Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(6)

I tried to think of something to give Mary that would sweeten her blackening mood. She wouldn’t want my books. She had no use for my dresses, since they were her remade hand-me-downs. Maybe she’d want my blue scarf? It was a Yule gift, and the one nice thing I used to make my Sunday dresses special. It would also bring out the almost-violet color of Mary’s eyes.

Hang it all, I would miss that scarf.

“In all the years we’ve been here, she’s never once told me that I was pretty. But she’s full of compliments for you? The apothecary must have mixed her tonics wrong,” Mary mumbled as I placed the vase on the desk.

I shushed her, knowing that I would have to give Mary my scarf and my share of Sunday sweets to balm her wounded pride. Mum had tried to explain Mary’s ever-shifting moods as a consequence of my sister growing up, becoming a woman. All I knew was that growing up seemed to mean outgrowing me. She didn’t have time for my “little girl games” anymore. She wanted to be out with her friends, finding new ways to braid their hair or tricks to catch the attention of the boys they liked. I told Mary this seemed like a pointless hobby, since their marriages were to be arranged, but Mary sniffed that I would never understand.

These outings with her friends seemed to have spurred Mary on to her less-than-subtle attentions toward Owen. A secret part of me that I would never discuss, not even with Mum, was embarrassed by this new side to Mary. I didn’t want to grow up if it meant making a fool of myself over a boy, pinching my face to put color in my cheeks and stuffing cotton wadding in the front of my dress. My “little girl games” might have been babyish, but they didn’t hurt anybody. If Mrs. Winter got too annoyed by Mary’s ploys, we could be dismissed. We could end up working for another Guardian family far less distantly tolerant than the Winters. Mary was putting us all at risk.

I sighed, tightening the strings of the hand-me-down apron around my waist. I would have to visit the ribbon shop on the way home to pull her out of this mood. There went my contraband book budget.

Shaking my head, I forced myself to focus on my task. Mary whisked the ashes from the room before they could settle on any of the furniture. I carefully wiped my hands on my apron before wrapping my fingers around the neck of the vase and placing it on the mantle. Slowly, I told myself. Slowly draw your hands away from the porcelain so you don’t bump it, like playing pick-up sticks. Steady hands.

And suddenly Mrs. Winter appeared at my left, tapping my shoulder. “Sarah, I meant to ask you-”

I shrieked, jumping back. My fingertips slipped against the cool, slick surface of the vase as it teetered on the mantle. I watched in horror as it wobbled on the whitewashed wood, then toppled over. I grabbed for the falling porcelain, but it slipped through my fingers, bouncing off of my hands in its descent to the floor. I dropped to my knees, hands grasping at thin air, hoping to reach under the falling heirloom before it hit the floor.

I closed my eyes, imagining the vase reversing mid-air and floating back up into place on the mantle. I prayed, Oh, please, no. Not her favorite. Not that vase. Please don’t let it fall. Please. Please. Please don’t let it fall!

I could feel my will, every cell inside my body, reach outward in a rippling wave.

I waited, but the vase never hit my hands. There was no telltale crash, no angry cry from Mrs. Winter.

Where was the crash?

I opened my eyes to see the vase hovering there, a good six inches above my hands, spinning in mid-air like a top. My whole body seemed to flex and contract at once, as if I’d never used my muscles properly and this was their first opportunity to stretch. My fingertips warmed and tingled pleasantly as I stared at the circling object.

Mrs. Winter was kneeling on the floor in front of me, rumpling her dress terribly as she watched the vase orbit. She must have wanted to save it badly if she was willing to abuse her clothes like that. The vase bobbed, rising slightly as it spun. Somehow, I could feel the change in my head, as if there were some invisible tether from the porcelain to my brain. I knew exactly how much force and pressure it took to keep the vase afloat. I knew exactly how many times it was rotating per minute and how far it could drop before it hit the floor.

The very idea made me panic and the vase rotated higher, turning at Mrs. Winter’s eye level.

“Are you doing this?” I whispered.

“No, dear, you are doing this.” She studied me, her expression calculating as we watched the vase turn. There was a strange gleam to her eyes that I’d never seen before. Excitement. I’d seen Mrs. Winter pleased with her latest anniversary bauble. I’d seen her triumphant over eliminating a social rival from her ladies’ club. However, my Guardian didn’t feel undignified emotions like excitement or happiness.

My breath quickened and the vase dropped, right into Mrs. Winter’s waiting hands. My head dipped to my chest. The string of tension keeping my body upright snapped and I sagged toward the floor.

“Yes, all right.” Mrs. Winter clucked her tongue, setting the vase aside. She pulled me to my feet by my elbows and led me to the couch. I almost protested that I wasn’t allowed to sit on the parlor furniture, but I was just too tired. I collapsed against the silk upholstery, leaning my head against the arm. It felt wonderfully cool against my clammy skin.

“It is always like that the first time,” she assured me.

“First time doing what?” I asked weakly.

“No, no, my dear, no false modesty. I think you know that you were making the vase float,” she said, arranging her skirts around both of us as she sat next to me.