Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(23)

I nodded. That didn’t seem unreasonable.

“Copied five times.”

That seemed less reasonable.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“If you have any complications with your new mark, please see Mrs. Wentworth in the infirmary. She will send up medication with your dinner tray, to help balance your system after its exertions,” she said, eyeing my hands. “See that book does not leave this room.”

Headmistress Lockwood inclined her head and swept out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind us in a magical flounce.

“What is this?” I asked Mrs. Winter, sagging to the bed.

“A rather lovely, and none-too-inexpensive suite,” Mrs. Winter said dryly. “We paid for you to have a private room, because we were afraid that any well-bred girl who roomed with you would recognize any quirks leftover from your… less fortunate upbringing.”

“I could always come home for visits, give my classmates less time to watch me,” I said.

Mrs. Winter gave a light tap to my chin with her pointer finger. “There’s no leaving the school grounds for now. The book has claimed you. Dora is already suspicious and attempting to leave the school grounds right away with a precious magical relic would probably send her over the edge. She’s never truly trusted me, not even when we were in school together.”

I opened my eyes wide, feigning disbelief. I chose not to comment on how Mrs. Winter had managed to look about thirty years younger than Headmistress Lockwood. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Oh, no, I gave her good reason,” Mrs. Winter said. “But no matter, with your first social dance scheduled for this weekend, your sudden, rather dramatic appearance at school should give you a bit of traction on the gossip circuit.”

I shuddered. I’d forgotten about the social dances, opportunities for the girls of Miss Castwell’s and the young men of Palmer’s to demonstrate what they’d learned in their dance lessons while preparing for the busy spring cotillion season. The social dances were less formal versions of the cotillions, an opportunity for the ladies of Miss Castwell’s to practice and demonstrate the steps we’d learned. The Palmer boys would be there to serve as partners. I would not only be expected to mingle and socialize but dance. In public.

Since my emergency tutoring had involved only the most basic dance instruction, I would be pleading a strained ankle.

Parents were invited to observe their students’ progress in behaving like miniature adults. And since both Owen and I would be participating, Mrs. Winter would attend. Rather than looking forward to the party, as Mary or any other girl in my position might have, it hung over my head like a dark cloud. No matter how nicely I was dressed or how faithfully I remembered the etiquette lessons Mrs. Winter drilled into my head, I was sure the Guardian crowd would sniff out the imposter amongst them the moment I arrived.

“Now, we must re-think your gloves,” Mrs. Winter said, carefully peeling away the charred remains of my gloves. “It’s a shame to waste all of Madame DuPont’s work, but it would be a greater shame to cover that mark. And, if you will notice, you don’t really need them anymore.”

Gasping, I lifted my hands closer to my face. The fingertips were smooth and soft, like baby’s skin. It was as if the roughness of my skin, the callouses left behind by years of hard work, had burned away to leave these smooth, soft hands. Even the faded burns on my wrists from handling hot cooking pans were gone. Did that mean all of my scars were gone? My skinned knees? The mark on my neck where Mary had accidentally burned me with a pair of curling tongs? Somehow that made me sad, as if the last bits of Sarah Smith had been scrubbed away, leaving this new stranger.

“I don’t know if I should show it off,” I said, rubbing my hands against my skirts. “Maybe it would be better to hide it, to keep the other girls from getting jealous.”

“No false modesty, Cassandra. It would be unattractive and dull. That is a mark of prestige that women in my circle would give their eye-teeth for. That is the mark of great spellwork, when casting opens a Guardian’s magical core and uses iron from the caster’s own body to form the image. It is the price we pay for greatness, and is considered quite the magical accomplishment to achieve such a mark.”

“But I’ve never seen this sort of mark on any of your society friends,” I protested.

“Because they don’t have them. I don’t have one, myself,” she said, stroking an absent hand along her corseted ribs. “You must be strong, having a gift like that will set you even further apart from the students. When the magic inside of us gives us these gifts, it is not our place to ask why or whether a mistake has been made. It is our responsibility to make the most of them. I did not give you this life so that you could hide behind closed doors and library shelves. You, my dear girl, are clearly meant for more.”

I didn’t have the nerve to tell her that she hadn’t given me this life. Magic had dropped it in my lap.

“How is any of this possible?” I asked, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I’m not a Guild Guardian. I only know how to do the most basic magic, and most of that is accidental. I shouldn’t have been able to talk to the book, or whatever it is that I did.”

For the briefest of moments, the pretense drained away from Mrs. Winter’s face.

“I do not know. The uncertainty is as infuriating as it is frightening. This is not supposed to be the way the world works.” She took a deep breath and her resentful tone became light and breezy. “All I know is that you have been given a great gift. And, should you listen to me, you will be able to parlay this gift into a lifetime of security and comfort.”