Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(59)

“Most of the time, I feel like I control nothing at all. I feel unprepared and old before my time all at once,” he wrote in his latest missive. “I have all of the responsibilities of my father, but am given none of the respect. I’m supposed to be the head of my house. I’m responsible for keeping the family business on track, but am expected to be the respectful student at school. I am father and son and student and employer and I confess the constant rotation of hats leaves me with a headache some days.

And now, while moving through these roles, I find myself wondering, ‘What would Cassandra think of this design for a long-range crayfire engine?’ or ‘What would Cassandra think of this journal article on athame metallurgy?’ I blame Alicia, who brings you up at every possible opportunity. ‘Cassandra prefers herbalism to dance.’ when she’s trying to avoid lessons with her dance master. Or ‘Cassandra never eats soft-boiled eggs.’ at breakfast. Or ‘Cassandra says it’s easier to do your homework with a plate of shortbread.’ I’ve learned more about you from my sister than from five letters from you. You are remarkably elusive with anything resembling personal information. Perhaps I will be better at extracting information from you in person. I received the invitation to the Winters’ annual masquerade ball. I very much look forward to at least one dance with you, where I will attempt to interrogate you about your favorite plants and preferred breakfast foods.”

I’d been trying to compose a response for two days. But sadly, Gavin was right. Most of my letters consisted of asking him questions, or repeating the scant details of the origin story Mrs. Winter had given me. I deflected. I obfuscated. I was apparently not as good at hiding it as I thought I was.

How could I answer his questions about my family? About my childhood? About the places I’d been? I didn’t want to pile lies on top of lies. But I couldn’t exactly tell him about my father the gardener or my house in Rabbit’s Warren. I couldn’t tell him anything real.

I sighed, staring out over the lawn as if I could read answers in the flower beds. I heard a strange shuffling behind me. I turned to see Tom, the Ward groundskeeper, ambling toward me, arms outstretched as if he was reaching for help. His face was pale as cheese and his mouth was sagging, like he was on the verge of being ill. I’d seen my own father stumble about like this, just moments from losing his breakfast after a night out at the Warren pub with his friends.

I tried to tamp down my irritation. I was not about to help an inebriated Tom pull off his boots and fall into bed, as was my assigned task when my family dealt with my father.

“Tom? Are you all right?” I asked, standing and backing away from the tree.

But Tom didn’t answer, still shuffling towards me with that slow, determined pace. His eyes were wrong somehow, the usually bright blue irises drawn back to his eyelids, leaving yellowed orbs in their wake.

Could he be ill? I’d heard of fevers that left people with yellowed eyes and delirium. I would feel terrible if I’d mistaken malaria for Tom being hungover. Then again, I didn’t think I wanted him touching me, either way. Want did he want from me? Did he want help? Did he want to hurt me? I glanced toward the school dormitory, but I was too far away to call for help and with the afternoon light, most of the shades were drawn.

There was no expression on his face, just blank, hungry intent. I lost my grip on the Mother Book and my potions text, dropping both to the ground. The thick hedges behind me prevented a retreat. I could dash around him, I supposed. I was wearing sensible walking shoes, but there was no way I could run in these skirts without tripping over them. Then again, Tom didn’t seem to be moving very quickly. A phlegmy wheeze escaped Tom’s slack lips, a death rattle.

I froze.

Tom wasn’t sick. Tom was dead.

Tom was a Revenant. Someone had raised Tom from the dead and sent him after me. Had they killed poor, sweet Tom or had he simply died conveniently in some accident and the Necromancer took advantage? A Necromancer. We had a Necromancer on the grounds of a girls’ school. How did that happen? No one was supposed to know how to do this anymore.

Movement now. Questions later. I felt in my sleeve for my blade. On the one occasion where having a nine-inch dagger on my person would be incredibly helpful, I’d left Wit in its purifying salt bed in my room.

“Don’t come any closer!” I exclaimed, trying to put as much authority into my voice as possible.

I was alone. No one was going to help me. Eying Tom’s movements carefully, I gathered my skirts in my hands and planted my feet in preparation to dodge. I could hear blood pounding in my ears and heat humming under my skin. I would get around Tom. I had to move as fast as my feet would carry me back to the school building and to Headmistress Lockwood’s office. Surely, she had some weapons in there.

Tom’s mouth dropped open and the dank, sour smell of new mulch hit my nose like a slap. I retched, pressing my hand over my mouth. He reached toward me, his limp fingers barely passing within two feet of my shoulder as I ducked around him and the tree and ran for the building.

Unfortunately, that two-foot radius was just enough to grab a hank of my hair and jerk me back with shocking strength. I stepped on my own hem, sending me sprawling on the grass. Kicking loose from my tangled skirts, I tried to crawl away, but Tom’s hands closed around my shoulders, shoving me into the ground.

I was going to die. Killed by my own skirts.