Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1) Read online

  As our Guild Guardians, the Winters were responsible for “guiding” my family in all major decisions. During the death-rattle days of the Old Kingdom, organized sorcerers - disturbed by the creativity shown by non-magicals during the Industrial Revolution - melted the gates of Buckingham Palace and informed the non-magical monarch that her reign was over, Parliament was a thing of the past, and the Guild was now responsible for standing as Guardians for us helpless regular people.

  The group that would eventually be called the Coven Guild took on the task of “protecting us” from the escalating dangers of our own inventions. While the Guild agreed that developments like machinery and steam-power made life easier, they feared that industrialized non-magicals would eventually create weapons beyond the capabilities of the Guardians’ magic and we would leave them in our common, but lethal, dust. And there was the small problem with non-magicals being unable to go more than a few years without a war.

  Having organized in secret for years, merging all forms of magic, the Guild forces rose up worldwide in any country where there was a government to take over, for what they called The Restoration of Balance. It was an awfully nice way of saying, “Why don’t we just run things for you, whether you like it or not.” Guild forces shredded the Declaration of Independence, the Magna Carta, any document that told non-magical people that they deserved to run their own lives, nations, or technological destinies.

  The governments objected, of course, but it’s hard to fight off an army that can knock buildings to the ground with the wave of their hands. Over time, the world evolved into a more feudal society, where non-magical families were assigned to magical families for employment and supervision. The magical populations created a united government, calling themselves a “Coven Guild of Magical Nations.” The new Capitol city of Lightbourne was located halfway between the former textile district of Lancashire and the now-defunct iron works of Shropshire. The base of political power was moved to the heart of the once-burgeoning manufacturing industries, reducing London to a lovely second-rate town with some pretty buildings and reclaiming the northern land from what the Guild saw as misuse.

  Buckingham Palace was now a museum used to display famous works of Guardian art. From what Mum said, the royal family retreated to somewhere in Wales.

  Non-magical families like us, sometimes called “Snipes” (short for “guttersnipes”) by the members of the upper crust, were assigned supervision from Guild families as our new “Guardians.” We were paid a fair, living wage for our services. The Guardian government wrote laws to protect our health and safety, but the unwritten laws were very clear. We were the servant class and that’s the way it would stay. There was no hope of becoming more.

  The Smiths were fortunate enough to be assigned to the Winters, who had been Guardians to our family almost one hundred years, from generation to generation since the Restoration. Mrs. Winter never paid much attention to us personally, treating us as particularly useful household articles.

  Of course, Mrs. Winter provided the kindnesses expected of our Guardians, new clothes on the day after Yule, food baskets each Sunday. But knowing the special Sunday sugar cookies were given out of obligation made them heavy on my tongue. Mary tended not to worry about these things, so she often ate my share of the sweets.

  “C’mon, mopey,” Mary teased cheerfully, snapping me out of my gloomy thoughts. She gave the parlor mantel a long swipe with her cloth. “Less thinking, more dusting. I don’t want to have to do all of your work today.”

  I frowned. Mary did more work. There was no denying it. I wanted to do more, but my body wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t lift the heavy objet d’art pieces for cleaning or move the bulky chairs to sweep around them. I was just grateful that she didn’t seem to resent me for it. She just smiled, made some silly joke and went about the cleaning. She used the same silly jokes to make me feel better after she’d had to defend me from Deborah Green, a horrible, pock-faced girl from the next block over, who liked to throw mud at me while I read on our stoop. After dragging Deborah away by her braids and tossing her into the gutter, Mary told me that Deborah only called me “horse-face” and “mush-brain” because those were the only names people used for her. And then she’d tell me some joke and we’d go inside for some of Mum’s scotch tablet candy.

  I tried to thank her the only way I knew how, a pretty hair ribbon here, a cough there when she was staring into Owen’s portrait with a particularly moony expression on her face. But I would never be able to make it up to her.

  That morning, I moved about the Winters’ formal parlor in our usual sequence – floorboards, shelves, knickknacks, then tables. The Winter family crest, featured prominently in a marble carving on the mantle, centered on a large raven, frozen mid-lunge against a field of white. It was an homage to the crest of House Mountfort – the larger “mother house” that included the Winter family – which showed a set of golden scales with a raven on one side and an apple on the other. Death and health constantly swinging back and forth, out of balance.

  Winter House Sigil

  It seemed that the theme had inspired Mr. Winter’s father and his father before him to be fascinated by birds, so avian skeletons, eggs, and other specimens were used as part of the décor of the house; the white bone contrasting starkly against expensive black and grey furnishings. The parlor’s icy grey walls with their blinding white trim and dark furniture were just as inviting as the words “formal parlor’ implied in a place called Raven’s Rest. The best black enamel and ivory pieces were kept in this room, where Mrs. Winter greeted important guests and “ladies who lunch.” It was to be kept spotless at all times.

  Mum appeared at the entrance, wordlessly presenting Mary with the fresh arrangements of white freesia and anemones Papa harvested every day from the grounds. Their delicate scent mixed with beeswax and furniture polish, created the familiar perfume of Raven’s Rest. On a normal day, I would find those aromas comforting, but today I was agitated, my thoughts restless and spinning off in a dozen directions.

  More than ever, I resented doing chores that our Guardians’ magic could easily finish. Magical folk wouldn’t dare waste their power on stasis charms that could keep rooms dust-free or floors shiny. Oh, no, they reserved that magic for such vital tasks as wrinkle-cloaking glamours or potions that kept their bodies slim. And it was good for us, Snipes were told, to have work to keep our hands busy. Otherwise, we were prone to dangerous ideas.

  I moved to the antique writing desk, carefully wiping the ink pots free of dust as I heard the double doors slide open to reveal the woman herself. Aneira Winter moved with the sort of serenity that only forty years spent in the top tier of the capitol’s social circles could afford. The pale blue-grey morning gown with its rigidly corseted bodice set off a figure ruthlessly tended with diet and medicinal herbs. (A Winter would never do anything so vulgar as exercise, or even worse, sweat.) Her cornflower blue eyes were as chilly as her smile. Though striking white, her teeth were her only real imperfection. She had a slightly crooked left incisor, something that could have easily been corrected by any Guild healer, but she chose to leave it as is, as if to prove she didn’t need correction.

  I’d once suggested to my mother that Mrs. Winter selected the stark decor to off-set her cool blond beauty, only to receive a smack.

  “Girls,” she sniffed, without bothering to look at either of us. “Running a bit behind schedule today, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mary replied, her tone appropriately reverent. “It’s washing day, so we started a bit late.”

  “Please learn to manage your time more wisely,” Mrs. Winter said, moving to her writing desk, her stiff blue silk skirts rustling.

  I moved quickly, eager to finish and move on to the next room. Mrs. Winter’s discerning eye could mean another hour spent re-cleaning spaces we’d already covered, and I didn’t have the patience to do that with a smile on my face.

  The lady of the house set out her special writing set and sta
tionery, charmed with her signature sword lily scent. This meant Mrs. Winter was about to send a last-minute luncheon invitation to the social chair of some-such charity. I had no doubt this would result in a big benefit party that Mum, Mary and I would have to clean for and cater. I sighed. When the noise attracted Mrs. Winter’s attention, I whipped a dust rag from my apron and took my frustrations out on the baseboards.

  “How are you feeling, Sarah?”

  I turned, looking sharply toward Mrs. Winter. I couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken to me directly. Usually, instructions were filtered through Mum or I was addressed with Mary as a unit, the “girls.” What had I done to catch her notice this morning? I hoped it wasn’t so bad that it was putting a wrinkle in that indomitable brow? Mrs. Winter did not look with favor upon people who put wrinkles in her brow.

  Perhaps I hadn’t managed conceal the burn mark I’d ironed into Mr. Winter’s favorite suit vest as well as I thought.

  Batting down the feelings of panic climbing my spine, I cleared my throat. I slipped my hand into my pocket and found the obsidian. I wrapped my fingers around it, savoring the warmth radiating from its surface. “I’m feeling just fine, thank you, ma’am.”

  “She’s been a little run down, not sleeping well. Real skittish,” Mary reported.

  I shot my sister a warning glare, which she ignored.

  Mrs. Winter gave Mary a flat, disinterested look before turning her attention to me again. She quirked her lips. “Actually, I was going to say that you look rather nice this morning. There’s a bit of color in your cheeks, a sparkle in your eyes.”

  My dark eyebrows swung up to my hairline. Speaking to me was one thing, but Mrs. Winter never paid us compliments, particularly about our appearance. What was happening this morning? Had she seen the incident with the Guardian boy out of a window? Was this some sort of torture to get me to admit I’d damaged a precious Palmer school shirt?

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I mumbled.

  “Well, let’s not let a striking reflection keep us from our chores,” Mrs. Winter sniffed, her head bent over her papers. “Move along.”

  Mary and I nodded and immediately began scrubbing the day’s ashes from the fireplace. Mrs. Winter abhorred the task and the residual soot that might make its way onto her clothes, so she finished her letter quickly and swept from the parlor. My sister and I breathed a sigh of relief, though Mary’s bottom lip poked out ever so slightly.

  “What was all that about you being pretty?” Mary asked, pouting a bit.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered, glancing at the beveled glass over the mantle. I looked the same as I always did, a thin girl with a long nose and too-large eyes of an indiscriminate blue-grey-green. My dull brown hair was pulled into its usual sensible knot at the base of my neck. The only difference was a rosy blush on my cheeks, probably from the agitation of being trampled by an attractive Guardian boy.

  I moved to the mantle, carefully removing a large antique Chinese vase from the ledge. Rare true-black porcelain painted with white chrysanthemums, it was a wedding gift from Mrs. Winter’s favorite aunt. Leaving it on the mantle while the ashes floated around was asking for trouble. Of all of the objects in this room, this was the one we had to handle the most carefully. Of all the precious items in the house, this was the only item Mary insisted that I handle, because I was less likely to be punished if something happened to it.

  I tried to think of something to give Mary that would sweeten her blackening mood. She wouldn’t want my books. She had no use for my dresses, since they were her remade hand-me-downs. Maybe she’d want my blue scarf? It was a Yule gift, and the one nice thing I used to make my Sunday dresses special. It would also bring out the almost-violet color of Mary’s eyes.

  Hang it all, I would miss that scarf.

  “In all the years we’ve been here, she’s never once told me that I was pretty. But she’s full of compliments for you? The apothecary must have mixed her tonics wrong,” Mary mumbled as I placed the vase on the desk.

  I shushed her, knowing that I would have to give Mary my scarf and my share of Sunday sweets to balm her wounded pride. Mum had tried to explain Mary’s ever-shifting moods as a consequence of my sister growing up, becoming a woman. All I knew was that growing up seemed to mean outgrowing me. She didn’t have time for my “little girl games” anymore. She wanted to be out with her friends, finding new ways to braid their hair or tricks to catch the attention of the boys they liked. I told Mary this seemed like a pointless hobby, since their marriages were to be arranged, but Mary sniffed that I would never understand.

  These outings with her friends seemed to have spurred Mary on to her less-than-subtle attentions toward Owen. A secret part of me that I would never discuss, not even with Mum, was embarrassed by this new side to Mary. I didn’t want to grow up if it meant making a fool of myself over a boy, pinching my face to put color in my cheeks and stuffing cotton wadding in the front of my dress. My “little girl games” might have been babyish, but they didn’t hurt anybody. If Mrs. Winter got too annoyed by Mary’s ploys, we could be dismissed. We could end up working for another Guardian family far less distantly tolerant than the Winters. Mary was putting us all at risk.

  I sighed, tightening the strings of the hand-me-down apron around my waist. I would have to visit the ribbon shop on the way home to pull her out of this mood. There went my contraband book budget.

  Shaking my head, I forced myself to focus on my task. Mary whisked the ashes from the room before they could settle on any of the furniture. I carefully wiped my hands on my apron before wrapping my fingers around the neck of the vase and placing it on the mantle. Slowly, I told myself. Slowly draw your hands away from the porcelain so you don’t bump it, like playing pick-up sticks. Steady hands.

  And suddenly Mrs. Winter appeared at my left, tapping my shoulder. “Sarah, I meant to ask you-”

  I shrieked, jumping back. My fingertips slipped against the cool, slick surface of the vase as it teetered on the mantle. I watched in horror as it wobbled on the whitewashed wood, then toppled over. I grabbed for the falling porcelain, but it slipped through my fingers, bouncing off of my hands in its descent to the floor. I dropped to my knees, hands grasping at thin air, hoping to reach under the falling heirloom before it hit the floor.

  I closed my eyes, imagining the vase reversing mid-air and floating back up into place on the mantle. I prayed, Oh, please, no. Not her favorite. Not that vase. Please don’t let it fall. Please. Please. Please don’t let it fall!

  I could feel my will, every cell inside my body, reach outward in a rippling wave.

  I waited, but the vase never hit my hands. There was no telltale crash, no angry cry from Mrs. Winter.

  Where was the crash?

  I opened my eyes to see the vase hovering there, a good six inches above my hands, spinning in mid-air like a top. My whole body seemed to flex and contract at once, as if I’d never used my muscles properly and this was their first opportunity to stretch. My fingertips warmed and tingled pleasantly as I stared at the circling object.

  Mrs. Winter was kneeling on the floor in front of me, rumpling her dress terribly as she watched the vase orbit. She must have wanted to save it badly if she was willing to abuse her clothes like that. The vase bobbed, rising slightly as it spun. Somehow, I could feel the change in my head, as if there were some invisible tether from the porcelain to my brain. I knew exactly how much force and pressure it took to keep the vase afloat. I knew exactly how many times it was rotating per minute and how far it could drop before it hit the floor.

  The very idea made me panic and the vase rotated higher, turning at Mrs. Winter’s eye level.

  “Are you doing this?” I whispered.

  “No, dear, you are doing this.” She studied me, her expression calculating as we watched the vase turn. There was a strange gleam to her eyes that I’d never seen before. Excitement. I’d seen Mrs. Winter pleased with her latest anniversary bauble. I’d seen her triumphant
over eliminating a social rival from her ladies’ club. However, my Guardian didn’t feel undignified emotions like excitement or happiness.

  My breath quickened and the vase dropped, right into Mrs. Winter’s waiting hands. My head dipped to my chest. The string of tension keeping my body upright snapped and I sagged toward the floor.

  “Yes, all right.” Mrs. Winter clucked her tongue, setting the vase aside. She pulled me to my feet by my elbows and led me to the couch. I almost protested that I wasn’t allowed to sit on the parlor furniture, but I was just too tired. I collapsed against the silk upholstery, leaning my head against the arm. It felt wonderfully cool against my clammy skin.

  “It is always like that the first time,” she assured me.

  “First time doing what?” I asked weakly.

  “No, no, my dear, no false modesty. I think you know that you were making the vase float,” she said, arranging her skirts around both of us as she sat next to me.

  My eyes went wide. What she was saying was impossible. Snipes did not have magic. We were missing the blood properties that made our Guardians so superior. And Snipes did not suddenly just become magical. So how could I make that heavy vase float like a misbehaving bubble?

  Through the fatigue settling into my limbs, I could feel cold piercing dread. This went beyond burnt shirts or broken vases. I didn’t want to know what the Guild would do to me for this.

  Mrs. Winter patted my numb hands and gave me a frosty smile that made my stomach turn. “Let’s have a chat, you and I.”