Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(28)

It makes a grim sense—the permanence of the sigils. Alchemy is so wondrous, so terrible. The enormity of that magic should leave a scar. Arien touches his wrist in an echo of Clover’s gesture, then turns back to the notebook and points to a new page. “And this one is my favorite…”

Neither of us knows how to write more than our names. Mother never showed us, though she taught us to read, so we could learn the litanies. But Arien has always loved to draw. He sketched patterns on fogged-over windows or in the dust between rows of the garden. He hoarded scraps of paper and the slate pencils Mother used to mark down invoices. Kept the leftover wood and remnants of paints she rarely gave to us, and guarded them like treasure.

He made pictures to match the stories I told him. Leaves and flowers and birds. Girls in silver-hued dresses with gossamer wings. Boys with long-lashed eyes, crowns on their waved hair. Now he shows me his notebook full of alchemical sigils with the same shy, proud expression.

“They’re beautiful, Arien.”

And they are. But as I look over the pages, a heavy ache settles in my chest. Because these sigils are another irrefutable marker of his new life and what awaits him.

Rowan is still standing in the doorway. Arien smiles at him. “Did you want to see?”

“Oh.” He hesitates a moment. “Yes, of course.” He walks slowly toward the table and sits down. Arien sits beside him and smooths the notebook open.

Rowan leans close, listening intently as Arien tells him about the symbols and reads their names. At one point, he rests his hand on Arien’s shoulder. As though he truly cares. I thought these lessons were only to serve his own means. That Rowan only wants Arien to be trained so they can use his magic. But there’s no artifice in the way he listens. His expression, softened from his usual scowl, is gentle and … sad.

Clover notices me watching them. With a smile, she comes over to show me her own notebook. She opens the pages to display a larger, more complex version of the spell on her wrist. “This is the spell we’ll use at the next ritual.”

“But it didn’t work last time.”

“It did work. It’s just that Arien couldn’t hold the magic long enough for it to mend.” She looks at him and goes on hurriedly, her voice reassuring. “Of course, that doesn’t matter! We have a whole moon left to prepare. I’ll draw samples from the lake, we’ll practice the spell, and next time he’ll be perfect.”

Arien pages through his notebook, his enthusiasm fading. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it before.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Especially when you had no warning of what was asked of you.” I look pointedly at Rowan, but he avoids my gaze, his eyes fixed on Arien’s book.

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Arien,” Clover says. “In the Maylands we train almost constantly to learn how to cast these types of spells. And you’ve only just begun.”

“The Maylands?” Arien’s face lights up, his eyes full of interest. “What’s it like there?”

“It’s beautiful. The houses are all built in a circle, with a meadow at the center full of herbs and flowers. This time of year, it stays light until almost midnight, and when the wind blows from the coast, you can smell the sea.”

“That does sound beautiful,” he sighs wistfully. I think of him gone to the commune where all the alchemists live and train. A life full of books and ink and arcane knowledge. A life far beyond anything I could imagine. “Did you love it there?”

“Well … I was good at what I did there. My research.” Clover pulls at the end of her braid, chews her lip. “But I never fit in. It’s not a popular occupation, in the Maylands, to be a family alchemist. To live at an estate and help the village healers and tend the gardens. There’s no glory in this.” She blushes and darts a glance at Rowan. “But it’s what I wanted. I’m not ruthless enough to succeed in the Maylands. But here, I can make a difference.”

“You’ve certainly made a difference in the amount of peculiar teas I’m forced to drink.” Rowan laughs, then grows serious. “Of course I’m glad for your help, Clover.”

“I told you to put honey in the tea. But anyway, thank you.” She grins, pleased; then she turns back to me. “It’s strange that you don’t have magic, too, Violeta. Generally it runs in families. But you don’t?”

“No. I don’t.”

I go over to the window and look down at the grounds. There’s the narrow space of the garden, the wall covered in vines, the other side hidden by trees. Far in the distance I can see the black line of the shore and how far the Corruption extends beyond the lake. There’s a gray expanse of skeletal branches woven through the forest beside the water. As though the poison has trickled in and devoured some of the trees.

A shiver goes through me. The room is warm—lit by hot, afternoon sunlight. But I suddenly feel cold.

I turn away from the windows and the view of the lake and start to inspect the bookshelves. A swirl of dust fills the air when I pull the nearest cloth loose. The shelf, unveiled, is empty. I move on to the next one. Then the next. I take down each cloth until the air is a haze of motes that sparkle, amber in the sunlight.

I run my fingers through the dust on the shelves and laugh in disbelief. “Why doesn’t your library have any books?”