“And the spring flora,” she chirped. “I am so glad you came today. We’re leaving for the country next week, you know.”
Yes, he was keenly aware most of the city’s wealthy would be relocating soon – and taking their wages with them.
He continued smiling.
“I know it’s so vulgar to talk about money,” she said, her bejeweled dress glistening in the sunlight as she readjusted her knees. “But I do of course have the promised sum prepared.”
She gestured at a side table, where a pleasantly fat black velvet purse awaited. So did a hand mirror. She lifted the mirror and admired her brown eyes, one of her only features yet unaltered. A note of apprehension crept into her voice, but she did not allow a wrinkle to cross her smooth forehead. “It is a difficult spell, you said?”
“It is, but not outside my capability,” he assured her. He pulled his kit from his satchel. “But as with any spell upon the eye, I will remind you of the risk of blindness. Nothing I can’t fix within a minute or two, but it could be uncomfortable.”
“Beauty is pain,” she said bravely. “And Nicolette has just had her eyes turned sky blue and wantseveryoneto know she thinks she’s quite fashionable. She’llfaintwhen she sees mine.”
Nicolette. The name rankled him before he remembered why: Nicolette Herceg, a countess, and one of David’s frequent clients.
He drew a breath. “You’ll be more beautiful than the spring herself.”
Without further ado, or chatting, he hoped, he removed the necessary components from his kit. A petri dish, a vial of distilled water, a glass eyedropper. Last, his pen.
It was a handsome tool. Made of gold and glass, etched with fine filigree, as dangerous as it was delightful. Most of his clients asked to examine it before he began. In order to keep their references, he could not refuse his clients much; but this, he steadfastly forbade. If a regular fountain pen was temperamental, this one must be handled with the delicacy of the rarest feather. Never mind the risk of a malfunction while spelling; he simply couldn’t afford to replace it.
Abigail had seen it – and been denied the pleasure of handling it – frequently enough that she no longer asked.
He uncapped the pen, exposing the gleaming point of the solid gold nib, sharp as a lancing knife. His thumb slid down the lever on the underside until it clicked into place, switching the nib for a needle.
The next steps came without thinking. Roll up his sleeve, tourniquet his upper arm, expose the soft inside of his elbow. Dab the cotton in alcohol, feel the cold press against his skin, careful not to wince if the bruise was still fresh. Clients did not like to see a spellscribe wince. Unscrew the end cap, revealing the plunger. Find a vein not recently punctured. Hitch his breath.
Insert the needle into his still bruised skin. Draw. Slow, and even. Spellscribes needed steady hands for more than writing.
As usual, Abigail watched, eyes wide, as the glass chamber of the pen slowly filled with his wine-red blood. Many clients avoided watching this part, or even demanded he do it in another room. For her, it never lost its macabre glory. Though she was prim and pampered as a pastry, Sy suspected watching him gore himself was part of the thrill for her.
The parakeet chirped noisily, its wings flapping uselessly against the bars of the pearlescent cage, but he ignored it,focused on the slowly rising tide of blood. There was no point in filling the barrel completely; he wouldn’t use it all before it began to coagulate, rendering it useless. Still, he needed enough to allow the blood to stay fresh and red as long as possible, enough to force the blood through the nib. Enough to allow for mistakes. Part of the reason he never made them – he always accounted for them.
After wrapping his arm, he clicked the slider and dislodged the needle before sliding it back up, replacing the nib.
He released a breath, and glanced up at Abigail, her brown eyes still wide.
Next, he removed a scrap of calfskin vellum, the finest writing material money could buy, usually reserved for religious and legal documents. Any paper would do; in his academy days, after a late night punctuated with too much brandy and an ill-considered nose reshaping, he’d even seen a successful spell written on an old newspaper used to wrap fried fish. But vellum was the most effective, and more importantly, impressive. Most of his work – the kind that paid well – was in the aesthetic.
He placed his mahogany drawing board on his lap. Secured the vellum in the silver clip.
Then, slowly but deftly, careful not to miss a stroke, he began to write the spell.
A smudge, a single stray, hair-thin scratch, one stroke out of order, could end in her eyes turned purple, or bloodshot, or inside out. He penned each glyph, shining red, one over the other, meticulous.Change,eye,color,pink. Cherry blossom. Like a petal in his palm.
It was delicate, intricate work. When it was finished, it would look identical to any paraglyph that any properly trained scribe had crafted. But there was an art to it, as well, something that couldn’t be taught. Something in the crafting of it that produced a finer result. Whatever it was, Sy had it. It was why Duchess Abigail made such demands on him. It was how someone from his upbringing had become a scribe in the first place.
When it was finished, he inspected it for mistakes. Satisfied, he set the paper in the petri dish. Last, the finishing touch, one final piece of himself: his breath.
As he blew on it, the vellum disintegrated. In its place, the dish filled with a sparkling crimson dust, like pummeled rubies, or sugar dyed with crushed strawberries.
For something like hair, or skin, he would simply brush the spell upon the surface, make a paste if necessary. For an internal fix, it could be consumed in a tea.
For her eyes, the most effective means was a dropper. He poured the vial of distilled water into the dish, mixing it with the dust, making it nearly liquid again. He dipped in the eye dropper, squeezing and sucking up what once was his blood, what was now magic.
He brandished it, regarding the duchess, her brown eyes still wide and fixed on the red liquid. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, then tilted back her head.
