Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(55)

On Sunday afternoon, I wandered out into the garden to spend some time with the Mother Book. For the past two days, I’d procrastinated, reading the journal of Calpernia McCray instead. It was comforting, reading the thoughts of another Translator, knowing that she saw it as a bit a burden along with the excitement of discovering new magic.

“It’s a lonely life, seeing what no one else sees, knowing that no one else living experiences what you do,” she wrote. “Without the comfort of my friends, I would go quite mad.”

I smiled, thinking about how Calpernia’s own descendant was keeping another Translator from going quite mad. I would have to come up with some sort of thank you gift for sharing this journal with me. Maybe Mrs. Winter would allow me to ask Mum for a batch of raspberry thumbprint cookies.

Calpernia didn’t just write about the Mother Book. She shared funny descriptions of parties she attended, of her life at home with her husband, Liam, and her children. And while she had nothing to say about owl sigils or how to get hostile family members to stop hating you, she indirectly recommended the exact same thing Miss Morton had, stop trying to Translate the book and just let it happen.

So now, I sat on the bench by the statue of Hecate, closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face. The book was open on my lap, my dragonfly’s wings barely touching the pages. I was applying Miss Morton’s recommended meditation techniques, but honestly, it was exhausting, sitting there, thinking of nothing. Not worrying about my family at home or who might figure out that I wasn’t who I said I was. Not mentally listing all of the things I had to do that day. Not questioning why I had magic in the first place.

Phillip tittered as he perched on my right hand. My dragonfly warmed immediately, a signal I’d come to recognize as my magic responding to my call. My mind cleared. That same warmth spread to my arm, through my chest and up to my head. Without being told, I knew I was safe. I didn’t need to worry. I had purpose. For the first time in months, I felt my whole body relax. My magic flexed and filled the empty spaces inside me, the doubts I had about myself, the confusion I still felt about my family, all of the worries I had about school and the book and the Coven Guild.

I opened my eyes, expecting to see an empty page. But it was filled with a detailed, horrifying illustration of a dead man, shambling down a street in tattered clothes. His face was skeletal, the skin sagging around a drooping jaw. His eyes were hazy and blank, but his hand was raised, as if he was reaching for me. I yelped and dropped the book on the bench.

“Dash it all, book, I thought we were becoming friends,” I whispered, pressing my palm to my thundering heart.

I skimmed over the page now labeled “Revenants.” Revenants appeared to be the undead creatures Alicia described in her story about the Grimstelles. They were humans, once living, who had been raised by a necromancer to do his or her bidding. Revenants had no will of their own, the book said, only the direction of their master, repeating over and over in their just-barely-active brain. The brain had to be intact for the creature to move. If the brain stem were destroyed, the creature would drop to the ground, harmless. Another way to remove the enchantment was to pierce the creature with a birchwood stake. Birchwood purified, removing the ill-intent of the necromancer.

“That is disgusting,” I muttered. More than ever, I was glad that the writing in the book was only recognizable to me.

A portion of the page was left untranslated. I supposed this was the spell necessary to raise a Revenant? I was grateful not to know. It seemed like a good idea to limit the number of people who knew how to raise the dead. I did not want to know what Mr. Crenshaw and his committee would do with this information.

There was more text, about the length a Revenant could stay “active,” what personality types made the most effective Revenants. I was fairly certain that Guardians knew that Revenants were dangerous and all-around disgusting. Still, it was the largest portion of text I’d translated so far. And it came with an illustration. I considered this progress.

“That can’t be my little Sarah.”

I turned to see a tall, burly figure silhouetted against the sunset. His hair was more grey than gold now, the thick, blond hair Mary inherited barely recognizable in its windblown state. His broad shoulders were stooped by age and disappointment. His broad face, with its prominent brow and capillary-webbed nose, was weathered and permanently sunburnt.

“Papa,” I sighed, closing the book and standing with relative ease. I stopped myself from throwing myself at him, remembering Mary and Mum’s reactions. But he stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around me and crushing me to his barrel chest. His scent, the earthy mix of fresh-cut grass and sour old whiskey, hit me full force, and I buried my face in his rough green jacket.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he whispered into my hair. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m so sorry, Papa. They won’t let me see you.”

“I know, I know. Can’t fight the Guardians. I know.” He pulled away from me. “Just look at you, dressed up so fine. I’m so proud of you.”

Papa looked down and winced, dabbing at a streak of dirt he’d left on my skirts.

“It’s all right,” I told him.

He kept dabbing.

“Papa, it’s all right. Stop. Don’t waste our time together worrying about my dress.”

He nodded. He pulled me to a nearby bench and we sat down. He kept his hands clamped in mine. “I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you about all those things you can do. I wanted to, but your mother said it would be better for you if we just pretended you were normal.”