Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(26)

“That’s enough, John,” Mum snapped, turning from the stove.

Mary’s golden head rose, a pout quirking her lips. “What do you mean, Sarah can change things?” she sniffed. “Sarah can’t even change the sheets on the bed without help. I had to do all of the beds on the second floor myself today.”

Mum laughed, just a little too loud for it to be genuine. “Yes, yes, Sarah’s lucky to have a sister who will help look after her, Mary. What are you working on?”

I frowned at the pair of them as Mary held up the lace trim she was adding to her neckline. Yes, she may have done more physical labor, but if anything, I kept her from getting into trouble. I was the one who snuck Owen’s handkerchiefs back into his room when Mary stole them. I was the one who kept Mrs. Winter from seeing that Mary had doodled her name in Owen’s school tablets. If anything, Mary needed me to protect her from herself.

Papa ignored their over-bright chatter, adding under his breath. “Your choices in this life won’t be easy, child.”

My head felt fuzzy and disconnected from my body. Was this really a dream or a memory? I remembered this particular evening at home with my family. My father hadn’t spoken after my mother changed the subject at my expense and insisted we all sit down to enjoy our cabbage soup. He slumped dejectedly into his chair and refused dinner in favor of finishing his bottle.

Why did it seem so different, remembering it now? Why hadn’t I noticed before, the way Mary complained about me, or the way Mum cowed my father into silence? I’d always assumed that the house was quiet because we didn’t want to provoke Papa’s “headaches.” But how much of that repression had to do with Mum and her attempts to keep my secret?

“What sort of choices?” I asked him quietly.

Papa simply stared at me. “Choose wisely.”



My eyes fluttered open. I sat up in bed, confused by yet another darkened and unfamiliar bedroom. In terms of fatherly advice, “choose wisely” was not exactly helpful. Then again, while Papa was generally the parent I went to when I was in need of a hug or understanding, he wasn’t exactly brimming with life lessons. And there was no pressure at all in knowing that every decision I made would affect all mankind. I hoped that the dream version of my father was just being grandiose.

Something he said niggled at the corner of my mind, a relatively harmless turn of phrase. He said that I’d never been like anyone in my family, not since the day I was born. And I was born with magic. Was my subconscious trying to tell me something? Was there something wrong with me from the day I was born? Or was it possible that whatever it was that was happening to me started even before then? Was it was possible that I possessed magic because I was never a Snipe in the first place? What if my parents weren’t really my parents?

I remembered ancient Irish folk tales about changelings, about fairies stealing plump human babies from their cradles and replacing them with their own spindly-limbed fairy children to be nursed by human mothers. Most of the tales focused on the human mother’s attempts to regain their children. I wondered now, what happened to the fairy children, caught between two worlds, belonging to neither? As I recalled, things didn’t work out so well for changelings in fairy tales, uncaring mystical parents, mistreatment and the constant threat of being eaten.

Could I be a changeling? While I loved my family, I never really felt like I belonged with them. I knew I was different, but I always thought it was because they always seemed so strong and hardy, while I was slowly being poisoned into non-magical frailty.

I sobbed, realizing that tears were coursing down my cheeks. Was I really my parents’ child or had they simply found me on a doorstep somewhere? Or worse… had my mother betrayed my father with a member of the Coven Guild? It didn’t seem likely. Mum was so worn and grey. It was hard to imagine her flirting with a member of the upper crust. Then again, Mr. Winter had always been relatively kind to me, though aloof. Could he be my father? Was this why Mrs. Winter rarely spoke to me before the incident in the parlor? Because she didn’t want to be faced with evidence of her husband’s betrayal?

Was it possible that in some time where Mum was a younger, less careworn lady, she had caught some Guardian’s eye? I just couldn’t see it. I’d seen them in the same room many times over the years. There was no spark between them. I knew that any love Mum had for my father had been strained over the years, but I still didn’t want to consider the possibility that she’d wandered on him.

No.

This was madness. This was a dream born of exhaustion and the emotional toll of being in a strange new place, not to mention being appointed the keeper of a magical book that I couldn’t read. I swiped at my cheeks with the delicate handkerchief with the Brandywine flowers embroidered in the corners. I just needed a good dream-free night’s sleep, and I would be fine.

Except for the magical book I didn’t understand.

And a new mark on my hands that set me apart from the rest of the students.

And the fact that I didn’t really know any magic.

“I have to learn to stop comforting myself,” I muttered into my pillow.





7





A Faux Pas Before Breakfast





At the dawn bell, I struggled into consciousness, sitting up and rubbing my hands together. The dragonfly seemed to hum in response. I glanced over to my vanity. Apparently, a maid had come into my room while I was sleeping, unpacked my luggage and laid out my Castwell green dress for the day. Even though I’d entered plenty of chambers with sleeping occupants over the years, delivering breakfast trays and towels and whatever else they required in the pre-dawn hours, I found I didn’t like the idea of someone wandering into I room while I was asleep.