You Are Mine (Mine #1)(2)
The door opens and the electric lights turn on. I squint against the brightness, wanting to look at the light. Our house was only recently wired for electricity and Father rarely wastes it on us. My eyes adjust to the unnatural light so I'm able to see a man, skin like prunes, focused on the papers in his hands. When he looks up from his papers, his eyes tighten. “Get out of my chair.”
I jump. Blast! I should have known it wasn't for my use. Why didn't I think of it being there for the tester? I lower my head, hoping he doesn't discipline me for the mistake.
Once seated he says, “Shut the door.”
After closing it, I press my back against its hard surface. His focus returns to his papers. No punishment then—at least not immediately.
“Seventeen today,” he says. “Need more girls to come in right away on their birthdays.”
Does he think I had a choice? Who would come early if they didn't have to? I suppress a groan. Cynthia maybe. She's always been fascinated by boys. And the girls from class. Basically, any girl who's not me.
He delves back into the parchment. His thin nose is long until the end where it bulges out. White hair sticks out from his head as if the remaining strands are trying to escape.
“Very good pedigree,” he mumbles. “Father most impressive. Mother's Father is Devon Mullshire. His and his Fathers' powers were excellent. Simply excellent. With that alone I'd say a warlock should court the girl before the month is over. Get over here, girl, and give me your bare hand.”
Is this a trick? Some sort of test before the real test? The Woman's Cannon says a woman must always wear gloves when a warlock is present. I inch toward him, but leave my hands gloved and curled together. He can't really want me to break that rule, can he?
At my hesitance, he zaps a silver hex at me. The light strikes across my body and I attempt to hide a cringe. I suck in a breath as the feeling of needles poking my skin encompasses me. As the pain subsides, I tug off my glove and hold out my hand, silently cursing him.
The tester's fingers scratch against my hand as he flips it palm up. I clamp my jaw together and force myself not to move. He stares at my palm. Maybe he can see the magic just by looking. Maybe the rumor in class of the tester spilling my blood was to scare us girls.
A spell of black fog dances from his hands, with tendrils darting out of it like clawing fingers. I dig the heels of my shoes into the floor. The fog nears and loses its blur, hardening into a single knife. I pull away, but he yanks me back. The dark blade stabs my finger then dissipates, leaving behind pain. I bite my lip to keep silent.
The crimson on my finger grows and drips. Before it falls to the floor, the warlock emits a faint blue spell to catch it. The light flows up to the cut and draws more liquid from my wound. While the pulling continues at my fingertip, I feel a tug snagging deep in my chest. Something inside me protests as the yanking grows. Once there's about a shot glass full, the pulling stops.
A small hiss escapes me, which he thankfully doesn't seem to care about. The spell dances over my finger, closing the wound, and the last trickle of fluid ceases. Dizziness strikes. I wobble and use the still closed door to steady myself. The room sways as the tester waves his hand, and the spell stretches its beam of light and thins my blood out into a flat circle. The sight of my blood like an evil moon before me makes my stomach churn.
The minutes drag by. The dizziness doesn't leave, but lessens. I try to avoid gazing at the crimson circle. The tester's brows furrow as he studies it. My pulse grows faster. I didn't expect it to take this long. I suck in air and gradually release it. Is there something wrong with it? What if there's no magic in it at all? If I were a boy, it would have been checked long ago, but since women don't do spells, there wasn't a reason to check until now. How angry will Father be if there's nothing in it?
I sag lower against the door. The tester fixes a glare at me. I stand straight and proper though it makes the room sway again. His focus returns to my life force. The spelled light pulses twice before compressing my blood. When it's the size of a squashed pea, it merges onto one of his papers.
“Bring your Father.” His voice makes me start after such a long silence.
I hurry from the room, grateful to get away. Once in the hall, I give myself a moment to become accustomed to my weakened state. When I think I can handle it, I walk fast down the hall. Or at least as quickly as my faint body will let me.
When I reach the waiting area, mother is still in the corner, but the women surrounding her are different than those who were waiting before. All have varying shapes of tattoos above their collar bones. The center tattoo is bordered by a second in a diverse array of lines, curves, and sometimes another shape. The border indicates they're all married. The daughters must be in testing rooms like the one I just left. Their eyes constantly dart toward the men.
Father lazes, laughing with the men. I position myself where Father can see me, but where I won't be in the way. After a few moments he addresses me.
“Finished then. Let's see how soon some chap will ask for you.” He tosses his pipe on a table. “Agatha, come.”
The crowd of women parts for my mother, who waddles behind Father. I would rather be headed to class, but wishing won't make it happen. When we're back to the tester, a second chair has appeared across from him. The room seems larger and somehow warmer. I don't know if it's really changed or if it's easier to face with mother here.