Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(4)
As our Guild Guardians, the Winters were responsible for “guiding” my family in all major decisions. During the death-rattle days of the Old Kingdom, organized sorcerers - disturbed by the creativity shown by non-magicals during the Industrial Revolution - melted the gates of Buckingham Palace and informed the non-magical monarch that her reign was over, Parliament was a thing of the past, and the Guild was now responsible for standing as Guardians for us helpless regular people.
The group that would eventually be called the Coven Guild took on the task of “protecting us” from the escalating dangers of our own inventions. While the Guild agreed that developments like machinery and steam-power made life easier, they feared that industrialized non-magicals would eventually create weapons beyond the capabilities of the Guardians’ magic and we would leave them in our common, but lethal, dust. And there was the small problem with non-magicals being unable to go more than a few years without a war.
Having organized in secret for years, merging all forms of magic, the Guild forces rose up worldwide in any country where there was a government to take over, for what they called The Restoration of Balance. It was an awfully nice way of saying, “Why don’t we just run things for you, whether you like it or not.” Guild forces shredded the Declaration of Independence, the Magna Carta, any document that told non-magical people that they deserved to run their own lives, nations, or technological destinies.
The governments objected, of course, but it’s hard to fight off an army that can knock buildings to the ground with the wave of their hands. Over time, the world evolved into a more feudal society, where non-magical families were assigned to magical families for employment and supervision. The magical populations created a united government, calling themselves a “Coven Guild of Magical Nations.” The new Capitol city of Lightbourne was located halfway between the former textile district of Lancashire and the now-defunct iron works of Shropshire. The base of political power was moved to the heart of the once-burgeoning manufacturing industries, reducing London to a lovely second-rate town with some pretty buildings and reclaiming the northern land from what the Guild saw as misuse.
Buckingham Palace was now a museum used to display famous works of Guardian art. From what Mum said, the royal family retreated to somewhere in Wales.
Non-magical families like us, sometimes called “Snipes” (short for “guttersnipes”) by the members of the upper crust, were assigned supervision from Guild families as our new “Guardians.” We were paid a fair, living wage for our services. The Guardian government wrote laws to protect our health and safety, but the unwritten laws were very clear. We were the servant class and that’s the way it would stay. There was no hope of becoming more.
The Smiths were fortunate enough to be assigned to the Winters, who had been Guardians to our family almost one hundred years, from generation to generation since the Restoration. Mrs. Winter never paid much attention to us personally, treating us as particularly useful household articles.
Of course, Mrs. Winter provided the kindnesses expected of our Guardians, new clothes on the day after Yule, food baskets each Sunday. But knowing the special Sunday sugar cookies were given out of obligation made them heavy on my tongue. Mary tended not to worry about these things, so she often ate my share of the sweets.
“C’mon, mopey,” Mary teased cheerfully, snapping me out of my gloomy thoughts. She gave the parlor mantel a long swipe with her cloth. “Less thinking, more dusting. I don’t want to have to do all of your work today.”
I frowned. Mary did more work. There was no denying it. I wanted to do more, but my body wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t lift the heavy objet d’art pieces for cleaning or move the bulky chairs to sweep around them. I was just grateful that she didn’t seem to resent me for it. She just smiled, made some silly joke and went about the cleaning. She used the same silly jokes to make me feel better after she’d had to defend me from Deborah Green, a horrible, pock-faced girl from the next block over, who liked to throw mud at me while I read on our stoop. After dragging Deborah away by her braids and tossing her into the gutter, Mary told me that Deborah only called me “horse-face” and “mush-brain” because those were the only names people used for her. And then she’d tell me some joke and we’d go inside for some of Mum’s scotch tablet candy.
I tried to thank her the only way I knew how, a pretty hair ribbon here, a cough there when she was staring into Owen’s portrait with a particularly moony expression on her face. But I would never be able to make it up to her.
That morning, I moved about the Winters’ formal parlor in our usual sequence – floorboards, shelves, knickknacks, then tables. The Winter family crest, featured prominently in a marble carving on the mantle, centered on a large raven, frozen mid-lunge against a field of white. It was an homage to the crest of House Mountfort – the larger “mother house” that included the Winter family – which showed a set of golden scales with a raven on one side and an apple on the other. Death and health constantly swinging back and forth, out of balance.
Winter House Sigil
It seemed that the theme had inspired Mr. Winter’s father and his father before him to be fascinated by birds, so avian skeletons, eggs, and other specimens were used as part of the décor of the house; the white bone contrasting starkly against expensive black and grey furnishings. The parlor’s icy grey walls with their blinding white trim and dark furniture were just as inviting as the words “formal parlor’ implied in a place called Raven’s Rest. The best black enamel and ivory pieces were kept in this room, where Mrs. Winter greeted important guests and “ladies who lunch.” It was to be kept spotless at all times.