“The Opera Toad!” Father chuckled, popping a lemon drop into his mouth. “Councillor Vane’s prize familiar. The thing had prepared an aria for the opening ceremonies. It opened its mouth to belt out the high note, and—“ He snapped his fingers. “Soundless. Just a toad, puffing its cheeks out in total silence, turning purple with the effort.”
“I was scared!” I defended myself, though a reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. “It was loud and it had creepy eyes.”
“And half the town thought the toad had been struck dumb by the gods for vanity,” Father laughed. “We had to rush you home and give you warm milk until you let the poor thing croakagain. Vane never knew it was you. He thought his toad had stage fright.” His laughter faded gently, replaced by a serious look. He patted my cheek.
“We hid you because they wouldn’t understand, Lysa. Because people fear what can stop them from being heard. But look at this place.” He gestured to the well-stocked shop, the warm light, the safety Fenrik’s money had bought. “You did good, my spark. You saved us. Now, let’s make sure we ... stay quiet about how.”
The bell above the door jangled again, but this time it was a frantic rattle. Maren Brightwillow swept into the infirmary like a gale force wind wrapped in bright purple silk. She carried the scent of bergamot, roasted neber-beans, and the ominous look of impending judgment.
“Out,” she pointed a finger at my father, then at Briony. “Both of you. Go count stock in the shed. Or alphabetize the leeches. I don’t care.”
Father blinked, a half-eaten lemon drop visible between his teeth. “But Maren, we were celebrating Lysa’s ...”
“If you finish that sentence with ‘triumphant return,’ I will put a Weeping-Willow curse in your morning brew,” Maren threatened, bustling past him to slam a basket of muffins onto the counter. “The girl looks like she’s been chewed on by a mood-drake and spat out for being too tart. Scram.”
Father and Briony, recognizing the authority of the town’s premier Brewworker, scrambled for the back door. The latch clicked, leaving me alone with my best friend. She didn’t hugme. like I hoped she would, she leaned across the counter, her dark eyes narrowing until they were dangerous little slits.
“You’re home early,” she said. “And you’re hiding your hands in your sleeves. Let me see them.”
“I’m fine, Maren.”
“Bullshit,” she said. She reached out, snatched my wrist, and yanked my hand into the light. She hissed at the sight of the frost-burns around my fingernails and the lingering tremors. “Look at that. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s magical backlash. Did the shiny lord try to eat you?”
“No,” I pulled my hand back, rubbing the ache. “He... we weren’t compatible. My magic makes his worse. I was feeding the curse, Maren. I had to leave.”
Maren stared at me for a long moment, then she let out a sharp bark of laughter that startled a sleeping newt in a tank nearby.
“Incompatible,” she repeated, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “And let me guess who told you that? The woman who smiles like she’s trying to sell you a bridge over a dry river? Lady ‘I-Use-Veil-Magic-To-Hide-My-Wrinkles’ Morvain?”
“She’s an expert,” I said, feeling small again. “And my gift... you know what people say. It’s unnatural. It silences things. It’s violent.”
Maren sighed. She hopped up firmly onto the stool Father had vacated, smoothing her skirts.
“Sit down, girl. You need a history lesson before you wallow yourself into a puddle.”
“I don’t need a lesson, I need—“
“Sit.”
I sat.
“People in this town have memories shorter than a pixie’s attention span,” Maren began, snagging a muffin from her basket and breaking it open. Steam curled up, smelling of spiced pumpkin. “They call your gift ‘Quieting’ like it’s a bad thing. Like it’s strangulation. But three hundred years ago, before the Council decided to tax magic by the decibel, people like you weren’t called Silencers. They were calledSpirit-Healers.”
She popped a piece of muffin into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“Back then, magic was wilder. Less domestic. You’d have dragons screaming fire at the moon and ley-lines throwing tantrums that could level a village. Regular mages? They just added to the noise. Trying to out-shout a thunderstorm. Useless.”
She pointed a crumb-dusted finger at me.
“But the Spirit-Healers... they didn’t shout. They were the Arcane Anchors. The folklore says they could walk into a hurricane and find the one silent note in the center of the wind, grab it, and pull the whole mess into harmony.”
“Harmony?” I frowned. “It feels like I’m forcing them to stop. Like I’m smothering the flame.”
“That’s because you’ve been taught by cowards who are afraid of the dark,” Maren said dismissively. She must have beenaware it was my father who’d taught me. And the Adacemy, if I were to be completely honest.
“Think of a choir, Lysa. If everyone is screaming at the top of their lungs, it’s just noise. A headache. The Spirit-Healer isn’t the one taping their mouths shut. She’s the conductor lowering her baton. She doesn’t kill the music, she creates therest, the silence between the notes that makes the song bearable.“ She leaned forward, her expression softening.
“The old texts say the Spirit-Healers were the only ones who could bond with the Great Beasts without going mad, because they didn’t fight the creature’s power. They created a space big enough for it to exist without burning the house down.”
