Pausing at the door, I peek back at the happy couple. The spark remains, lighting both their faces as they lean close, whispering. After a moment, the woman glances in my direction, raising her eyebrow. I jump, almost colliding with the doorframe in my rush to escape. My face burns, shame and envy winding tightly around my ribs.
Someday, I tell myself, hoping to relieve the ache. And today is the first step. It may be along my father’s path, but it’s still my first taste of freedom from a life sequestered in solitary study. A chance to finally connect with others.
I shiver as I step out of the inn, my linen blouse a poor shield against winter’s bite. Our two carriages await on the lone dirt road of this small town—simply another stop on the three-day journey to the Arandur Academy of Incantation. Eunice, my mother’s maid, holds out my coat. I slide my arms into it while my father helps Mom into our family carriage, then she steps in front of me to help with buttoning.
“How’s the journey been for you?” I ask. It seems better than discussing the weather.
“Comfortable enough, Miss.”
“Was your room warm? Mine was a bit nippy.” I cringe as the words leave my mouth.So much for steering clear of the temperature.
She glances at the handsome footman loading the last of our luggage, then turns back to me, a smile tugging at her lips. “Warm enough, Miss.”
Lucky her.
A snap pierces the air, and one of the horses tosses its head with an irritated whinny. The trace connecting it to the servants’ carriage dangles at its side. It’s nothing I can help with—even if incanting weren’t outlawed, it can’t fix torn leather.
“What a way to start the day,” Eunice murmurs. When I can’t think of a response, she brushes a speck of lint from my sleeve. “I’m sure they’ll resolve it in no time, Miss.” Then she steps back, no doubt hoping to avoid any further conversation.
So I stand there, nibbling the remains of my toast while my father exchanges words with the coachman. Just as I’m finishing, he heads over.
“We’ll move your bag and go on without them,” he says, offering his arm. He leads me to our carriage, where I sit on the bench opposite him and Mom.
A sigh escapes me as I peer out the window.Only four bells to go.I lean back, closing my eyes while my parents’ voices drone to the sway of the carriage. Before I know it, something presses against my knee.
“We’ve arrived,” Mom says, pulling her fingers away.
Rubbing my eyes, I peek out the window, then at my father. “Can you stay here?” I ask. “Please?”
“Of course not. I’m to speak before the exams.”
“You can head over separately, Hiram,” Mom says. “She doesn’t need everyone to witness her arriving with the High Marshal.”
Wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as he considers me. My mother often speaks of how they sparkled like the sea when she first met him, but all I’ve ever known is the gray of an impending storm.
His lips tighten beneath his mustache, and he nods. “Very well.” But before relief can wash over me, he plants his hand heavily on my shoulder. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I’m proud of the woman you’ve become.”
It’s the closest he’ll get to ‘I love you.’
My fingers clench in my lap—I can’t sit in this carriage any longer. “I won’t let you down,” I say, hoping it’s enough. Unless the fae renew the wars, the only way I’ll be able to secure my place as his successor is through skill and fortitude miles beyond anyone else.
After a torturous moment of searching my face, Father knocks on the carriage door. It pops open, the footman extending his hand.
With a deep exhale, I step out to face my new life.
Beyond the crowd buzzing with excited faces, my gaze lands on the rectangular building looming before me, tracing the sharp edges of bricks whose color has long since faded. It’s one of many similarly drab structures in this ocean of dirt that looks more like ash, where not even a single blade of grass can survive the drain of constant incanting. Wooden window frames and decorative tiles form uniform rows on its facade, all in dispiriting shades of gray.
Mom steps out beside me, overdressed in her bright, rose-colored skirt and matching jacket. She exchanges some words with the footman, who hands me my bag—it holds only the bare essentials, save my sketchbook. No one brings any prized possessions here, as their vibrancy would slowly dull to nothing. Leaving my paints behind had gutted me.
With a sharp crack of a whip, wheels creak and the carriage rolls away, taking Father to wherever the exams will occur.
Almost free.
I pull my coat tight, seeking warmth against the cold that might as well be emanating from the building itself. “I knew they started term in the winter to ease the transition, but this…” I meet Mom’s gaze. “This is bleak.”
She bites her lip. “Perhaps that’s why they allow students to visit the village so often,” she offers.
The village. Right.
