3
impressions
A thick concoction bubbled and popped in the small cauldron before her with the pulse of an agitated heart. Sera sighed and pushed her grimoire away. If only she could dip her head into the Rhodonite potion instead of listening to Mrs. Aguirre drone on. Of all Aether-level courses, Mysteries of the Mind was her favorite, but after last night, her concentration splintered between class and Barrington’s spell burning a hole in her inner mantle pocket.
Even worse, thinking over the rather odd visit with Barrington had chased away all sleep, and come morning she still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened. When he could have expelled her and burned her wand for using wandless magic, he’d instead asked her to be his assistant—in dealing with murder, of all things. Need, he had said. But… Sera settled back. What need could be so great that he would seek her out? And above all, why her?
Mrs. Aguirre set down her large wooden spoon on her workbench and picked up a vial of Rhodonite crystals. The round, silver-haired woman then turned to the class. “If everyone would please pour the contents of your vials into your spell dishes. What I am about to show you is an alternate method to the potion we’ve brewed.”
Sera twisted the cork off the narrow tube and sprinkled the pink dust into the black dish on her worktable. A hairline crack ran the length of the dish, but without any funds, she had been unable to secure a new one.
“If at any time your patient cannot drink the Rhodonite elixir and gives you permission to access their memories, you can always sprinkle the crystals on their forehead as you’ve done on the dish,” she said, her tone an excited, secretive whisper. “If they are completely unconscious, chances are it will not work. But if they show the slightest bit of consciousness—even if just a murmur—you can appeal to them, as their spirits can still hear you. They can then allow you entry into their minds where you can uncover whatever it is they’re unable to tell you due to injury or illness.”
Sera made a mental note to research the method later on, when she could think beyond Barrington’s spell. Perhaps she could use Rhodonite crystals to summon some of her own memories? It was worth a try. Aetherium doctors could have attempted it, but who would waste precious resources on a seventhborn?
Images flitted through her mind of that terrible night she was rescued two years ago. Of those Aetherium doctors in their stark white robes who poked and prodded her with their wands to heal her cuts, not caring that they inflicted pain themselves.
Still, the pain they caused had been nothing compared to…him, and the cruelty he’d inflicted on her for a year. Though she had not one memory of her life or her family when he’d found her, he’d taken her under his wing and given her a place beside him. He became her everything, the only person she trusted. But then she learned he was no person. He was a monster. A knot jammed firmly in her throat. She didn’t need Rhodonite crystals to remember his viciousness. She bore the proof of it on her skin. But Sera shook her head. She wouldn’t think of him. He was dead, and she was free. As free as a seventhborn could ever be.
Mrs. Aguirre circled the much larger cauldron dominating the front of the room, her black skirts dragging behind her. With the vial of pink crystals in hand, she motioned the proper application along her forehead. “You sprinkle the crystals on their brow just as you’ve done in your dishes. If some spills off the side, that’s fine. All that matters is proximity to the mind. Then, with your wand, slowly ease out your magic. This will ignite the crystals, and if you’ve acquired their permission, their memories will linger in the smoke. But I stress, this requires a great deal of skill and will work only with permission. Also keep in mind that any information recovered in these sessions is confidential. Betrayal of this trust could cost you your wand.” She lowered her hands. “Now, set your wands above the dust and feed your magic out slowly, covering the crystals…”
Sera drew out her wand and held it over the dish, her magic already racing within her. Magic manipulation was part of Water-level courses during the first year of schooling—a year she missed entirely, along with Earth levels, which made this class all the more taxing, considering half was dedicated to brewing potions. Still, she took a calming breath and imagined her magic as a spinning reel, a tip from Mary to help Sera control her vast reserve of magic. She envisioned herself winding it back…back…back…until it stopped.
She hissed. Denying its release forced her magic to gather in her fingertips. Her hands burned and trembled under the strain, and sweat sprouted at the back of her neck.
“Remember, slowly,” Mrs. Aguirre echoed, pacing through the rows and nodding in satisfaction. “Not all birds soar on their first try.”
Sera winced. Mrs. Aguirre had meant it to be kind, but of all the words she chose to say… Sera shut her eyes tightly against the memories threatening to surface. This was not the time.
Sera, Sera in a cage…
No, she wouldn’t think of him.
She focused on her mound of Rhodonite crystals and thought of her magic as a small stream, trickling from her fingertips. A cloud of red smoke seeped from the tip of her wand.
Sera, Sera wants to fly…
Her magic rattled for release, but clenching her teeth, she held it back.
But her pretty wings are broken…
Refusing her powers burned her fingers. The heat then swept up her arms and into her head like claws biting into her skull. But she had to hold it a little…bit…longer…
Mrs. Aguirre drew closer.
A little longer…
Look at her fall from the sky…
Sera cried out, the pressure in her temples feeling as if it might crack her head in two. Magic burst to her fingers, hot and burning. Fire flared from the tip of her wand like a torch and consumed the dish and crystals. The force thrust the wand from her hand.
Mrs. Aguirre rushed beside her and whirled a hand over the dish. “Extinguish!”
The flames died with a hiss. Curls of thick, gray smoke swiveled from the Rhodonite crystals, now black instead of pink. The class grew quiet, but Sera’s pulse beat wildly in her ears.
Mrs. Aguirre stared at her, her ochre complexion deepening, her brown eyes wide behind her glasses.
“I…” Sera started, but struggled through the smoke and memories clenching her throat.
She snatched up her wand and rushed out of class, hurrying back to her room in the tower. Kicking the door to her room closed behind her, she slid to the floor, her maroon skirt spread around her like a pool of blood. Folding her legs to her chest, she bumped her forehead against her knees. If only it could dislodge the stupid, stupid memories. He was dead. He couldn’t hurt her anymore…
And yet, here she was once again.
Fumbling with her cloak, she pulled Barrington’s spell from the safety of her mantle’s inner pocket and set it before her. These ciphers—this spell was all that mattered. Her memories wouldn’t ruin this.
When it was time to see Barrington, Sera dragged herself to her feet, paced the room, and eyed the page. There was a circle with symbols along the border of the shape, a few she could decipher as a basic protection spell. On the outside rim of the circle were the coordinate ciphers of Barrington’s location. The character in the middle of the circle, however, she had never seen before. When they studied elementary transfer spells during Air-level courses—moving simple objects like onions and radishes—there wasn’t ever anything written inside the protection circle.
She hefted a sigh. The transfer spell was not going to draw itself. Eventually she would not need to draw or speak the spell, once she memorized it and could focus enough to spark the spell with her mind. In the meantime, she grabbed a stick of red chalk, flipped aside the corner of the rug by the window, and knelt. Then she drew a circle around her. The next few minutes were spent copying Professor Barrington’s words onto the floor, checking and rechecking his atrocious letters against her finished diagram. The last thing she needed was to end up in the wrong place.
The spell perfect, she set down the chalk and wiped her hands on her skirt. Standing in the center of the circle, she drew her wand.
Her breaths grew shallow, her insides jittery. It had been ages since she’d transferred, the last time being when she was brought to the school, but she remembered the nauseating suction and drop sensation she’d felt in her stomach. Comingled with the fact that she was about to see Professor Barrington again, bile rushed into her throat.
Don’t be stupid, Sera, she chastised herself, swallowing down the bitterness. She wasn’t going to meet any danger at his hand…was she?
She steeled her spine and closed her eyes. Perhaps he was dangerous, perhaps not. But cowardice would get her nowhere, most definitely not into the Aetherium School of Continuing Magic. She tightened her hold on her wand and closed her eyes. Should Barrington have any ill will, she’d fight like hell to live, just as she’d done before.
“Ignite,” she whispered.
Ready for the plummet she remembered, she drew in a breath. A moment passed, when…nothing.
She exhaled and snapped her eyes open. That wasn’t right.
Brushing back to her work desk, she reviewed the spell, then her rendering on the floor. Everything matched.
When Madame Rousseau had done it, she had lit candles, though that had all been to help them focus. Barrington’s spell didn’t call for candles. Whatever the case, Sera set out to gather what candles she could. Of all the Air-level courses, transfer spells were not her forte, but tonight that spell was going to get her to Barrington even if she had to dig her way out with a spoon!
She positioned candles around the circle and, with a quick snap, lit a fire at their wicks.
Back at the center of the diagram, she closed her eyes and flicked her wand. “Ignite.”
Nothing.
Sera grunted and stomped her foot. The candles had been lit, the protection circle drawn, and the coordinates were right. “Why isn’t it working?”
She paced away from the circle. Had Barrington made a mistake? Had she?
Thrusting the page aside, she gripped her hair and dissolved the loose bun into a mass of curls. Her fingers brushed against a small cut on her scalp from Whittaker’s mistake, and she paused.
Or could it be that Barrington was making fun of her?
She dropped her hands from her hair, a tumble of curls cascading onto her shoulders. Had she been deceived once more?
Perhaps they should’ve added masochistic tendencies to your file as well.
“Of course,” she whispered. It made perfect sense. No wonder he had chosen her. He didn’t need an assistant. He thought her a simpleminded, desperate seventhborn there for his own amusement.
Fists clenched and her pulse loud in her ears, she looked to the page, then to the perfectly drawn transfer spell. Every symbol was the same, down to the small curvature of his squares. But of course it didn’t work. He meant to make a fool out of her. He was probably in his office, laughing at her pathetic efforts. Oh, she should’ve known better than to believe him.
“That good for nothing…” She crumpled the spell and threw it to the floor. “Despicable cur!”
She aimed her wand and blasted the sheet. The bolt ricocheted from the paper and sent it floating about the room. Sera lowered her wand, her eyes narrowed. Why on earth would Barrington proof a sheet of paper against an attack? Unless…
“You were expecting me to get angry, weren’t you, Professor? You think you know me so well? I’ll teach you. Get back here, you dratted sheet!”
She targeted the spell once more. A bolt of light flashed from the tip of her wand. The paper swiveled from its path, and the bolt crashed against the Aetherium crest over her bed. “Damn!”
Sera blasted freely at the page, angered more with each failed attempt. She chased it until blinded by the smoke filling the room. Until falling onto her knees, weary, spell books and vials scattered about her.
The room blurred in her eyes. As with every time she lost her temper, she would now have to clean up the mess. Slumping down onto the protection circle, surrounded by symbols, extinguished candles, and her self-pity, she curled into herself as the drain of magic settled in her bones, and her body grew cold, her reserve depleted. She would clean up later. For now, she would rest. No one would come. Everyone was used to her fits of rage…
But not to the tears that fell from her eyes as fatigue dragged her to sleep.
…
Sera woke with a start, the pull on her magic tight at her core. She pressed her hands down as the world righted itself before her eyes. Hardwood floors stretched beneath her just like in her room, but this ceiling of painted elemental signs was not hers. She rolled over and sat up. Neither was this room.
There was a large desk and behind it a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Along the adjacent wall were more bookcases, only these reached mid-wall, where three arched windows covered by thick maroon curtains dominated the rest of the space. Behind her was a fireplace, and displayed prominently atop it was a painting of two young boys, twins, dressed in dated fashions. Both had striking gray eyes…
Her jaw clenched, as did her fists. “Barrington.”
A gasp resounded behind her. Sera stood and spun to face a short, older woman. Puffed white hair peeked out from beneath her white cap.
The woman dropped the folded linens she’d been carrying and drew her wand from her apron pocket. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Sera raised her hands in surrender. “I mean no harm.”
The woman jumped back. “Drop your wand this instant!”
“But I—”
“I said drop your wand!”
Sera loosened her grip on the wand and let it tumble to the floor.
“Now kick it here.” The woman inched into the room, her wand pointed at Sera. “You chose the wrong home to steal from.”
“I’m not here to steal, I came to—”
“Kick your wand this way!”
“What on earth is this commotion? Oh.” Barrington appeared at the doorway, an apple in hand. He wore a white shirt, silver brocade waistcoat, and black pants, and looked much younger when not cloaked in his black professorial robe.
He leaned against the doorframe, his feet crossed at his ankles. “Miss Dovetail, you made it.”
“Miss Dovetail?” The older woman looked at her, blue eyes wide. “You mean…you mean you know her?”
“Yes, yes. Put down your wand, Rosie. All is well. I was expecting Miss Dovetail, only…” He slid out his watch from his vest pocket and flicked it open. “It took her longer than I expected.”
Sera’s cheeks burned, and she eyed her wand. Rosie might blast her, but if she were quick enough, maybe she could strike him first. It would be worth the pain.
Pushing off the doorframe, he passed the quavering woman and entered the room.
Rosie adjusted her cap and smoothed down her apron, her cheeks and nose flushed. “I’m terribly sorry, miss.”
Sera bent and gathered her wand. Sheathing it, she walked to the door and helped Rosie with the tumbled linens, but not before she glared at Barrington. “No apologies needed,” she assured her. “No one was hurt. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
They rose, and she set the folded pile into the woman’s arms. Rosie bowed her head and exited.
Sera turned to Barrington by his desk, and her anger crested once more. “You should have told her I was coming. She could’ve killed me, you know.”
“Rosie wouldn’t hurt a fly—well, she would, actually. She hates flies. But not you.”
“Well, I could have hurt her. Did you ever consider that I could’ve scared her to death, or mistakenly immobilized her? She’s an elderly woman. She may not have survived.”
Barrington pondered on this a moment, twisting the apple stem in slow rotations. A slight grin tipped his lips. “No, she has dealt with a lot worse than you in her years here.”
Sera frowned, not doubting that one bit.
“So then.” He motioned to the chair of red plush velvet across from his desk. “How were your travels? It seems you had some problems.”
“And whatever gives you that idea?” She harrumphed, sitting. “The scent of smoke or the ash on my face?”
“Neither, really, though they’re clear indications that I was right in protecting the spell as well. I time-altered it, you see.”
Her fists gathered. “You did what?”
“Time-altered—the symbol in the middle. It delayed the time the spell took to work—”
“I know what time-altered means.”
“Ah, good,” he said plainly, ignoring her anger. “I also proofed it. I imagined once you gathered your wits, you might have wanted to give it another go. Had you burned it, you would have lost your chance at a referral.” Small crinkles gathered at the sides of his eyes. “You’re welcome.”
She fixed him with a scowl. How could someone be so infuriating and irritating and boorish all at the same time and not explode?
“What do you think my test was, Miss Dovetail?”
“To torture me, I’m sure,” she grumbled.
He walked around the office, much neater than his one at school. “I like torture as much as the next man, but no.” He bit into his apple and chewed with precision, as though analyzing every burst of flavor, the same way he assessed her. “The first lesson is patience, which you lack in abundance, as evidenced by the way you nearly walked out of my office without so much as hearing my proposition and the way you almost destroyed the spell. Not to mention, the way you nearly set a boy on fire.” He looked at her pointedly.
A blush pricked Sera’s cheeks. He had seen her use wandless magic, of this she was sure. But if he was willing to overlook it, so would she.
“Remember always, Miss Dovetail, a quick temper hinders understanding and brings about regret.”
Sera smothered the urge to roll her eyes. If she wanted to listen to Pragmatic scripture quotes and judgments on her character, she would have gone to church service—were seventhborns allowed to attend.
He set down his apple. “But I must say, I’m happy you’re here, however late you are.”
She thought to say something. Perhaps, thank you. There had been a compliment somewhere in his words.
He clapped his hands together. “Now to discuss the reason you’re here…” He stopped, his gaze fixed at her shoulder. “There is blood on your collar.”
Sera raised a hand to the back of her head and winced. The cut wasn’t bleeding but was still rather sore. “It’s old, from yesterday. Having books fall onto one’s head may do that to a person.”
“You didn’t go to the infirmary?” He reached a hand toward her.
Heart pounding, she rushed to her feet and shifted away. “What are you doing?”
Barrington retracted his hand. “I thought I might heal you, but I take it you prefer to be in pain.”
Sera watched him for a moment as her heartbeat slowed and her mind registered his words.
A blush pricked her cheeks. Goodness, she had to relax, memories be damned. If they were to work together, she couldn’t flinch at his every move.
Steeling her spine, she nodded her acquiescence. “Thank you.”
Barrington’s brow dipped, but he neared her and lifted his hand to her head. Sera cursed inwardly, hoping to all in heaven he didn’t question her behavior.
“Pardon me, I…I thought your nearness improper…” she lied before he was able to ask.
“I’m afraid this pales in comparison to everything that is improper between us, Miss Dovetail. Now, relax.”
She let out a breath. If only it were so easy. It wasn’t every day she was alone with a man, her reputation and virtue in danger…not that she had any reputation to ruin or virtue to keep. But banishing all thoughts of her past to the deep, dark hole where she housed them, Sera blew out another breath and deflated. She was safe here. She had to believe it. If he had wanted to hurt her, he could have done it already.
Barrington closed his eyes. His jaw, shadowed by light stubble, clenched, and his brows gathered. From this close, Sera considered the brooding professor. There was a slight curve to his lips that hinted at a pleasant smile should he ever decide to stop scowling, and he had a nice nose, sculpted, but not too severe. His hair was thick and full, though he did little to tame it. It was always unruly, as if he spent his days caught in a windstorm. Still, he was handsome, Sera conceded but pursed her lips. A man with his ego already knew that.
Warmth stung Sera’s scalp like tiny needles. The sensation grew to a wave of heat that clouded her mind and rolled down her limbs, slowly, until she felt sure she could float in it.
Hard as she wished not to, she stared at him openly, knowing he traveled the threads of her life, seeking out the blackened ones that marked her injury. She’d always found healing such a fascinating art, and were she not in search of her family, she may have even taken up the study.
Her neck quickly wearied. He was taller than her by about a head, and she was forced to look up at him. Left staring at his chest that undulated with each breath, she surveyed the room instead. The painting above the fireplace called her attention, yet her eyes kept moving. Nothing to see there but the possibility of more Barringtons. Heaven knew, one of him was enough.
He lowered his hands and opened his eyes, a strange mix of grays with golden flecks. “There.”
Sera touched the back of her head. No pain. “Thank you.”
He nodded a silent you’re welcome, turned on his heels, and walked back to his desk. “Now, for the reason you’re here.” He reached into a desk drawer and set out a file on the table. “I can’t recall if I asked, but I do hope you have a strong stomach.”
He opened the file, and her breath died in her lungs. Two bodies lay beside an exhumed grave. One was a skeleton, the other a charred, mangled corpse. Smoke curled out from the burned body, a frozen cloud of white in the picture.
He spread the impressions out on the table one by one. The scenes were the same, though the locations and victims varied.
“So many,” she whispered, nearing the table. “Who did this?”
“That’s what we’re here to discover. So far, I’ve found no connection between the corpses and the burned witches, nor between the burned witches themselves. With the witches burned beyond recognition, I need a new pair of eyes to look through these photographs and point out anything I may have missed. Tell me what you see.”
Sera spread out the pictures, trying to separate her emotions from the task at hand. “In every picture, a body has been exhumed,” she said, analyzing the gnarled and dusty skeletons beside the graves. She focused then on the burned bodies beside them. “I think the burned corpses died most recently; there’s still smoke emanating from their bodies. Their clothes are burned, but their dresses are still somewhat recognizable—”
“Yes, yes, I know this. Using your eyes is for ordinary humans, Miss Dovetail. You’re far from ordinary. Embrace it.” He was standing now. “Look at the picture.”
She lifted one before her eyes.
She set it down and picked up another. There was nothing there she hadn’t described. A dead body. Smoke. A coffin unearthed.
“Focus on the photograph,” he repeated, pacing behind his desk.
Jaw tight, she picked up another and stared. Putting it down, she tried the next. This was impossible.
“Do not force the answer,” Barrington said. “Let it come.”
She dropped the impression back onto the desk. “I am waiting. I’m staring until my eyes dry…and nothing.”
He brushed a hand aside. “We’re done for the night. If you don’t want to learn, I can’t force you.” He stacked the images into a pile. “Take them with you, and under no circumstances are you to show them to anyone. A spell will not help you, not in this case, at least. Sit with them. Study them. Come back with your analysis, and we will continue. If not, I’ll take the impressions and you’re relieved of your duties.”
Heat gathered in her cheeks. “If you will replace me so easily, why not do it already? Why did you bother choosing me, anyway?”
“I have needed an assistant for quite some time, but, for one reason or another, no one has wanted to take up my offer of employment.”
One reason or another. Sera stifled a snort. His boorishness and conceit were reason enough.
“And aside from my need, I haven’t replaced you because everyone is wrong about me, Miss Dovetail. I had hoped, perhaps, they were wrong about you as well. So far, I fear I may need to accept they were right.”
She gasped. “You—”
“I know nothing about you, yes, I know. You have told me before.” He held the stack out to her. “Prove me wrong, then. You have a week to find something for me in these impressions. In the meantime, you will report to me every evening to commence your training.”
He scoffed and lowered the impressions. “You didn’t think I fancied for myself an untrained assistant, did you? If we are to work together, you will be on your best behavior during your classes, and at night you will report to me. No outbursts. No wandless magic. No setting things—or people—on fire. Come to think of it, we will begin with wand training.”
Sera pursed her lips. “I know how to use my wand.”
His brows rose in mock amusement. “Do you now? Then you must have us all fooled considering you typically leave an explosion or fire in your wake.”
“You—”
“Wayward boor? Yes, I’ve heard it before as well. But I’ve a better one for you. You’re brilliant. Your power is vast and your reserves impressive. But you’re careless and impulsive, and soon you will learn that all the raw power and talent in the world mean nothing in magic if you don’t know how to use them. That will require hard work”—he looked at her levelly—“and patience. Losing control may give you a semblance of power, but you will realize that when you need your magic most, it will not work. It will scatter and be utterly useless. Only with focus and control can you achieve what you need it to do.”
Sera stared at him, once again taken by his fierceness. Her suspicions flared. There was indeed something dormant beneath his stoic surface, and she had a sense that whatever it was had once lost control, too. “Do you speak from experience, Professor?” she ventured.
He turned his eyes down, but not before Sera noticed the undercurrents of sadness within them. “Yes, I do.” He straightened, his mask in place, and handed her the impressions. “As I said, you have a week to find what I need in those impressions.”
She snatched the pictures from his hand. “So this is another test, then.”
He walked to her and pointed his wand at the floor. “It is. Only, if you fail these tests, other witches may die.”
“What—”
“Dismissed.”
Sera yelped, the ground beneath her vanishing. A blink of black and she crashed down onto her rug. Her hands loosened on the impressions, and they scattered around her. Stumbling back, she collapsed onto her window seat to steady herself as she gulped to dislodge her stomach, which had since found a home in her throat.
“You will get used to it, Sera,” she coaxed herself as she knelt down. That, however, depended on whether or not she figured out what on earth was in these impressions that Barrington had missed. He believed she could find it. But what could it be?
She gathered the photographs and shook her head at the unfortunate scenes.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered, and wished for once that the dead could speak.