Antebellum Awakening (The Network Series #2)(34)

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“What are you reading?” Papa asked at breakfast the next morning, setting a loaf of bread and a block of cheese out on the table. My stomach growled.

“I haven’t started yet,” I said, setting aside Mildred’s Resistance and straightening my stiff back muscles with a grimace. My body was already starting to tighten up after an early lesson with Merrick. We’d spent the time practicing footwork, lifting heavy logs, and working me into a frenetic appetite for food. “Stella loaned it to me yesterday.”

“Mildred’s Resistance? I’ve heard of it but never seen a copy. I think that may be the only one.” His eyebrows lifted halfway to his hairline with a pointed glance that clearly said control your usual luck so you don’t destroy this book.

“So using it to start a fire later tonight is out?”

He smirked and threw a piece of cheese at me. It hit my cheek with a slap. A morning breeze made the herb pots hanging from the balcony ledge bob up and down. Basil, and a hint of rosemary, drifted on the wind. Papa sawed away at the bread with a long knife, handing me the first warm slice. I tore off a corner and took a bite. It tasted slightly sweet and soft, like chewing on a cloud. I sighed in contentment and sank farther into the chair.

“Everything going okay in the Borderlands?” I asked, studying his face. Tiberius had come for Papa in the middle of the night. Papa had returned to the castle with a fat lip, a cut on his jaw, a purpling bruise, and no explanation. His eyes flicked to mine.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked. The deep, rolling timbre of his voice made me shudder.

“Yes,” I said, although I wasn’t sure.

“No, it’s not going well at all. They started digging an exceedingly large trench last night.”

“Trench?” I questioned, and he nodded. “So your suspicions were right. They are going to divert the river.”

“Yes. What I can’t figure out is their magic. They’ve found a spell that can control hundreds of thousands of shovels. They have Guardians supervising, but for the most part the West Guards aren’t doing anything. Because they have so many shovels at work, and because the work is so well synchronized, the trench is growing fast.” He dragged a hand through his hair, his eyes focused on something in the distance as he worked through the problem. “They must be using an older magic.”

My mind sped back to my encounter with Miss Mabel and Isadora’s words rang in my head. She’s using Almorran magic.

“What is your plan?” I asked, wishing I could tell him what I knew. If I mentioned Miss Mabel at all he’d grow suspicious, and that was the last thing he needed right then. He rubbed his face, infused with a sudden weariness.

“We’re going to siphon off as much water as we can,” he said. “Probably start creating a river of our own further above them.”

“Near the Northern Network?” I asked in surprise. The small tract of land we called the Borderlands lay wedged between us and the Western Network, but it also reached our border with the Northern Network.

“Yes,” he said, and left it at that.

“It’s a good plan,” I said. “At least you’re doing something.”

“It was Zane’s idea. He has a tactical mind. Anyway, if it doesn’t work we have a few other things in mind.”

His tone sounded dark, and a grim feeling creep over me.

“Is there any active fighting yet?”

“Not yet. I think Dane wants to weaken us first. He knows we can stand against them from a military perspective, but not if our witches are starving and in a panic. It’s smart. I’d do the same thing if I were in his position.”

His casual mention of Dane, the acting High Priest for the Western Network, made me shudder. Almack, the actual Western High Priest, was still deathly sick. The war would truly begin once he died. Unlike in our Network, the Western Network only allowed one governing witch at a time, and the ruler was always a male. No woman had ever taken power in the West. Would Miss Mabel be the first High Priestess? It seemed likely, if Dane could be manipulated. She seemed to think he could; perhaps she held a binding over him as well.

We ate the rest of our meal in the quiet, content to just be with one another.

“See you later, girl,” he said, planting a kiss on top of my head once he finished. “Love you.”

“Love you, Papa.”

Once the apartment door closed, I grabbed Mildred’s Resistance and hauled it onto my lap, eager to get the grim thoughts about the war with the West out of my head. Mildred’s Resistance was like new. The edges of the heavy cover had frayed a little, but the pages looked undisturbed, as if someone had carried it around often but never read it. I turned to the first page.

Dear Reader,

This book is written by an unknown author. That’s the name I’ve chosen and it’s the only name you’ll ever know. My identity is not nearly as important as yours.

Suffice it to say that you may trust me; everything in this book is true. I tell the story of the people of the Resistance and all that it meant at the time. Perhaps it means something to you now, but it will never mean anything to you like it did to us.

The Resistance wasn’t an explosion. Rather, it was a slow burn that turned to flame and then to fire. As to blame, I ask you to draw your own conclusions, for you now hold the truth in your hands.