Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(16)

I stared down at the smooth, silky blue material covering my hands. These days, I often stared at my rough palms, comforted by that connection to my old life. The scrapes from my run-in with the Guardian boy on Armitage Lane had long since faded to a dull white, blending in with all the other marks and burns from kitchen work. Sometimes, I thought about that boy, wondered if he’d knocked down some other Snipe girl since I saw him, or perhaps he’d learned his lesson about looking up while in a “good think.” I was sure he wouldn’t recognize me now as the proper Guardian lady, but somehow, I hoped I would see him someday, in this new incarnation. I didn’t want his last impression of me to be that pale, wan girl.

I did not think rationally when I was under social distress.

The carriage clattered through the gates of Miss Castwell’s and I found I was too frightened to look out the window for my first glimpse of the school. It was a shame. Miss Castwell’s had stood on one of the country’s most beautiful stretches of property for centuries. While placing the new Capitol near the existing school was a dramatic gesture against that area’s industrial development, I suspected it had far more to do with allowing magical parents convenient visits to their precious daughters.

My days had become a cycle of rich, nutritious meals, mornings spent reading in the garden, and Mrs. Winter’s lessons. Martha, a slim, sly-eyed redhead who lived down the street from our house, spent hours rubbing tonics into my hair and moisturizing salves into my hands to soften the work-roughened skin. She was none too pleased about taking up the slack on my chores or serving the girl to whom she used to entrust with her lady’s chamber pot, but she was smart enough not to complain about it. She did, however, seem to enjoy brushing my hair as roughly as possible.

For my part, I suffered intense table etiquette lessons and answered direct questions with practiced grammar. I discovered small pleasures to be had in life when you had the time and means to appreciate them. I had everything a little Snipe girl dreamt of, a warm soft bed, a full belly, pretty clothes. And still, I was constantly anxious and lonely. Everything in my life felt so temporary. One mistake, one badly timed word, and I would end up in Coven Guild custody. Nothing tied me to Raven’s Rest, not really. Beyond Mrs. Winter’s constant “attentions,” I didn’t feel like I was part of the Winter household. Owen pointedly ignored me. As he did in most situations, Mr. Winter was civil, but kept his distance. I got the distinct impression that he was under orders from Mrs. Winter.

I felt so guilty, being pampered while my family was working so hard just a short distance away. My hands itched for something to do. I was used to constant motion and employment. If I’d been born a lady, I might not have minded the idleness. But as it was, I had to settle for Mr. Winter’s library and Mrs. Winter’s garden for entertainment. My nightstand in the Lavender Room was piled high with editions of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, The Swiss Family Robinson, and Around the World in 80 Days. Not the heavily edited versions we found in the Warren’s bookstore, but the originals. The differences in the fairy tales alone were shocking. Maybe if Snipes had heeded the Grimm Brothers’s warnings about witches, we wouldn’t have suffered through the Restoration.

I wasn’t allowed to use magic. Mrs. Winter wanted me to have some grasp of magical history and theory before I “went about casting spells willy-nilly, causing chaos wherever I went.” I felt that was a little harsh. But I had sent the ceremonial blade she’d lent me flying through an eight-hundred-year-old tapestry depicting the Norse goddess, Frigg. It was possible I’d earned the criticism.

On the morning she took me to Miss Castwell’s, Mrs. Winter had gifted me with her first ritual knife, a long, muted silver blade with a black stone set in the twisted silver handle. Unlike the fairy stories, Guardians did not use wands for spells. The metal of blades was more useful to direct magical energy, and each of them had their own personal athames, ritual knives, that they kept hidden, on their person or in their homes, to draw runes in the air during serious spellwork. Hand-motions, knife movements, chanting, herbs and various bits of nature all made up the strange music of charms and wards. I had to master the basics of blade dancing before I could start throwing other elements into my rituals.

It had the word “Ingenium” – the Latin word for wit –etched on the handle, which Mrs. Winter had explained was a family joke. The Brandywine ladies always carried their sharp wit with them. I knew that it was significant, having Mrs. Winter give me her first athame, which I’d decided to call “Wit” for brevity’s sake. Mrs. Winter also gave me an elaborately monogrammed leather holster to wear it under my sleeve. But for the protection of the other students, she told me to keep it stored in my trunk for the first few weeks. An athame was normally passed down mother to daughter over the magical generations. Mrs. Winter was either placing a lot of trust in me, or wanted to make a significant show of placing a lot of trust in me.

Mrs. Winter did not provide me with a familiar, a sort of magical servant in animal form. I thought that was odd, but I didn’t want to push my luck when she was already giving me her magical heirlooms. Anything the magical person needed, the familiar would try to find a way to get it, whether it was help or potion ingredients or something as simple as companionship and comfort. The bond was supposed to last for the witch’s lifetime, but I certainly didn’t see any of that loving support from Horus the horrible cat. He spent most of his time licking himself. If I was to ever get a familiar, I hoped it would be something along the lines of Mr. Winter’s raven, Tiberius, who bothered no one and was mindful of upholstery stains.