Please go with the shifters. Your presence is most earnestly requested. I am aware you are fatigued from the day’s exertions, and for this inconvenience, I offer my sincerest apologies.
Love always,
William
I fold the note into a neat square and tuck it into the hidden pocket in my dress.It is always urgent.If the shifters are involved, something is badly wrong. I need to see what William has dragged us into—and get us out again.
The stairs above me creak. My sister is coming.
“Hestia, what do you think they want?” Callista whispers as she joins me, her hand catching at my sleeve.
“I have no idea,” I murmur, tapping my ear. We must be cautious. Shifters heareverything, and I rather like my head attached to my body.
Her blue eyes widen with horrified understanding.
“William wants me to go with them.”
One man meets my gaze and my stomach tightens. He growls; the corner of his upper lip lifts. Yet I hold his stare until Callista grips my forearm, her nails biting through the fabric.
“You are not going, are you? That is not proper! Let me fetch my coat—I will come with you.”
“No, it is all right. I will be fine.” The lie tastes sour. I have a dreadful feeling in my bones, and I will not drag my younger sister into it. Thank heavens our elder brothers are not here. “John can chaperone.”
My magic responds as I mentally dash off a note to John, explaining the situation and asking him to meet me outside. Somewhere in the distance, I feel the answering tug as some scrap of paper abandons its quiet purpose to carry my words.
John, our gardener, tends the horses and the grounds. Quiet and ox-built, he communicates mostly in grunts. I have known him since childhood and trust him—and his wife, our cook.
“I will be safe with John,” I assure her. “Please, stay up here. I love you.” I kiss her cheek, shake off her grip on my sleeve and descend the narrow stairs, my skirts brushing the wall and bannister. The wood is smooth from generations of hands; tonight it feels slick beneath my fingertips.
“Good evening. I have received a message from my husband; I am to accompany you,” I tell the nearest shifter, keeping my voice polite.
“You are the paper mage?”
His angled eyebrows give him a permanently enraged look. Yellow teeth show beneath a half-healed split lip, stillstreaked with dried blood—fresh from a fight, as shifters heal quickly.
“Yes,” I say evenly. “I am the paper mage.”
The shifters in the hall do not flinch—at least, not outwardly. Yet the air shifts, as though they have all recoiled from me. I might have announced myself a wild beast, or a sharp knife.
I dislike being the bogeywoman of magic.
Sarah hands me my gloves and helps me into my coat. The September weather can be unpredictable. I settle my travelling bonnet on my head and once again heft my workbag before stepping out towards the waiting carriage.
A shifter offers his hand; I ignore it. I have no wish to touch a stranger.
I climb aboard alone. The carriage groans beneath my weight—ominous, given I am hardly heavy. The boards must be rotten through. Inside, the once-velvet seat is now a greasy brown, threadbare and pocked with holes, as though a mouse has taken up residence. I sit cautiously, bag on my lap, arms tucked close to avoid the grime.
No one joins me. John leans in, nods, and withdraws; he will follow on horseback, and the sight of him through the cloudy window loosens the knot in my chest.
The carriage lurches forward, swaying unevenly and listing to the right, likely a broken spoke. The twenty-minute ride is wretched; each jolt rattles my bones and jars my already-aching knee. Hooves drum a relentless rhythm over the road.
When we arrive, I peer through the cracked window. A half-built detached house waits in the gathering gloom,roof finished but bay windows gaping, the shell still under construction. Bare beams show through like ribs.
I have no idea why I am here. I cannot decide which is worse—this skeletal building or the dust-choked basement I endured earlier—yet it could be worse. My magic feeds my family, and for them I would do anything. I am also concerned for William. A cold, thin worry threads down my spine.
The door creaks open, revealing a filthy puddle directly in front of the steps. I could ask the shifters to move the carriage, but I do not. Instead, heavy bag in hand, I hop. My right foot lands dry. My left plunges into cold water, soaking boot and stocking. Tarnation! I would have cleared that a few years ago.
The shifters smirk.
