Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(21)

“Or possibly a bat,” I acknowledged softly to myself, tilting my head to study the blurred shape. “Or a cranky dragon.”

Why would the school try to cover a House crest? For that matter, whose House crest could it be? As far as I knew, there were only six great families. Had the glasscutter made a mistake in one of the designs? The strange bird-like smudge could be the Benisse peacock, a fat, hyper-extended version of the peacock. I moved along the railing to the center of the landing, closer to the blurry bird. Distracted by its malformed wings, I bumped into a glass display case on a pedestal on the near side of the landing. The case was like another bell jar, protecting the open, blank pages of a large book the size of a paving stone.

I jumped, my hands fumbling to keep the case from falling. I leaned closer to get a better look, my breath fogging the protective glass. Tiny, evenly spaced symbols appeared on the white pages in molten, glowing gold. The glow rippled from one corner of the page to the other. The text must have been Greek or Sanskrit or some magical dialect I’d never heard of, because I couldn’t make out any words I recognized.

I smiled, delighted, and rubbed at the glass to wipe away the fog. As if in response, the symbols rose from the page, bouncing against the glass like confused, insistent bees. I glanced around the floor, to the older students wandering the shelves, but none of them seemed to notice glowing, golden words, tapping testily at a glass display case… which made me question the school as an educational institution all together, really.

Also, I needed to stop examining items in glass cases. No good came of it.

The floating letters gave one last mighty heave against the glass case, popping it open like a clamshell. The smell of verbena and old paper rose immediately to my nostrils. I might have closed my eyes to enjoy the fragrance, if not for the floating letters trailing up my arms, across my chest and around my head.

My fingers moved as if controlled by some unseen puppet master, dragging gently down the corners of the book and gripping its edges. I did, I would admit much later to myself, panic, when I couldn’t let go of the book. My fingers felt glued to the pages. I frantically scanned the floor, wondering whether I should call for help.

None of the other girls seemed to be reacting to this bizarre occurrence. I didn’t know what sort of spell I’d activated or what sort of harm it could do. And I was certain that Headmistress Lockwood would not look kindly on removing ancient books from their perfectly nice display cabinets, which were probably in place to protect students from their own stupidity as much as from the curses contained under the glass. And I wasn’t even a student, so the headmistress’s patience was not likely to extend to me.

I blew out of the corner of my mouth as I could chase the floating symbols away like annoying insects. I shook the book, attempting to dislodge it from my hands. Was this some sort of practical joke? Or a cruel trick meant to punish unworthy Snipes who touch books without permission? I yowled as the silk of my gloves and sleeves burned away, flaking to the floor in ashes.

Hallucinogenic punishments for Snipes who touch books without permission. How lovely.

The ink crawled the lengths of my fingertips to my hands, the words flowing over my skin intact. Curling black lines scrolled across the skin of my palms like climbing vines, forming an almost bat-shaped crest of stylized swirls. It burned, but it wasn’t painful. It was like getting into bathwater that’s just a little too hot. It felt right to have the marks carving their way into my skin. They were raised, metallic, like an inflexible vein of silver had embedded its way into my skin forming a slender wing-shape across each hand. The stylized curves were shining metal that reflected all of the colors of the spectrum. My hands finally loosened from the book and I was able to touch the shape on either palm, finding it pleasantly warm to the touch.

My gloves and sleeves disintegrating as metalwork spontaneously burst from my palms did seem to finally get other girls’ attention. I heard soft exclamations and the rustle of skirts as I cradled my hands together, pressing my pinkies together in a cupping gesture, so that when my hands touched, it looked like a silver dragonfly was perched in my hands, the head pointing toward my fingertips. It didn’t hurt. I flexed my hands gently. How could I have so much metal embedded in my skin and still be able to bend my fingers, grasp my hands? My legs twisted under me, and I fell back to the carpet on my rump.

Mum was not going to pleased. She did not like magical marks, no matter how in fashion they were in Guardian circles. I didn’t think my “aunt’s” reaction would be all that favorable, either.

I glanced up at the circle of strange faces around, unsure of who to ask for help. The sea of green skirts surrounding me parted and a dreadfully familiar black-and-grey striped gown approached. My cheeks flushed red. I tried to push to my feet, but my legs were tangled in about a dozen layers of petticoat and silk. I couldn’t move.

I’d expected Mrs. Winter’s expression to be furious, but she eyed this mottled green cover of the book in my lap, and she had to school her features from the gleeful grin that threatened to smear her lip rouge.

“The book chose you,” she marveled. “How… interesting.”

“W-what?” I huffed out a breath, wiping at the perspiration forming on my brow and trying against to push to my feet.

“No, no, dear,” Mrs. Winter said, dropping to her knees in front of me and pressing me back to rest against the mahogany display case. “You mustn’t move your hands too quickly. You will want that to set properly, like a healing bone. It takes a moment.”