A far wilder magic, p.11
A Far Wilder Magic, page 11
I’m ready for our date, she announced, and the moment he saw Hedy’s starry expression, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
It wasn’t the first time Christine poached one of his dates, but at least it was the last. They’ve been together for two years now, and while a petty part of him still hasn’t forgiven his sister, he can’t blame her. They’re both their father’s children, charmers to their last.
“Christine,” Wes says, a stiff grin fixed in place, “this is Miss Welty. Miss Welty, this is my sister Christine.”
“A pleasure.” Christine shoulders past him and extends her hand.
Maggie shakes it uncertainly.
“Wes,” she says primly, “were you going to leave poor Miss Welty standing in the freezing cold hallway? Or are you going to invite her inside?”
“Well—”
“Excuse my brother. He’s a bit dense sometimes. Please come inside. I’ll make you some coffee.”
By the time Maggie crosses the threshold, looking like a dog ready to bite, Christine is already halfway to the kitchen. It’s almost unbearable, having her here in this cramped foyer. She looks so painfully out of place in his home, like she’s been cut out of Wickdon and pasted here. A sloppy collage of two lives he can’t fit together.
He watches her examine the mountain of shoes at their feet, then the cheerfully painted statue of the Holy Mother veiled in blue. He wants to tear down every incriminating Sumic relic and throw sheets over all the dust-caked furniture. But it’s too late. She can see it all, the pieces of his soul, just as he saw hers. There’s no hiding the realities of their lives from each other. He remembers the way her lip curled when he told her he felt sorry for her. Now, ashamed of how small and cluttered his home is, he understands how alike they are. Misfortune has hardened them both. It’s roughened her, but it’s polished him to a sheen. If he lets the world believe he is all surface, then there is nothing to expose. Beneath her implacable stare, however, he is utterly naked.
“Can I have your coat?” he mumbles.
“If you’re not coming with me, I really should go.”
“Have some coffee at least. My sister will be offended if you don’t.”
“Fine.” Maggie shrugs out of her jacket and hands it to him. It’s warm and covered in dog hair, but it smells like Wickdon—like her. The brine of the sea and the richness of the earth after a storm. “But I can’t stay long.”
She tries to slip past him, but he catches her by the elbow. While she looks affronted, she doesn’t scowl or flinch like he’s struck her this time. “I know you want your mom to come back, but there has to be some other way. Joining the hunt is as good as a death wish.”
“It’s not only about my mother,” she bites out. “I want to win. I want Jaime Harrington to leave me alone. I want to show everyone I’m not afraid to do this, because I’m not. I’m not afraid of dying.”
“Well, I am.”
She meets his eyes steadily. “I wouldn’t let you.”
“Oh, no? And how many people are participating, hundreds? I can’t believe it’s me of all people telling you this, but you have to think this through. Do you really think there’s a remote chance of you winning, even if we don’t die?”
“There’s more than a chance. I won’t lose. I swear it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I haven’t met a better shot than me, a better hound than Trouble, or anyone playing for a higher stake than ours.” The conviction burning in her eyes makes his mouth go dry. Here in the hazy sunlight, they are the intoxicating color of honey, of whiskey, of—
Edie clears her throat.
They whirl around to face her. While she doesn’t say a word, her gaze is locked pointedly on Wes’s fingers curled around Maggie’s elbow. She smiles angelically. “Christine says the coffee is ready.”
With that, she turns and sashays back to the kitchen. Where the hell is she learning these things? How much of her life has he missed while he was away?
“She’s cute,” Maggie offers.
“Don’t let her hear you say that.” Wes grimaces and lets go of her arm. “Alright. I’ve thought about your proposal.”
Her face goes soft with surprise. “You have?”
Not well enough to be sensible, but enough to make up his mind. If only for a few weeks, he’ll be a real alchemist. He won’t have to surrender his dream. As long as there’s a glimmer of hope, he must seize it. Even if his family will hate him for it. Telling Mam he’s joining the hunt will be as good as slapping her in the face.
A part of him has always known it would come to this: choosing between his heritage and his ambitions. Devout Sumics don’t become politicians in this country. If he doesn’t assimilate, he’ll be unelectable, since most people believe that Sumics pledge their loyalty to the pope rather than the president. Elections have been won on a simple platform of New Albion for New Albians. A few years ago, it was hard to go a day without hearing some Katharist minister on the radio decrying Sumicism as “the ally of tyranny and the enemy of prosperity.” But what better way to swear fealty to New Albion than to kill the hala, a creature Sumics hold sacred? Assuming, of course, they don’t run him out of Wickdon the moment they find out what he is.
“I’m in,” he says with more confidence than he feels. “I have to figure out how to break it to my family.”
He thinks he sees the entire spectrum of human emotion pass over her face in the blink of an eye. It settles on guilt. “You’d best do it quickly. We have to register before midnight.”
“Before midnight? It takes at least three hours to get back to Wickdon from here.” He groans. “God, they’re going to kill me for leaving on such short notice.”
“I did try to call.”
“Well, that would’ve saved us both a lot of grief,” he mutters. The cuckoo clock on the wall chimes. “The rest of my sisters will be home for dinner soon. I’ll tell them then.”
“Where should I wait for you?”
“Wait for me? Oh, no, you’re staying right here. You need to drink your coffee. Besides, my mom will wring my neck if she finds out I had a guest over without feeding them.”
Her face pales. “You want me to stay for dinner?”
“Yes.” He tosses her coat onto the overflowing rack. “I know it’ll be a little different than you’re used to, but my family is a friendly bunch. Maybe a little too friendly, but hey, at least it’ll be interesting.”
“Interesting,” she repeats flatly. “I can’t wait.”
Wes grins at her. Then, his cheer fades as he realizes what he finally has to confess. “I’m sure you’ve already figured it out by now, but … When I tell them what I’m doing, things could get awkward, so I guess I should mention that my family is Sumic. I’m Sumic. Just in case that bothers you.”
He braces himself for her judgment, but she only tips her head to the side and blinks those doe eyes of hers. For the first time, he thinks he understands why people say dogs resemble their owners. Trouble has given him the same look before. “Why would that bother me?”
“I…” He fumbles for words, embarrassed of his own fear. “I don’t know.”
Maggie watches him like she wants to tell him a secret. Like she’s weighing his trustworthiness. In the end, he must come up short. “What you think of the hala doesn’t matter to me. Only that you’re prepared to kill it.”
“I am.” At least he certainly hopes so. To stave off his grim mood, he adds, “I promise there aren’t any pagan rites or ritual cannibalism or anything like that. That’s only during Mass.”
“That’s a little disappointing.”
Never has he tasted a relief so sweet in his life. He laughs breathlessly. “Why don’t you come sit down?”
10
Margaret has never seen a home like the Winterses’. Although night has swept through the city like the tide, it’s warm and bursting with life. Pans hang above the range alongside thick, twine-tied clusters of herbs, and all sorts of strange objects fill their shelves. There are small statues of haloed saints, candles burning inside painted glass jars, and a particularly disturbing collection of icons: the demiurges, drenched in silver-gilt blood, looking beatific even as they’re struck down by hunters. Margaret can almost understand Weston’s propensity for dramatics when confronted with these images. The only church in Wickdon is a plain, dignified Katharist building with clear windows and white walls. The Sumic one she passed on the way here, however, glimmered like it was inlaid with jewels.
Outside the window, clotheslines web across the alley and a gray tabby cat meows impatiently from its perch on the sill. Weston unlatches the casement and scoops it into his arms like a baby. The cat looks indignant, slowly blinking its yellow eyes at her, but it remains docile as he carries it to the table and slides onto the chair beside her.
Elbow-to-elbow, the seven of them crowd around a table meant for four, and they’re all shouting over each other, nearly hysterical with laughter. Margaret tries her best to look attentive, although all she’d like to do is lock herself in the bathroom until the noise dies down. Weston was right in saying that she’d be out of her element here.
She wasn’t made for the city. Everything about it was tailor-made to overwhelm her. Cars blaring their horns at traffic stops. Zeppelins advertising brand names dragging their bellies low across the sky. And the people—all the people. People in drop-waist gowns, people dripping with pearls, people pouring out of blindingly bright shopping malls. Even now, her hands tremble with the dregs of her adrenaline.
The Winterses’ home doesn’t provide her much more security. She hasn’t eaten dinner with her mother in years, and seeing the easy companionship Weston’s family shares is almost painful. It reminds her of happier days, when her mother would set her and David on the countertop to “supervise” while she cooked. These days, Evelyn takes her meals in her lab if she remembers to eat at all. Dinner here, meanwhile, is a production. With all the glasses, dishware, and food piled high on the table, the wood groans under its weight. The smell of browned beef and simmered bay bubbles thick from a cauldron in the center, and a loaf of bread still steams with oven warmth. Margaret is about to tear into it when Weston’s mother says, “Who wants to say grace?”
Everyone falls silent, as though she’s asked which one of them shattered her favorite vase. Aoife Winters sits at the head of the table, surveying her children with a graveness belied by the mirth sparkling in her eyes. Her hair is near-black and streaked with stately gray, as if she’d woven a silver ribbon through her braid.
“No one? Really?”
She speaks with a lilting Banvish accent Margaret doesn’t hear often in Wickdon. Only from the sailors and dockworkers on shipment days. When they leave in the morning from the inn, she’s heard people mutter, The whole place’ll reek of ale for weeks. Margaret still aches from the earlier worry in Weston’s eyes when he confessed that his family was Sumic. Now, she regrets her response. Maybe she should have reassured him more earnestly. Maybe she should have told him her own secret, assuming he hasn’t already figured it out himself.
“Miss Welty should do it,” Edie says solemnly. “She’s our guest.”
Weston smothers a laugh in his sleeve. Colleen elbows him hard enough that he hisses something under his breath. The cat in his arms wriggles free and lands with a dull thud of its paws against the floorboards.
“I’ll do it,” Christine cuts in.
“Thank you,” Aoife says.
In eerie unison, they steeple their hands and bow their heads. Margaret imitates them as best she can, watching from beneath her hair as she slumps lower in her chair. Sumic tradition is unfamiliar to her, but these small rituals comfort her. They remind her of the prayers her father used to say over their Shabbos meals.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive,” Christine begins. The rest rushes by in a practiced monotone, so quickly Margaret can’t make sense of the words. When she finishes, the rest of them intone, “Amen.”
Then, the room bursts into chaos.
Weston dives for the ladle, only for Mad to swat his hand away. “Wait your turn, Weston. Your mother and your guest may want to eat something, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
While Mad isn’t looking, Colleen tears off a hunk of bread and stuffs it into her cheeks like a squirrel. She gives Margaret a conspiratorial wink. The finer details of their faces differ, but the Winters children all have various shades of their mother’s dark hair—and the same spark of mischief in their eyes. Colleen, however, is the only one of them with eyes as pale as frost.
The oldest girls are beautiful in very different ways. Mad, with her bobbed hair and red-painted lips, is glamorous and stark in the way women in the fashion magazines are. Christine wears her hair even shorter—and certainly more well-groomed—than even Weston does, and her nose is dusted with freckles.
“Here, let me get you a plate, Margaret,” Aoife says. “They’re sharks, the whole lot of them. Especially my son.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Guilt curdles her stomach as her gaze lands on Aoife’s bandaged hand.
“No complaints.” Aoife ladles a heaping portion of stew with her good hand and places it in front of Margaret. “What else can I get you?”
Christine spears a piece of meat on her plate. “Mam, let the poor thing breathe.”
A strange emotion grabs hold of her heart and squeezes. She feels suddenly like a spider in its web, watching herself from the darkest corner of the room. From here, Margaret sees herself for what she is. A dour, inkblot stain on the brightness of this home. She doesn’t belong with these people. She doesn’t deserve their kindness or their attempts to fold her into their easy rapport with one another. No, it’s more than rapport. They love each other. It suffuses every kind gesture and sharp word.
I know I’m overstepping my bounds here, but that’s not normal, Weston told her before he left. You know that, don’t you?
She wonders if this is what normal is to him. Once, her family was like his. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine the four of them safely tucked inside the manor, gathered around the fireplace. Margaret’s throat tightens against the sudden wave of homesickness. That version of Welty Manor is irrecoverable, which makes her feel all the more desolate.
Weston nudges her knee with his and leans in close enough to murmur, “Hanging in there?”
It feels as though he’s pulled a sheet over their heads; her world narrows to the electric sensation of his leg against hers and the attentive, concerned glow in his eyes. She nods. He frowns skeptically but doesn’t press. As soon as he glances away, the fluttering in her stomach stops. All she has to do is finish dinner, and they’ll be on their way to Wickdon again.
Margaret reaches for the bread at the exact moment Weston does. Their hands brush, and both of them jerk away like they’ve been singed. Her stomach twists itself into another impressive knot. If she doesn’t collect herself quickly, one of his sisters will notice. Margaret has endured mockery all her life, but somehow, the embarrassment of being teased about this would destroy her. It’s not as though she can tell them she finds him repulsive.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “After you.”
Heat still tingles up her arm as she tears off a piece of bread for herself. She dips it into the stew and takes a bite. It’s heartier and far better than anything she’s had in months, rich with salt and a pungent touch of fresh oregano. She stops only when the table goes quiet. The tips of her fingers sting with heat from where she’s submerged them to the knuckle in broth.
Sheepishly, she says, “It’s good.”
Aoife smiles radiantly. “Have as much as you want.”
“So,” Christine says. “Tell us about yourself, Margaret.”
Margaret swallows thickly. The half-chewed bread slithers down her throat and rakes against her sternum like nails. She’s suddenly aware of Weston’s leg brushing hers again. It makes her skin itch.
“Don’t interrogate her,” he says. “She’s had a long day.”
Christine folds her hands beneath her chin. “Interrogate her? Such an accusation. Forgive me if I want to get to know our guest better.”
“I’m curious, too.” Mad’s every word is knife-point sharp. “What brings you here, anyway? You’re awfully far from home.”
“Behave.” Aoife is slathering butter on a slice of bread with surprising dexterity. Weston opens his mouth, ready to fire off a retort, but snaps it shut when his mother shoves the bread into his hand.
“Mam, honestly,” he says at the same time Mad hisses, “Stop babying him.”
They glare at each other across the table.
Aoife busies herself with buttering another slice of bread. “Stop bickering and eat your dinner. It’s only going to get cold. Margaret is the only one of you with any sense.”
Mad takes a long sip of her drink. Her eyes meet Margaret’s over the rim of her glass. It’s immediately clear that Mad doesn’t like her, but Margaret can’t be certain if it’s something she’s done or if it’s because Mad doesn’t like anyone.
“Well.” Christine claps. “Shall we break the ice some other way? Maybe some fun facts. Madeline, why don’t you start us off?”
“I’m holding a very sharp knife.” Mad waves it for emphasis. “As a reminder to all of you.”
“That’s not fun. Oh!” Colleen slams her hands on the table, rattling all the cutlery. “How about this one? Did you know that we have ten times as many bacterial cells as our own—”
“Gross!” Edie cries.
Colleen looks dejected. “Clearly we all have our own ideas of fun here.”
