Lost Magic (The Swift Codex Book 3) (17 page)

She nodded, then jumped when a section of the wainscoting pulled open to reveal a staircase.

“Mordon,” Father said, to which Mordon replied, “Magnus.”

“My brother Donald.”

“Odd name.”

“Fits in better with the sort of people I work with,” Uncle Don said, his voice fading as I ascended the stairs and made a beeline for the kitchen.

Mother followed me in there, and it was another minute or two before the softly-talking mass had found the breakfast table and situated themselves around it. When I came to them with a few steaming cups, I saw Anna in the middle of the table, all trussed up in her blanket and a little hat worn on her feet like the end-caps to a Thanksgiving turkey.

“We going to eat her?” I asked.

“Magnus wanted to see her. It seems you did not explain things very well in your letter to them.”

Was Mordon hinting that I should have told them everything which had happened? “I don't even remember what I wrote. It was after she'd kept me awake all night.”

The talk was an exhausting one. What everyone said was hard to remember and full of so many backtracks and side tracks and miscommunication that it took all I had to not scream. If it wasn't for Anna blowing slobber bubbles in apparent bliss, utterly ignorant of what was happening around her, I probably would have yelled out my frustration. By the time the drinks were cold and the seats uncomfortable, Mordon and I had the whole of events relayed to them. I was ready to hide in my bed and not come out until it was all over.

“Have you any idea what she is? Do you know if she's human or creature?” Uncle Don asked.

“I haven't run any spells on her yet. The damage of the grotesque would be enough to keep me busy, even without it being linked to a newborn and her pursuers. But I would like an answer to that question as well,” Mordon said.

This surprised me. I'd never thought of Mordon, or Uncle Don, or my parents, as even caring if someone was creature or human. It was true that if she was human that meant Josephina had been cursed. All of my effort so far had been taken up with living in the moment, not unraveling the questions I had. It was a good thing that my parents had come.

“Do you think you can determine her bloodline?” I asked Father.

“We can, but only because we came prepared for it.”

I put a hand on my hip. “Right. What else did you come prepared for? Is that a club I see over your shoulder to drag me back to the hut in the woods?”

Alright, so it wasn't a nice thing to say, but neither had it been nice for them to corral me into a life of their own making. And they hadn't apologized. So neither did I when my father hissed an angry sigh and Mother put a hand to her head. It took Uncle Don's hand on mine to draw me back from bickering.

“Think we can work together on the task at hand?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“Good. Now is there a place we can set up a small ward to contain the spell-making within a defined area? A cleansed spot free from interferences?”

I considered for a few seconds if they were better here or in my place, then decided on here. I nodded and motioned for them to help.

Beneath the wall-to-wall rug in the sitting area was painted on the wooden sub-floor an even, perfect circle. Various other points and markings also crisscrossed, but it meant nothing, really. They were disenchanted guidelines which had been laid down expressly for my benefit, as my drawing skills still left a bit to be desired. However, everyone used the marks, tracing over the top, being lazy. After every session we did a purification ritual to keep the space clean. It still smelled of rosemary and lemons, even though the rug itself coated my hands in a fine dusty powder which begged for a vacuum.

Father got started on the drawings, using the white and yellow chalk sticks Mordon provided him with. Father said, “We were wondering when you'd send word.”

“It would have been even later if it wasn't for Anna,” I said as I rearranged the couch against the wall. Mordon and Uncle Don relieved me of the duty and moved on to the other things to do, such as rolling up the rug neatly or lining the chairs and end tables alongside the couch. They oh so thoughtfully left me to talking with my father.

“Do you remember Maria Powell?”

The reference to my adolescence made me think, to try to remember if she was the one who was always starting parties while the homeowners were on vacation—no, that was Maria Pomerell, not Powell.

“Yes, she was the one who hanged herself.”

“Yes. Do you know why?” Father fastened me to the spot with a serious stare.

“Because she refused treatment for depression.”

There was that hiss of disapproval, a half sigh, as though I was intentionally being contradictory. “Because she wouldn't talk to anyone.”

“Maybe. But maybe no one who talked to her stopped talking to listen to what she had to say.”

Now Father was angry, I knew by the way he put the chalk down and eased back on his knees. Anyone who didn't know him wouldn't have a clue.

“You never tell us anything, Feraline.”

I gasped, laughing somehow at the same time. “I talk, just because I don't talk forever like Leazar doesn't mean I don't talk. Besides, what good does it do to tell you anything of importance when you and Mother are going to argue with me about it?”

“We're giving advice.”

“See? Right now, I'm telling you why I don't tell you anything to do with my decisions, and you're already arguing with me.”

“I'm not arguing. We care about you, that is all.”

Biting the tip of my tongue, I refused to start arguing with him about whether or not we were arguing. Return to the original topic. “Point being, I do talk to you. You just don't like what I have to say, so you try to talk me into doing what you want me to do. But I don't want to do it, and I'm set on doing my thing, but you're set on me doing what you want me to do. And we're both too stubborn to give in to the other, so I avoid fighting and wasting a lot of time by telling you about it after I've done whatever it is I'm going to do. Because it takes a lot less time to listen to your scolding than to hold an argument with you.”

He rolled his eyes at me. How many times had Leazar done that to him, only to have our parents threaten to wash his mouth out? Guess the habit must have rubbed off on Father after all. For a time he did not say a thing to me, neither did he put chalk back to the floor. It was me staring at him staring at me. At a younger age, I'd been afraid of a confrontation like this. Now I was angry, old enough to wonder if this was bullying of some kind. Definitely wise enough to know it was no conversation, not even a debate.

“Communication has always gone one-way between us. Started with you guys telling me. Now I'm telling you. And that's not any better, is it?” I crossed my arms and forbid my eyes from stinging. “I'm marrying Mordon. If we break it off, that's between us, you're not involved. I don't want to hide away in the forest. I have my own resources if I want to use them, so don't you think he's twisting my arm somehow. I don't want to join the Hunters.”

“But you've always wanted to. Before.”

Before you met him
hung unsaid in the air between us, but I knew the words were there.

“I used to want to, but I didn't like the way they treated me. I won't forget it. I'm not saying I won't forgive them, but I won't join them.”

“Fera,” Mother said. “They'd treat you differently now.”

“Everyone treats me differently now. Except Aunt Linnia. Don't you understand that's what's wrong?”

I shook my head, my eyes burning and embarrassing me. Tired. I was tired and exhausted, that was all, I told myself. But I still wouldn't stand to be in the center of attention any longer. I'd been on display in front of everyone, even Uncle Don, for way too long, couldn't believe that father would start that topic with everyone watching. Even Mordon.

I broke nimbly out of the room, whisked through the french doors, and paused at the threshold. Anna. But, no, there were four capable adults—more capable than I was, as Father had just been pointing out over and over again—to watch after her for a few minutes while I gained a measure of control again.

A hand grasped my arm, spun me around, startling me. From the force, I expected to come face to face with Mordon, but it was Father instead. This was a double-surprise. He wasn't the sort to touch me, not that I could recall.

“This isn't about that.”

Glaring at him, I could only think that this was about that. What it was that snapped inside my head, I couldn't be sure, but it was something. All emotions were gone in an instant. “Fine,” I said. “Have you said what you wanted to say?”

Father's fingers tightened and released. He did not speak a word, even when I waited long enough for him to take one step back.

“Very well. Shall we continue with our experiment, to see what little Anna is?”

Father did not look happy about it, but he did return to the circle and start back on the symbols where we left off. This time, he did not talk. No one talked. Uncle Don stood next to Mordon, who stood next to Mother as if the two of them had been conversing in between the barbs Father and I had exchanged. Those two seemed to be getting along, at least. Uncle Don was the one who came to stand beside me, and I found that he was the person whose presence I could tolerate. For some reason I was annoyed with Mordon, too. Because he didn't want to get between father and daughter? It was a good plan, I doubted that I'd have inserted myself between him and his parent. Still, I was annoyed with him anyway.

Despite myself, I soon had
Skills of the Thaumaturge
in my hands, drawing out the symbols Father was drawing on the floor, taking notes on where he started and ended, what the purpose of the spell was, doing close-ups of the smaller symbols. The actions soothed me in a way that nothing else could, and just holding the book in my hands was comforting. I found myself thinking that it knew me better than anyone else, better than even Mordon did. I sometimes used it like a diary, which it didn't seem to mind about, using it to take notes and make observations. It didn't matter if it was an internal debate about the advantages of Bedlam Sleep versus Eyes Closed, or if it was a short rant about the way that I was always tripping over Lilly's shoes by the door.
Skills of the Thaumaturge
was there for me, every now and then suggesting a spell such as Mary Janes Walk A Mile. Did it have a sense of humor by itself, or was it reflecting my own? I'd never found a satisfactory answer.

Father sprinkled a bag of green pine needles in the center of the circle. No, I realized, it was too shiny and bright to be pine, too flat...was it yew? What did yew leaves look like? I noted the question in
Skills of the Thaumaturge
.

“Give the child here,” Father said.

Mother had undressed the girl and re-dressed her in a cave spider silk garment. The child looked puzzled by the change in attire. She also bubbled milk froth at her lips. Mordon must have shown Mother where we kept the formula. She watched, eyes blinking, from the center of the too-shiny-to-be-pine needles. Around her neck was a pouch tied shut.

“What's in there?” I asked.

“First spring rain, basil, motherwort leaves, second-season lavender buds,” Mother said.

“A blessing?”

Mother gave a tremulous smile, as if uncertain, but pleased that I'd cared enough to learn some things from her so long ago. A tiny sliver of guilt slid home into my heart, but they still hadn't apologized so neither would I.

Uncle Don led the proceedings from there, with Father as a second. Mordon's brow furrowed as he listened to their chant, recognizing it yet not at the same time. He mouthed the chorus but stopped at the lyrics which Uncle Don alone seemed sure of. It was a haunting, deep tune, a solemn one which brought to mind the old Gregorian monk chants as sung in a stone church where the sounds reverberated off vaulted ceilings.

Closing my eyes, I let myself fall into the rumble of the spell, into the ebb and flow of magic as it rose and surged, receded, gathered, and rushed forward again. Not the way that water moves, the way that earth rolls across a flat plain during a quake, similar yet different to rolling waves. Father's magic was centered in the earth, but I didn't know of Uncle Don. Was he the same? It didn't matter, even my magic mimicked the movements. Building, building, building. It filled the room up to my ears. Then the words blended into each other and the motion of the magic smoothed then stared a slow whirlpool, drawing down and away with a silent, watchful Anna in the center of it all. The lower the magic was, the faster and stronger it drained until there was an audible rushing sound which could have been the men's voices.