Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(22)
She glanced up at Headmistress Lockwood, who was shooing the gathered students away with practiced ease. Mrs. Winter cast a triumphant look over her shoulder. “It chose her, Dora.”
Headmistress Lockwood rolled her eyes. “Oh, Aneira, enough of your foolishness. That book has been stored on school property for more than two centuries. It will remain school property.”
“The book chose to show her its secrets, Dora. It belongs to her now.”
“I don’t think it showed me anything,” I told Mrs. Winter. “I couldn’t read it.”
Mrs. Winter smiled, but it wasn’t a warm expression meant to comfort. There was greed in her eyes, bright and gleaming, and it made a shiver run down my back.
“You will, in time.” She nodded toward the decorative insect now embedded in my skin. “That marks you as the owner and translator of The Mother Book. The original Mother Book, written in magical cuneiform by matriarchs of the great families before the Houses were even formed, before we could scratch out a language so harsh and guttural as English. It represents one of the largest deposits of archaic magical knowledge in the world and is imbued with a magical will all its own
The book only allows its secrets to appear to the Translator, one person it believes to trustworthy enough to read its contents. It bounced between the old world magical schools, sharing the matriarchs’ secrets, before it was brought here the year the school was founded. The book will only reveal itself to witches it deems worthy of its secrets. A Translator hasn’t been chosen in how long, Dora?”
“One hundred and forty-two years,” Headmistress Lockwood muttered.
“And all of the previous Translators have been much older than you, dear. The youngest Translator on record was seventeen. To be chosen at fourteen… well, the book must have felt quite the connection to you.”
Mrs. Winter seemed to laying on this Translator business on pretty thickly. I could only hope this wasn’t some trick she’d arranged to convince Headmistress Lockwood to admit me to the school. Because the Headmistress in question looked like she wanted to pitch me and my silver dragonfly out onto the gravel drive.
“What does the Translator do?” I asked, still wiggling my fingers, as if I thought they would suddenly stop working if I didn’t flutter them.
“Study the book,” Headmistress Lockwood said. “Translate the spells and determine what to share with other witches, with the Guild government. Previous Translators have only worked through about a third of the pages. You are not in for an easy road, Miss Reed.”
“I didn’t expect any of this to be easy,” I assured her.
Mrs. Winter smirked up at the headmistress as she helped me to my feet. “So I suppose this qualifies as sufficient record of her magical ability for admission, Dora?”
“No one likes a gloater, Aneira.”
6
The Wheels Turn
Mrs. Winter and Headmistress Lockwood led me to a wing marked “dormitories,” and I felt the faint magical sizzle of protective wards pass over my skin, warming the metalwork on my hands. The two ladies seemed to be arguing in several different languages, switching from French to Italian to German as we passed little pods of students pretending not to stare at the girl in the tattered sleeves being led down the hall, carrying a beloved school artifact.
The room, done in greens and greys, was laid out much like my room at Raven’s Rest, though obviously less grand. A desk stood in front of the window, already stacked high with textbooks. I kept Mother Book clutched to my chest, its thick parchment pages glowing with a faint gold aura of power, making it stand out from the ordinary history and astronomy texts. Thick quilts sewn from green, black and white were piled high on a sturdy four-poster bed. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, overlooking the grounds. A little blue-green bird hopped back and forth over my windowsill, as if it was his job to provide cheerful mid-morning chirping.
“The Peridot Suite,” Headmistress Lockwood told me. “You have a private bath, through there. Your orientation packet lists other meal-times and will include your class schedule by morning.” She turned on Mrs. Winter. “You will send for her clothes by this evening?”
“Her trunks are waiting on the carriage downstairs,” Mrs. Winter said, looking very pleased with herself.
“Always prepared,” Headmistress Lockwood said, rolling her eyes a bit. She turned to me. “I hope you know, that display in the library will not entitle you to special treatment. You have a certain amount of independent study built into your schedule for the Mother Book. But otherwise, you will meet all of the expectations set forth for the other students, is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Magic is not what you have been told. It is mathematics, physics, chemistry, science,” she said. In my hands, the book seemed to shudder, as if it didn’t appreciate Headmistress Lockwood’s sentiments. “The superiority of our bloodlines allow us to manipulate the energies around us so that we can control matter, reach between molecules and change their behavior. It is not a mystical loving force bubbling up from a spring of loveliness somewhere inside you.”
“And how do you explain this?” I asked, gesturing with my recently decorated palms.
“All systems have their anomalies,” she said airily. “Now, as for your first essay, while it shows a degree of original and creative thought, your margins were laughable and you used the word ‘interesting’ far too often. By morning, I expect a list of at least twenty alternatives for the word ‘interesting’ on my desk.”