“Take care of him,” I said.
I grabbed my bag and stepped into the fog before the house could slam the door on me again. The door moved sluggishly, fighting the hinges, as if the wood itself was reluctant to sever the connection. Through the narrowing gap, I looked back one last time. Past Mrs. Crane, Kelda stood on the grand staircase. As the door reached the final inch of its arc, she looked at me. Her eyes met mine through the crack, and a slow smile spread across her face. She turned around. The latch clicked.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the fog. “I’m so sorry.” I forced my feet to move down the winding path, away from the cliffs, away from the silver veins of magic and the golden hope I had been foolish enough to believe in.
The walk was a blur of misery until the cobblestones of Abberwyn rose up to meet me. The town was exactly as it’s always been, beautiful in its normalcy. It lay nestled in the valley’s cupped palms, split by the Silver River that rushed under the arched stone bridges. Even through my grief, the magic of theplace washed over me, not the jagged, volatile power of the manor, but the soft, domestic hum of Hush Magic.
The air smelled of roasting coffee and chamomile, wafting from The Drifting Teapot where the dragon baristas would be heating water to the precise temperature for mending a broken mood. The shop windows glowed, displaying self-stirring cauldrons and heavy woolen cloaks woven with warmth-charms. It was a town built on comfort, on the ancient tea alchemy that healed the spirit and the Hearthcraft that kept the rain from chilling the bones. A young book-dragon perched on the gutter of the Rainmint Bookshop, gnawing contentedly on a discarded pamphlet, its scales flashing copper in the lamplight. It was safe. It was home. It was everything I was supposed to want.
And it felt suffocatingly small. I kept my head down, avoiding the gaze of the townsfolk who moved with easy steps. I didn’t want them to see the smudge on my face or the tears that must surely be lingering in my eyes. I navigated the familiar twisting streets until the sign ofEmberlin’s Infirmary for Arcane Beastscreaked above me.
I pushed open the door. The bell chimed, a bright, cheerful sound.
“Lysa?”
Briony appeared from the back room, a bundle of dried lavender in her hands. She wore a dress of soft yellow linen, her auburn braid messy in the way beautiful girls could get away with. Her green eyes widened as she took in myappearance—my wet hair, the mud on my boots, the canvas bag dropped carelessly on the floorboards.
“Oh,” she breathed, rushing toward me. “Oh, Lysa. You’re back.”
I opened my mouth to tell her I was fine. Instead, my knees gave out, and I collapsed into my little sister’s arms, sobbing for the monster I had left.
After I stopped crying, I sat on a sturdy new stool, not the wobbly one that threatened to pinch my backside every ten minutes, and stared at the crates stacked against the wall.Star-glass vials. Imported sun-root. A delivery of dragon-friendly bandages that cost more than our food budget for a year.
“He kept his word,” Briony said, leaning against the counter. “The final draft cleared the bank this morning. We’re safe, Lysa. Actually, properly safe.”
“I broke the contract,” I said. “I ran away.”
“Yes but he loves you!” Briony sighed.
“How could you possibly know that? He is the one who sent me away, Briony.”
“That’s exactly what the hero does inThe Knight of the Hollow Hill,“ she countered, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s practically a requirement for tragic devotion. Besides, Mrs. Higgins at the bakery says the Stormgardes aren’t human anyway. She says they made a pact with the earth-gods under the cliffs. That they have hearts of stone that only beat once every hundred years.”
I snorted, despite the misery clogging my throat. “Mrs. Higgins thinks her cat is a reincarnated duke.”
“And Old Man Miller says they’re vampires,” Briony continued, clearly enjoying the grim folklore. “That they feed on magic. But that’s why it’s perfect! You’re the only one with magic strong enough to survive it. Do you know how rare you are? I checked the town archives. Besides you and Mother, there’s beenoneother mention of a Quieting gift in the last two centuries. A hermit woman who lived in the Dragontooth Caves. They say she could silence a thunderstorm by looking at the clouds.“Briony’s eyes sparkled. “You’re practically legend-born, Lysa. You’re meant to be part of a myth.”
“I’m meant to be sorting Valerian root,” I said, sliding off the stool. “And not being fed upon by vampires, metaphorical or otherwise.”
The bell above the door chimed again, and Father bustled in from the back garden. He was humming a tuneless, rambling melody, his arms full of fresh sage.
“Ah, there she is!” He dropped the sage on the counter, sending up a cloud of fragrant dust. “My dear, have you seen the new pestle? Solid granite. You could knock out a troll with it. Not that we treat trolls. Terrible insurance policies, trolls.” He bustled over and squeezed my shoulder, his touch warm and smelling of soil. It was so cozy, so normal, it made my eyes sting.
“Dad,” I said, “we need to talk about the contract. About Fenrik.”
“We need to talk about the Council,” he corrected, though he smiled as he said it, rummaging through a drawer. “Councillor Vane stopped by. Very stiff collar, that man. He was asking about your... sabbatical.”
“My sabbatical.”
“He was concerned about unregistered magical variances,” Father said, triumphantly pulling out a bag of lemon drops. He offered me one. “I told him you were visiting an aunt in the capital. He seemed suspicious, but then, Vane is suspicious of his own shadow. He asked if you were still... ‘active’.”
I took the candy. “You mean dangerous.”
“I meanloudin your silence,“ Father winked. “We hid it well, didn’t we? All those years. Do you remember the Summer Solstice festival when you were seven?”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Please don’t.”
Briony giggled. “The Opera Toad.”
