lose everything and everyone I loved.

Through the window, I watched young servant girls carrying their heavy wicker baskets full of bread and vegetables from the market, and children in their ragged clothes chasing hoops precariously close to the bustling cobblestone street. Somehow, I felt jealous of them. Even though my life was supposed to be easier now, I missed being Sarah Smith. I missed being one of those magic-less servant girls, knowing my place in the world.

I caught my reflection in the glass. Over the past few weeks, my face had lost its pinched, tired look and my skin evened out to something like a fair complexion. My eyes had lost their feverish glint and settled into a clear, bright pewter color. My dull, limp hair became soft and shiny, a rich mahogany that fell over my shoulders in waves. I was still relatively thin, but I finally resembled the young lady I was, after years of looking like an underfed little girl. With the exception of the scars on my hands, I was no longer recognizable as Sarah Smith.