Cold Magic

My tears fell on ink long since dry. He had written this so many years ago.



Tara lost one arm to cannon fire, and the other is crippled such that she cannot really care for the baby. She makes light of it in front of others—soldiers’ humor—but I am the one who holds her at night when she screams, reliving the battles in her dreams. I am the one who reassures her that the child will love her for the courageous and beautiful woman she is, not for her two arms or her two eyes.



Blessed Tanit, do not let my heart break.



That ass Jonatan came to me with a disgusting proposition, which I absolutely will not countenance. Giving up my girl for his, as if mine were worth nothing, which I am sure she is to him. I protested. I offered ways to bargain with the magisters. I even offered to steal the cursed documents back. He threatened me in that unctuous way he has. Said the family would turn us out if I don’t cooperate. “Is some other man’s bastard worth this to you?” he asked me. So despite Tara’s condition, despite the health and vigor she has regained simply by remaining in one stable place for so long, we must leave. It is a mercy that Camjiata has been captured and his army dissolved. I am not sure where exactly we can find refuge, but at least we can hope to travel there safely.



Only they had not traveled safely. He and my mother had died. It’s just they hadn’t meant to. They had been running away to go make a life elsewhere. With me.



How many times must I repeat myself, I wonder, trying to explain it to people who do not want to hear? She is my daughter even if not of my breeding. What is breeding, after all, except a moment’s release? Isn’t the raising more important? I will cherish my little cat always.



But my heart broke anyway, and Bee put her arms around me, and I wept.



34



And so dawn comes, and it is bitter, and it is sweet. I had a father after all, even if he was dead. I had a mother whose courage was greater than I had ever imagined. They had loved me enough to try to make a life for me, even if it had not worked out, because Lady Fortune is more powerful than frail human plans.



But that didn’t mean Bee and I were ready to surrender.



Solstice day passed quietly inside the house. We heated water and bathed in the scullery, Callie standing watch. The magister walked a circuit of the upper floors. The cawl protecting the house had faded with Aunt Tilly’s departure, but the magister spun some manner of cold magic to seal the window latches shut. The soldiers kept to the ground floor, guarding the front and back doors. Uncle readied his single bag, weeping all the while. Callie we asked for a favor. At dusk, a hackney cab rattled up, the horse stamping in its traces.



“It’s here,” I said, for I had been watching for it.



A young soldier opened the door, trying to be polite or perhaps to impress Bee.



Uncle was entirely deflated, a balloon unable to stir as the wind rose.



“Beatrice,” he said despairingly.



“I’ll write every month so you know I am well. That’s all I can promise. Give my love to Hanna and Astraea. Best you hurry, so you don’t miss the tide.”



“Uncle,” I said, choking back tears, “give my love to the girls. Tell Aunt—” I could not go on. I had loved Aunt Tilly so.



I did kiss him then, after all, not in forgiveness but in regret for what we had lost. Bee offered a formal kiss to his unshaven cheek, like a dido showing distant favor to an unloved but hardworking courtier. With bowed shoulders and bent head, Uncle crossed the threshold with his bag. Callie followed him, carrying one light carpetbag and three heavy ones. We made our farewells, and she nodded at us to show that she understood her part in this: Once they had left the house, she would insist on stopping at Tanit’s temple to make an offering of grain to the priests, so they might pray for Tanit’s blessing and a safe journey. Not even Uncle Jonatan would refuse that.



The cab rolled away. The soldier shut the door, glanced at Bee, and then away.



We went upstairs to the first-floor parlor, where we had profligately lit the stove with the last of the coal and the chamber with our last two beeswax candles. We settled in the window seat, she with her arms hooked around her bent knees, tucking them close to her chest, and me with my father’s journal, number 46, on my lap. The knit bag, now our only possession, sat on the cushion, its bulge enveloping her sketchbook, the singed copy of Lies the Romans Told, and the journal Uncle had given me last night.



“I was thinking,” she said.



“Dangerous at all times, and with a tendency to cause pain in those who are unaccustomed to such exercise,” I remarked.



But then I opened journal 46 to the end, to the conversation between the young natural historian and the lieutenant while the aurora borealis played its changes across an arctic sky. Knowing now what I knew, the words fell entirely differently. How could I have missed the hints in their chance comments and asides? They had known each other before this; it was so clear from their joking manner, the quick rejoinders, the shared knowledge of things they shouldn’t have known so easily about each other. A new perspective gives a person new eyes. Knowing what I now knew about Andevai—