Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(25)

Tap tap taptaptap.

I was alone here, so very alone, without even the comfort of Mrs. Winter. And that was very scant comfort indeed. No one here knew me. No one cared to help me cover my origins. I barely knew how to fix my own hair. And somehow, I was supposed to know enough magic to get through my classes without posing a danger to myself and others.

I sat there, feeling frozen, as I stared out the window. The cloudy sky faded into night. Ignoring the long-cold tray, I shed my dress, washed my face and slid under the covers. I didn’t know what Mrs. Winter had Martha pack in my trunks, and I didn’t have the energy to go searching around for a nightgown. I could only hope there was not a fire, because I would end up running out into the hallway in my chemise and bloomers.

Though the bed was even more comfortable than the Lavender Room back at Raven’s Rest, I had difficulty settling in. My hair was still pinned up, so I couldn’t find a comfortable pillow angle. My hands were achy and raw from the magical abuse they’d taken.

I could do this, I told myself sternly. I could get a full night’s sleep, wake up refreshed and start my career as a respectable, ordinary student at Miss Castwell’s. I could get through school unnoticed and scene-less. I would do this.

Tap tap taptaptaptap.

Outside, that insistent little bird pecked at the window. The rapid beat against the glass seemed to echo throughout my large chamber.

Tap tap taptaptap.

I rolled onto my back, breathing slowly through my nose and staring at the ceiling. I tried to think restful, calming thoughts about kittens, rainbows, and the laughter of babies. But mostly, I thought, “If that bird doesn’t stop pecking at the window, I’m going to make it into a feather duster.”

Tap tap taptaptap.

I pressed one of the many fluffy pillows to my face, though I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to block the sound or smother myself. But I could still hear it, tap tap taptaptap.

I bolted up in bed, shouting, “You stop that right now!”

The bird recoiled, as if I’d reached through the glass pane and slapped it. It hopped up and down and then bolted away, flexing its little aquamarine wings in a flounce. I giggled, pressing my lips together to prevent my neighbors from hearing hysterical laughter from a girl in an otherwise empty room. The impression I’d made this afternoon was dramatic enough.

I snorted one last time, punching my pillow into shape. I rolled onto my back and waited for my eyelids to flutter closed. But my eyes were drawn to a strange silver light reflecting on the ceiling. It wavered and danced like moonlight on water… and it seemed to be coming from my bed. I glanced down at my hands. The new metal in my skin was glowing, lighting the room like a crayfire candle, making it that much harder for me to drift off.

“Oh, come on now.”



Falling into the dream was like tripping over my own feet, descending so suddenly that I didn’t even realize it had happened until it was over. The feeling was so familiar, being back in my family’s tiny, smoke-stained kitchen, barely lit by the hurricane lamp. I sat on the bench near my father’s chair, cracking walnuts into a dented enamel bowl, my fingers scraped and raw at the tips as I pried open the tough shells. Mum stood at the stove, stirring watery cabbage soup. Mary had her head bent over a dress she was re-making into something suitable for the upcoming Harvest Celebration dance on the Rabbit’s Warren square.

“It wasn’t always like this, you know,” Papa said quietly, sipping from a cracked porcelain tea cup. I didn’t know why he bothered trying to hide the fact that he was drinking whiskey. While sorting through the dirty clothes, I pulled his hip flask out of his work pants more often than not.

“Before the Restoration, when we non-magicals had real jobs, real lives,” Papa slurred slightly, slumping in his chair. “We were the teachers, the builders, the healers. My people were engineers.”

The firelight cast an orange glow over Papa’s craggy features, the deep, unhappy lines around his mouth. His thinning, grey hair was sticking out in all directions, as if he’d licked a crayfire lamp. His dirty, scarred hands trembled slightly as he lifted the cup to his lips.

“Engineers of what?” I asked, continuing with my work. I’d learned that giving my father my full attention during his nostalgic musings tended to spur them into full rants. Mary ignored him completely, tuning him out by humming some random melody. But I was intrigued. Papa had never revealed this little tidbit before. And I wondered how much he’d had to drink in order to loosen his lips this much.

“Your great-grandfather, Elias. He was a mechanical engineer. He helped develop steam engines for trains. Back before crayfire. Before we used magic to drive trains down tracks, non-magicals used their brains to find solutions – steam, coal fire, machinery.”

“Really?”

“They’re afraid of us, you know,” Papa whispered, leaning over the arm of his chair. “The Coven Guild, they’re afraid of what we can do. And we don’t need magic to do it. That’s why they rose up. They were afraid that we would become more powerful than they are. That’s why they keep us pinned down in these slums, telling us to be happy with what they give us. We could have been so much more. I could have been more. And you, Sarah, you’re the one who can change it all. You’re not like us. You never have been, not since the day you were born. You can –”