Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(2)

Oh, no. That was probably why he was being so nice to me. He probably thought he’d knocked down a little girl. Heat flooded my cheeks and I felt tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. He was only being nice because he felt sorry for me.

I looked down at the ground, careful not to let him see the tears.

“I’m fine, thank you. I just need to get to work before my mother-” I gasped. “The shirt!”

I pulled my hands from his and stooped to pick the battered canvas bag. It was dry, thank goodness, but rubbing the rough material against my hands had me hissing in pain. A tear slipped down my cheek and I wiped at it quickly.

“Here,” he said. “I can help with that.”

The boy patted his pockets, pulling out a tangled red silk cord, a broken pocket watch, a small blue-green egg that glowed from the inside. He handed me these items while he searched the inside of his vest. The egg felt warm to the touch and pulsed pleasantly against my injured skin. Finally, he pulled a smooth black rock out of his breast pocket.

“Aha!” he said, smiling at me. He took the canvas bag and tucked it under his arm. “Cup your hands.”

He placed the black rock in my raised palms. I stared into its glassy surface, mesmerized by the rings of white, grey and purple.

“Hold… still,” he whispered, carefully drawing an intricate magical symbol against the surface of the rock with his fingertip. The twisting line glowed red and I felt the pain fade from my hands. “There you are.”

I sighed in relief, watching as the scrapes closed into shiny pink scars. I’d never experienced magic directly. I’d seen it performed plenty of times, but I never felt its touch on my skin. It was more comfortable than I expected, familiar, like being wrapped in a favorite old blanket. It only added to the collection of scars and other marks of my service on my hands. They were rough and dry and nothing like the soft, pampered skin of his fingers. “Thank you very much.”

“Well, I did bowl into you, very inconsiderate of me. I didn’t expect it to work that well though. You must be a quick healer,” he said, smiling again. In five minutes, this boy had spoken more to me than any boy – never mind a Guardian boy - had in years. Boys were usually too busy tripping over themselves to get to my pretty golden sister to even realize I was there.

But again, he probably thought I was a child. No stranger believed I’d graduated from the Warren school two years before when they saw my short, scrawny frame. He was simply being kind to a child, which was a mark of good character, but crushed the tiny thrill of excitement fluttering in my chest.

Behind me, I could hear the bells of the Capitol clanging, announcing six o’clock. The boy’s mouth dropped open in a dismayed expression. “Is that the time?”

“For at least the next hour,” I told him wearily.

“You’ll be all right, yes? You’ll be able to get to your Guardian’s home?” he asked, backing away from me. I nodded. “Good, just watch out for distracted boys who don’t look where they’re going. We’re a menace.”

“I will,” I promised, watching him run into the swirling mist. Then I realized, he still had my bag. “Wait!”

Frazzled, the boy jogged back and placed the bag in my hands.

“Thank you.”

He smiled one last time. “My pleasure, miss.”

And he was off again, pumping those long legs to run down Armitage Lane. I watched him run, sure I would never see this boy, or anyone like him, again. I ran my thumb over the smooth bit of stone in my hand.

“Wait!” I called. “Your rock!”

“It’s obsidian! Good for healing!” He turned, still moving as he waved his arm. “Keep it, just in case!”

I shook my head, watching until he disappeared from sight. Mum would tell me I was being silly mooning over some Guardian boy who was only trying to prevent a problem between his family and the Winters – mistreating a servant was considered the height of bad manners.

Wait.

“Mum!” I moaned, trying to dash towards Raven’s Rest, but finding my legs too bruised and sore to run. I glanced at the obsidian in my hand. Maybe there was some residual magic left in it? Feeling more than a little silly, I bent at the waist and rubbed the rock in circles on my knees, trying to recall the comforting warmth that had seeped into my hands when he’d healed my scrapes.

To my surprise, the pain in my legs slowly faded, just enough to let me walk at a quick clip up the hill to Raven’s Rest. I stuck the obsidian in my apron pocket and prayed my mother wouldn’t question where I’d gotten it. She would not have been pleased with her daughter causing public scenes with a Guardian boy in view of our employer’s home.

By the time I reached the servants’ entrance to the sprawling Georgian manor, I was doing well to stay on my feet. The kitchen was dim, but warm, thanks to the heat of the cookstove. Mum was stoking the fire, preparing to slide slices of bread on a toasting fork.

My sister, Mary, was chattering, as usual. She was always chattering about something, lately, it was the new play at the Rabbit’s Warren theatre, the dress she was piecing together from Mrs. Winter’s sewing room scraps, and Owen Winter. Oh, how she could go on about Owen Winter.

Mum’s worn face bathed in warm light. How much sleep had she gotten the night before, after spending an extra hour mending Owen’s shirt?