Dark Light of Day (47 page)

Aside from my biggest academic concern, passing Manipulation when my client was homicidal, I also had my Barrister classes to worry about. Now that I wasn’t
quite
as preoccupied with my love life and self-acceptance issues, I realized how behind I really was.

Three months ago I’d declared my intention to master oathbreaking remedies. I had yet to do so. Specific performance was the go-to remedy for nearly every conceivable breach (the demons and their unholy obsession with enforcing promises!) but there were dozens of others I needed to know, all of them bewilderingly alike. In my mind, compensatory damages blurred with consequential damages, incidental with nominal, treble with
terribilis
(the demons’ second favorite remedy, predicated, as were many things in Halja, on the ancient “Rule of Three”). In Evil Deeds, I still struggled with
volenti non fit injuria
. Did Hyrke adorers willingly consent to harm just because demons were inherently dangerous? And the confusingly similar terms in Council Procedure that I needed to keep straight were almost too numerous to mention: impleader, interpleader, intervention, default judgment, summary judgment, judgment as a matter of law, judgment notwithstanding the verdict—

The Carmine’s harmonic jangled, announcing that the operator was trying to put a call through. I jumped, spilling half my coffee across Joy’s old oak table. I scowled and wondered if I should answer. Ari was in the shower. Steve and Matt had left for the docks and Joy had wandered down to the market. The tin ring set my teeth on edge. I picked it up before it could ring a third time.

“Carmine residence,” I answered.

For a moment I thought that the person on the other end of the line had given up. Just as I was about to replace the receiver on its hook, I heard a voice I recognized.

“Noon?”

“Mom?”

She sighed. Like she’d found her cat in the neighbor’s yard.

“So it’s true,” she said.

That my client tried to kill me? That I’d given up my one shot at becoming a Mederi? That I was now dating someone who killed demons for a living? That I might be forced to go that route myself one day?
Nope, I knew what she meant.

“Yeah, it’s true. I came to Bradbury for Beltane.”

“Why?”

“When I left, you said good-bye with a one-way ticket to New Babylon. I didn’t have a return ticket to Etincelle.”

Wow. I don’t think I’d ever been this blunt with my mother.
Before, I would have um’ed and ah’ed and settled on something sufficiently unantagonistic like, “I thought you’d have other plans.”

“Noon, you’re always welcome here.”

As if I were a guest. I mopped up my spilled coffee with one of Joy’s kitchen rags. Typical of Joy, she’d knotted together dozens of old fabric scraps to make this one little rag. Had she ever thrown anything away? Or forced anyone out of her house? There was more to feeling welcome than words.

“How did you know where I was?”

“Your father told me.”

“He’s there?” I said, surprised.

“No. I have no idea where he is.”

I did. Rockthorn Gorge. Although the only reason I knew that was because he’d asked Ari to go with him, not because he’d told me himself. I wondered what my mother would think if she knew what her husband was doing. Would she be worried? I felt the most peculiar emotion for her just then—sympathy. But her next words put us even farther into uncharted emotional territory.

“Noon… I’d like to see you. Are you able to fit in a visit before classes start again?”

I took a swig of coffee, stalling for time, and almost spit it out. It was stone-cold. What self-respecting Maegester lets coffee grow cold in her hands?

What self-respecting Mederi burns her garden to the ground?

“I’d have to bring Ari,” I said.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Bring Mr. Carmine,” she said finally. “I’d like to meet him.”

A
ri took the news that we were leaving early easily. Joy admirably tried to hide her disappointment and both Steve and Matt gave me great big hugs that left me gasping for breath. Matt invited me to Gaillard for a future visit. I said I’d consider it. It would be odd going back there as a Maegester, but I supposed no one returned to their alma mater unchanged.

Ari and I boarded an afternoon ferry. Its name—
Apprehension
—did little to relieve my anxiety. There was no amiable chitchat this time. Ari grabbed a corner seat for us inside the cabin and I spent the entire crossing poring over my Oathbreaking hornbook. When we disembarked, the sun was setting, its warm reddish glow settling across the south bank like a blanket.

“What, no cab?” Ari joked when no one met us at the dock.

I laughed, my dour mood momentarily lightened. “Come on, it’s only a mile or so down the Lemiscus.” Ari grabbed my backpack before I could and we started walking. Despite the comfort of Ari’s hand around mine, tension crept back into my muscles with each passing step.

“We’re the first estate on the right,” I blurted out after the silence grew too long. Ari squeezed my hand.

“Who’s on the left?”

I swallowed. “The Asters.”

We crunched along the gravelly lane, our boots kicking up dust that was almost invisible in the darkening light. When the umber lane lights came on in the Asters’ stone wall I nearly jumped. Ari stopped and I was forced to stop with him.

“Noon,” he said slowly, as if choosing his next words carefully, “I don’t care if your mother doesn’t like me.”

I let out a puff of air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m afraid she won’t like
me
.”

“Because you’re a declared Maegester-in-Training now?”

I nodded.

“Quod me nutrit, me destruit,”
I mumbled.
That which nourishes me, destroys me.

To my surprise, Ari laughed. “Mothers and fire,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe you two have more in common than you think.”

A
t last we came to a brick walkway. Cutting across the grass had been out of the question, of course. We turned toward my house and I glanced over at Ari, wondering what his reaction would be. The Onyx estate could easily house scores of Bradbury families. The immense manor house rose up out of the landscape like a miniature skyline, with no less than seventeen spires, three huge towers, countless turrets, and several sprawling wings. But Ari’s step was light and his signature solid. His only reaction was a low whistle of appreciation.

“Anything less and I’d have doubted your father actually lived here,” he said, smirking.

His gaze shifted to the surrounding landscape. There wasn’t much to see. You’d never know a Mederi lived here. It was the height of spring and not one flower rose from the ground. Not one tulip or daffodil, not one crocus or hyacinth. Flowering bushes and deciduous trees were also absent. Across the Lemiscus, the Asters’ garden was probably bursting with lilac and forsythia blooms right about now. Their cherry trees would be vibrant and white, the petals blowing in the wind like celebratory confetti. Here, there was only grass and endless evergreens. Symbols of everlasting life.

Or were they?

When I’d last seen them, our evergreens had been covered with snow, but otherwise, they were exactly the same now as
they had been then. They would always be the same—never changing, ever green. Changing seasons, passing years, nothing would affect them. They would never shed their leaves in the fall, never bloom in the spring. Bees didn’t buzz here; hummingbirds flew elsewhere. The ebb and flow of life avoided this place because nothing ever died here. The Onyx estate seemed stuck. I wondered what it would look like if it ever got unstuck. Would it burst into bloom or would it blacken like the bouquet of lilies I’d dropped at Peter’s feet?

We stepped into the entryway, a grand but dark space, and I wondered where everyone was. The place was so quiet I heard the echo of our packs as we dropped them on the floor. Just then my mother’s housekeeper, Estelle, came in, wiping her hands on a large linen apron. The apron bore the stains and wrinkles of a full day’s work. No starched white, frilly aprons for any servant in Aurelia’s employ. Unlike Mrs. Aster, my mother frowned on anything ornamental.

Estelle gave me a warm embrace. As our housekeeper she’d always known the true nature of my magic, but, respecting my parents’ wishes, she’d never directly mentioned it. She must have assumed my declaration meant all such restrictions had been lifted. She positively gushed with praise and congratulations. I tried to explain that such statements were not only unnecessary but also inappropriate. I’d achieved nothing, accomplished nothing. But she was having none of it. Ari’s introduction, with his Hyrke surname, caused some confusion, but when we finally got it all sorted out Estelle gave him a big hug too.
Of course
she knew him (who didn’t?) from his Aunt Judy who worked over at the Decemai estate. So Estelle and Ari spent a few minutes chatting about Judy and her doings while I stood nodding politely.

At some point during the discussion we realized we weren’t alone. I don’t know what it was exactly that alerted us to my mother’s presence at the top of the room’s sweeping staircase. She’d made no noise or movement. But suddenly we were aware of her at the top of the staircase’s swirl, looking down on us. Estelle made her excuses (she had dinner to check on) and left. I stared up at my mother, unable to swallow
or speak. She crept slowly toward us, her eyes never leaving mine. She didn’t even acknowledge Ari’s presence.

She wasn’t smiling. On the contrary, her face seemed frozen and I realized she was struggling with emotions almost too vast to be contained. For a moment, I thought her inner struggle would tear her small frame apart, but then she stepped forward and clasped me to her in a fierce embrace, squeezing her arms around my neck and pressing her cheek against mine. I just stood there, not squeezing back.

How could I? How could I ever forgive her for the evergreen in my locker? For enrolling me at St. Luck’s in the first place? She’d raised me to ignore and abhor my magic and then she’d thrown me to the demons.

She released me as abruptly as she’d embraced me, as if she knew her affection made me uncomfortable. She swiped at the corners of her eyes and then turned to Ari.

“Mr. Carmine,” she said, her voice as steady as a spellcaster’s, “thank you for bringing my daughter home.”

D
inner that night was not as unpleasant as I thought it would be. Once we were over the initial hurdle of awkwardly expressed emotions, conversation ran more smoothly. Estelle had prepared a late meal of
risotto alla pittoca
, which was immeasurably satisfying since we’d skipped lunch to study. She served roasted garlic and a loaf of braided bread with it and my mother opened a nice, unensorcelled bottle of
Vitis labrusca
wine.

“Leave the apples to the Angels,” she said, raising her glass, “and the grapes to us.”

It was a traditional, if somewhat somber, toast for an all-Host gathering. To the Host, apples symbolized infatuation, flirtation, and sometimes death, but if so, only because of accident, ignorance, or overabundance. Grapes, on the other hand, were the real deal. They symbolized blood sacrifice, a willful death so that loved ones might live. Ari and I murmured our assent and drank.

Our family dining room, a cavernous space three stories
high with a vaulted ceiling, arched windows, and stone walls, was about as formal as one could be. A massive fireplace with three hearths dominated one side of the room. A frieze depicting Lucifer’s last battle cry at Armageddon ran atop all three fireboxes. Carved beneath were the words:
ADURO VELUM! Burn the veil.
It was said Lucifer’s final strategy was to pierce the enemy’s front line with fire, but he was struck with a lance before he could marshal adequate demon forces to do so.

The three of us sat at the end of a mahogany table that could have comfortably sat thirty. My mother regaled us with stories of Seknecus and Rochester in their youth. Aurelia had attended Holly and Oak with the two of them and my father, before leaving to join the Hawthorn Tribe. In her opinion, Seknecus had always been destined for the ivory tower, but Rochester’s choice to become a professor was a surprise. She’d always pegged him, not my father, as the one who’d go for the executive position. She became quiet then and I feared the conversation would stall, but then Ari asked some purposely generic question about Etincelle’s history and the discussion turned to less personal areas.

We finished off the meal with a piece of berry cobbler (minus the fresh fruit or mint garnishes that might have adorned the plates elsewhere) and my mother walked us upstairs. Ari was installed in Night’s old room. I chewed my lip inconspicuously, wondering when we’d hear from him and Peter.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long.

W
hen Peter and I were kids there was no way to pre-arrange play dates. Mrs. Aster hated me and my own parents did nothing to encourage the friendship. Peter’s spellcasting ability manifested at an early age. At four, he learned how to cast a sweet spell. He spent weeks turning all manner of things into sugary, syrupy, edible confections. At six, he learned how to cast a spell of agility. It was the first time he
successfully climbed the Aster wall and made it to my house. By the age of twelve, Peter wanted to find a more sophisticated way of contacting me than pebbles thrown against my window. He found it in scrying. At first, Peter only saw an image of me when he attempted to contact me. But through painstaking practice, Peter later learned to use any reflective surface—water, glass, mirrors—to send me a message.

Like all kids who pass forbidden notes, we had a favored “drop spot”—a gilded floor-length mirror in the corner of my bedroom. I hadn’t checked the drop spot since I was fourteen so I didn’t give it a second’s thought as I climbed into bed that night. But when I turned out the lights, fear ripped through my gut. There, on my mirror, was a glowing red message from Peter.

Oh, merciful Luck, how long had the message been there?
Peter hadn’t known I was going to Bradbury for the break. He’d thought I’d come here… I rushed out of my bed and flipped on the lights. The message disappeared and I almost screamed. Frantic, I plunged my room into darkness again. The letters reappeared, scrawled backward across the mirror as if Peter were inside it. Of course he wasn’t. He’d written the words from wherever he was, with a stick, his finger, a pen, if he’d had one. I bit my lip. The only reason Peter would have tried to contact me this way is if he’d had no other choice.
Where was he? Was Night still with him? I should have gone with them…
My thoughts tripped over one another as I tried to reverse the message. I scrambled in my pack for paper and a pencil to make translating easier. At last, I knew where they were and what they’d found. The answer made me wish I didn’t. His message said: