Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(58)

Coco came to stand beside me. As a Dame Rouge, she couldn’t see the patterns I saw, but she tried nonetheless. “You’re not thinking about it properly. Examine every possibility.”

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to take a deep breath. Once, envisioning and manipulating patterns had come easily—as easily as breathing. But no longer. I’d been hiding for too long. Repressing my magic for too long. Too many dangers had lurked in the city: witches, Chasseurs, and even citizens all recognized the peculiar smell of magic. Though it was impossible to discern a witch from her appearance, unattended women always aroused suspicion. How long before someone had smelled me after an enchantment? How long before someone had seen me contorting my fingers and followed me home?

I’d used magic at Tremblay’s, and look where it’d landed me.

No. It’d been safer to stop practicing magic altogether.

I explained to Coco that it was like exercising a muscle. When used routinely, the patterns came quickly, clearly, usually of their own volition. If left unattended, however, that part of my body—the part connected to my ancestors, to their ashes in the land—grew weak. And every second it took to untangle a pattern, a witch could strike.

Madame Labelle had been clear. My mother was in the city. Perhaps she knew where I was, or perhaps she didn’t. Either way, I couldn’t afford weakness.

As if listening to my thoughts, the golden dust seemed to shift closer, and the witches at the parade reared in my mind’s eye. Their crazed smiles. The bodies floating helplessly above them. I repressed a shudder, and a wave of hopelessness crashed through me.

No matter how often I practiced—no matter how skilled I grew—I would never be as powerful as some. Because witches like those at the parade—witches willing to sacrifice everything for their cause—weren’t merely powerful.

They were dangerous.

Though a witch couldn’t see another’s patterns, feats such as drowning or burning a person alive required enormous offerings to maintain balance: perhaps a specific emotion, perhaps a year’s worth of memories. The color of their eyes. The ability to feel another’s touch.

Such losses could . . . change a person. Twist her into something darker and stranger than she was before. I’d seen it happen once.

But that was a long time ago.

Even if I couldn’t hope to grow more powerful than my mother, I refused to do nothing.

“If I hinder the healers’ and priests’ ability to hear us, I’m impairing them. I’m taking from them.” I brushed aside the gold clinging to my skin, straightening my shoulders. “I have to impair myself as well, somehow. One of my senses . . . hearing is the obvious trade, but I’ve already done that. I could give another sense, like touch or sight or taste.”

I paused and examined the patterns. “Taste isn’t enough—the balance is still tipped in my favor. Sight is too much, as I’d be rendered ineffectual. So . . . it has to be touch. Or maybe smell?” I focused on my nose, but no new pattern emerged.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

I glared over at Bernie, my concentration slipping. The patterns vanished. “I love you, Bernie, but could you please shut up? You’re making this difficult.”

Clink.

Coco poked me in the cheek, directing my attention back to the door. “Keep going. Try a different perspective.”

I swatted her hand away. “That’s easy for you to say.” Gritting my teeth, I stared at the door so hard I feared my eyes might explode. Perhaps that would be balance enough. “Maybe . . . maybe I’m not taking from them. Maybe they’re giving me something.”

“Like secrecy?” Coco prompted.

“Yes. Which means—which means—”

“Maybe you could try telling a secret.”

“Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t work like—”

A thin, golden cord snaked between my tongue and her ear. Shit.

That was the trouble with magic. It was subjective. For every possibility I considered, another witch would consider a hundred different ones. Just as no two minds worked the same, no two witches’ magic worked the same. We all saw the world differently.

Still, I needn’t tell Coco that.

She flashed a smug smile and raised a brow, as if reading my thoughts. “It sounds to me like there are no hard and fast rules to this magic of yours. It’s intuitive.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “To be honest, it reminds me of blood magic.”

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and we stilled. When they didn’t pass—when they halted in front of the door—Coco retreated to the corner, and I slipped into the iron chair by Bernie’s bed. I flipped the Bible open and began reading a verse at random.

Father Orville hobbled through the door.

“Oh!” He clutched his chest when he saw us, his eyes forming perfect circles behind his spectacles. “Dear me! You gave me a fright.”

Smiling, I rose to my feet as Ansel hastened into the room. Bits of cookie sprinkled his lips. Obviously he’d invaded the healers’ kitchen. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.” I returned my attention to Father Orville. “My apologies, Father. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Not at all, child, not at all. I’m just a bit overwrought this morning. We had a strange night. Our patients are unusually . . . agitated.” He waved a hand, revealing a metal syringe, and joined me at Bernie’s bedside. My smile froze in place. “I see you too are concerned for our Monsieur Bernard. Last night one of my healers found him attempting to jump out a window!”