A far wilder magic, p.13
A Far Wilder Magic, page 13
Wes and his dreaming, she decides, are dangerous things indeed.
11
Margaret is making him nervous.
Wes watches her from the behind the fogged glass of a phone booth while he waits for Hohn to pick up his call. She’s sitting on a bench that faces a stretch of rolling hills, where a small army of goats grazes behind low stone fences. Her expression is as unreadable as alchemic research and her stare as glassy as a doll’s, but he’s slowly learning her language. The tension in her shoulders. The dart of her eyes at every sudden noise. The way she keeps pinning and unpinning her hair.
Even when she’s restless, everything she does is precise and mechanized—and oddly hypnotizing. She’s gathering up her hair in one hand and brandishing her tortoiseshell clip like a weapon in the other when Hohn finally answers.
Once Wes secures their ride and hangs up the phone, he drags his suitcase to Margaret’s uneasy perch. He supposes he ought to feel more anxious than he does considering his future is riding on registering for the hunt on time. But his sense of time has always run a little differently from most people’s, and besides, it won’t do much good to worry about something he can’t control.
“Relax.” He jerks his chin toward the clock tower. Its face glows like a full moon in the starless sky. “It’s only eight thirty. We’re going to make it.”
The last train of the night awakens from its slumber, wheezing, and swallows up her reply. As it heaves itself out of the station, it coughs up a trail of smoke and drags the wet, still air behind it. His coattails whip around his knees from the gust, and a few strands of her hair come loose from her bun. They cling to her lips, which are pursed at him with typical dispassion. He considers brushing them away—and whether she will bite if he lets the pad of his thumb linger. He recoils from the impulse. Never has anything as banal as hair made him feel so depraved.
When the wind dies down and the train’s whistle fades to a distant whine, she says, “It’ll take at least an hour and a half for him to get here.”
“And an hour and a half to get back.” He waves dismissively. “Which means we’ll still have thirty minutes to spare.”
She is, apparently, neither impressed nor assuaged by his calculations, so they wait in grim silence as the cold thickens around them. A raven lands on a nearby fence post and lets out a scream that almost severs his soul from his body. Margaret doesn’t even flinch.
Just as he thinks he’ll go mad, the clock gongs ten. Moments later, he hears the rumble of an engine and nearly weeps from relief. The headlights come next, blinking out of the darkness like the wide yellow eyes of a cat. As Hohn’s sleek black cab pulls up to the curb, Wes grabs his bag. “See? He’s here right on time. Nothing to worry about.”
Margaret glares at him witheringly as Hohn climbs out of the car. “Mr. Winters, good to see you again! And is that— Maggie Welty, what in God’s name are you doing out here?”
“I went sightseeing.”
“Mind giving us a ride to the Blind Fox?” Wes adds.
Hohn looks befuddled but says, “Alright, then,” before taking Wes’s suitcase and loading it into the trunk.
Wes and Margaret clamber into the back seat, separated by bare inches of space and the solid wall of her frustration. He makes a few passing attempts at conversation as they pull onto the coastal highway—about how the weather has turned and the traffic has worsened—but neither Hohn nor Margaret pay him any mind beyond the occasional monosyllabic response. Margaret’s reticence is unsurprising. Between surfeiting on his company today and her generally sour disposition, he expects she’ll ignore him for the next three days. Hohn’s silence, however, unnerves him. It’s not until he catches a glimpse of his eyes, thinned like a serpent’s, in the rear-view mirror that he begins to understand.
Wes can all too easily imagine the steady diet of cautionary tales Wickdon girls are raised on. The kinds where city boys like him come to ferry away sheltered, lonely girls like her, only to drink them dry and leave them husks. But Margaret is no blushing maiden, and she’d shove the barrel of her gun down his throat before he could even hatch a single thought of pulling anything untoward.
He remembers how she stared down the hala, wild and determined in the bloody sunset. In that moment, all he could think to do was pray; all he could feel was his pulse in the hollow of his throat. But she looked so poised, so … terrifying.
Really, she’s not his type. Not that Hohn knows that.
Wes wonders what exactly Hohn suspects. Maybe that he’s after her estate, especially now that her mother isn’t around to protect her from opportunistic snakes like him. It depresses him how plausible it sounds, so he tries to distract himself with the scenery. Nothing but featureless darkness whirs past his window. Even the sea is near-invisible tonight, rippling black and indigo behind the reflection of Margaret’s face. His breath condenses on the window and blots her out.
He suffers for what feels like an eternity before they make it to Wickdon. When he arrived last time, it was a quaint little village—but now it’s as rowdy as the Fifth Ward on Lá Fhéile Pádraig. They drift down the street, parting the crowds like water beneath a prow. Eventually, they’re hemmed in on all sides and the cab eases to a stop about a block away from the Blind Fox.
“I think this is as far as I go,” Hohn says. “It’s a damn zoo tonight.”
Wes goes to fetch his suitcase. He can barely hear his own thoughts over the shouted conversations around him, and it sends a shiver of exhilaration through him. As he slams the trunk closed, he sees Margaret counting out the fare while Hohn, with a pointed glance in his direction, whispers something in her ear. Her face flushes red as autumn.
It’d be endearing if it wasn’t plain confirmation that Hohn thinks he’s nothing but a scoundrel. Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers denying it. Maybe that’s the only thing he’ll ever amount to.
One moment he’s brooding, and the next, Margaret is seizing him by the elbow. She yanks him backward just as a man stumbles over a loose cobblestone. Beer sloshes out of his cup, narrowly missing Wes’s shoes as it spatters onto the street.
“No,” the man whispers. “Damn it.”
It’s almost heartbreaking.
“You just saved my life,” Wes says wryly.
“Thank me later.” Margaret gives his arm another impatient tug. “Come on. It’s almost midnight.”
She steers them through the crowd with all the grace and purpose of a bulldozer. All around him, he catches fragments of city accents and glimmers of city fashion. Broad vowels and sequins. Too-loud laughter and lacquered cigarette holders capped with brightly burning cherries.
Once they’re inside the pub, the clamor reaches a fever pitch. There’s scarcely enough air to breathe; it’s all tobacco smoke and sulfuric fumes and the bitter-anise smell of absinthe. Fire leaps in the hearth, throwing its light against the walls. It paints Margaret in stark gold; she looks like one of his mother’s saintly icons. He can’t tear his gaze away from her. She sets her jaw in fierce determination, and the glint in her eyes is far brighter than flame.
She hasn’t let go of his arm, but he finds he doesn’t want her to. The pressure of her hand anchors him in the chaos. Together, they shove their way through the crowd until they find a clump of people that somewhat resembles a line. He can’t see what’s at the front of it, even standing on his toes.
“Maggie Welty!” It takes Wes a moment to recognize Halanan’s warm voice and kind blue eyes. “And Winters. What are you two doing out tonight?”
“We’re here to register for the hunt,” Margaret says.
“I’ll be damned.” He doesn’t look thrilled, but he claps another man beside him on the back. “Clear way. We’ve got one more.”
“Clear way!”
It passes from mouth to mouth, building into a rallying cry that spreads through the bar like brushfire. Space clears for them, and with a hand at his back, he’s shoved into the crowd. As they’re shuffled from person to person, Wes can see little but the warm glitter of sequins and the bright red of fox-fur stoles. Finally, they’re thrust in front of a counter manned by the same woman who told the legend at the opening ceremony.
Her mouth falls open when she sees them. “This is your alchemist? Where did you find him?”
“Dunway.”
The woman sighs, as though she’s received a non-answer like this from Margaret a thousand times before. Her gaze locks on to him with an intensity that nearly bowls him over. “What’s your name?”
“Weston Winters, ma’am.” He flashes her what he hopes is a ten-kilowatt smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Weston Winters, huh? You’re sure you didn’t find him in a children’s book?”
“I’m sure.”
The woman gasps, startling him so badly he almost jumps. She jabs an accusatory finger at him. “Wait a minute! Winters. I knew I recognized that name. The other day, Mark Halanan came by and told me the strangest story. Do you know what he said?”
Neither of them speaks.
“He said that Evelyn had a new apprentice, a young man named Winters. I told him he was full of shit. But here you are.” The woman folds her hands neatly on the table. “Why do I get the feeling that you two are up to something smart?”
“Smart?” Wes sputters. “No! I mean, no, ma’am. I would never presume to do anything smart.”
“He is her apprentice,” Margaret cuts in. “She gave him permission to move in early. His lessons will start as soon as she returns.”
“Is that so? You’re not lying to me?”
“Of course not.”
The woman’s shrewd gaze darts back and forth between them. Wes keeps his smile firmly in place. She doesn’t look at all reassured, but she throws up her hands. “Alright, then. You know what happens next, city boy? You make a sacrifice.”
He must be gawping at her because she barks out a laugh and taps the countertop. Carved in its surface is the basic formula for nigredo. Orange firelight pools in the grooves of the transmutation circle. “Nothing too precious. A drop of blood or a lock of hair.”
It strikes him as unusual that a Katharist tradition like this would remind him so much of a Sumic wedding. Traditionally, the priest will perform an alchemic ritual, usually on the wedding bands, to symbolize the joining of bodies and souls. It’s quintessentially, morbidly Sumic to walk around wearing a ring enchanted with the essence of your spouse’s baby teeth or fingernails. They’re always cutting pieces of themselves off for God’s amusement. Apparently, the church down the street from his building has the littlest toe of the martyr Saint Cecelia perfectly preserved beneath the altar.
The woman watches him expectantly. He really doesn’t want to think about marrying Margaret Welty, even metaphorically, but he nods anyway. Satisfied, she places a glass bowl, a piece of chalk, and a knife on the table. Wes feels a little ill as he takes the knife. The idea of parting with any of his hair disturbs him more than the alternative, so blood it is. As he presses the blade against his palm, the crowd quiets. His heart thuds against his eardrums.
Then someone shouts, “Wait!”
Jaime Harrington strides toward them with a self-important look on his face. He’s got a cap pulled over his sandy hair, and his shirt is pristine white against his suspenders and cuffed at the elbows. Hatred coils in Wes’s gut. Margaret bristles beside him.
His pet of a friend—Mattis, if memory serves—trails a few uncertain steps behind him, along with a young woman with auburn hair and a crow-feather headpiece. Judging by the bloodied cloth around her hand, a twin to Jaime’s, they must be partners in the hunt. Poor Mattis, meanwhile, has an impressive bald spot shorn into his temple, and Wes feels vindicated in his vanity.
“The rules say registration has to be final by midnight.” Jaime taps his wristwatch. “It’s five past.”
“What the hell is he doing?” Wes mutters under his breath.
“Meddling.” The venom in Margaret’s voice surprises him.
“The hunt is our oldest tradition. Our heritage as true-blooded New Albians,” Jaime continues. “We’ve always followed the rules the first settlers laid out. I know I speak for everyone when I say nothing should ruin the sanctity of this event.”
A lopsided silence falls over the bar. Then, a few mutters of agreement rise from the crowd.
“He can’t be serious,” Wes hisses. “What does it matter if we’re five minutes late?”
“It’s not about the time.”
His gaze slides uneasily to Margaret. She holds herself around her middle, staring out at the crowd like a cornered animal. What is she not telling him? Either way, if they enforce this rule, it’s over for them. His family will be in a stranglehold, and both his and Margaret’s dreams will be shattered.
From the very back of the bar, someone shouts, “Oh, mind your business, Harrington.”
The delight on Jaime’s face sours. The woman behind the counter makes a show of checking her watch. Wes’s breath catches when the minute hand slots into place beneath the five. They’re doomed.
“Well,” the woman says, “it’s a moot point. My watch says exactly midnight.”
“But—”
“My bar, my time.” She turns her attention back to Wes. “If you would, Mr. Winters, before we have any other hecklers come out of the woodwork?”
Firelight slicks the edge of the knife in his hands. The very thought of making a sacrifice for Margaret petrifies him. How much of himself has he really given to anyone? But if she’s already seen all of his wounds, how much more will it hurt to spill a little more blood for her?
This is nothing more than they’ve already exchanged. A sacrifice for a sacrifice, a dream for a dream. Their bargain is its own kind of alchemy. With the sharp point of the blade, he reopens the half-healed cut on his palm. A few red drops fall and burst in the glass.
As delicately as he can, he passes it to Margaret. She doesn’t hesitate before pulling the clip from her hair. It spills over her shoulders like a river of shining gold. His mouth goes dry as she slips the knife along the delicate skin at the base of her skull and cuts off a lock of hair at the root. She lets it fall into the bowl. The strands scatter, fine and pale as corn silk, and redden with his blood.
Wes wonders what the two of them would boil down to—what he would boil down to—if alchemy could go deep enough. Maybe then he could see what he’s made of and what kind of man he really is. But there’s nothing in the flesh that can get at the soul. It’s nothing but a prison of oxygen and carbon.
Wes chalks in the runes for the reaction, then lays his hands against the counter. As he pours his energy into the array, a tongue of white fire leaps from the bowl, charring its contents into caput mortuum within seconds. The pieces of them crumble into each other, becoming one, and the scent of sulfur fills the air. Heat shimmers around the woman’s face like a veil.
“The last of our entrants, Margaret Welty and Weston Winters. Let the hunt begin!”
The bar explodes with noise.
It gives him a thrill unlike any he’s ever known. Jaime scowls at them, a look of pure disgust, and slips into the crowd with the rest of his posse. But as he scans the room, his gaze keeps catching on that same expression, over and over again.
Through the fire-cast shadows, he can pick out a few people from town—people who know Margaret—looking at her with hatred burning hideously in their eyes. The man who sells oysters along the main drag. The baker who gave him an apple tart for complimenting her hair last week. One of the bartenders overfilling a pint glass.
He knows those looks well. They spark something dark and protective within him. The week after his father died, he’d nearly gotten himself killed for trying to fight a pack of kids who’d followed Colleen home from school. His knuckles still pop out of place if he squeezes his hand just right. He wishes he’d known alchemy back then.
In this world, a Katharist pedigree is power. Money is power. But so is alchemy. He feels the hot glow of its potential burning at the center of his chest.
“Wes?” Margaret lowers her head until her hair curtains her face. “Can we leave? Please?”
The edge of fear in her voice sobers him. “Yeah. Let’s get you home.”
“Take her out the back,” the woman says. “They’re wolves out there tonight.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Without thinking, he wraps an arm around Margaret’s shoulder—then immediately realizes the grave mistake he’s made. He expects her to wrench away from him, but instead, she nestles closer until her forehead is tucked against his neck. Her eyelashes flutter against his racing pulse. Docile as a lamb, she lets him shield her and whisk her out the back door and into the waiting night.
12
Late-morning sunlight washes over Margaret like a wave. As she stirs awake, nestling deeper into her blankets, she relishes its warm, drowsy caress against her face. It’s been so many years since she’s slept in past dawn.
Then, like she’s been doused in cold water, the haziness of her thoughts sharpens into a bitter realization. She’s wasted the first morning of the hunting season.
Swearing, she clambers out of bed and winces as the chill of the floorboards seeps into her bare feet. The stress and exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours haven’t abated, but she can’t coddle herself today—and not for the next three weeks. Until the hala is slain, she can’t relax. The packed hunting-season schedule will see to that.
To keep the tourists entertained, each week promises another competitive spectacle. First, an alchemy exposition and then a shooting contest. Poor performance doesn’t disqualify anyone, but winning offers crucial advantages. Foxhunting is a traditional, hierarchical sport with so many rules both unspoken and formalized, Margaret can hardly keep track of them. But chief among them is observing the proper arrangement of people on the field. A regular hunting club divides its members into four groups based on their skill level and seniority: first flight, second flight, third flight, and hilltoppers. The Halfmoon Hunt officials, however, place each team in a flight according to how well they score in the weekly competitions.
