Wayward Page 5

  “You look divine,” said Violet in a dreamy cadence.

  The doll was propped against Cassia’s lace-trimmed pillows, atop a pink brocade bedspread she also loathed. Her mother had welcomed her home two years ago with a lavish abundance of clothes, trinkets, and a newly decorated bedroom, and had continued to show her affection mainly through gift-giving. The dress for her initiation was the latest instalment. If there had ever been an opportunity to let her know she favoured dark colours and unfussy fabrics, Cassia had missed it.

  “I would give it to you gladly,” Cassia told the doll, “but I don’t think it’s your size.”

  “Nor would it look as lovely on me.”

  Tilting her head in curiosity, Cassia stood directly in front of Violet’s immobile glass eyes.

  “How is it that you can see me?”

  Violet laughed melodically. “I have eyes.”

  “Yes, but…” Cassia didn’t want to offend her, as silly as that might be. “I suppose it’s part of your enchantment, isn’t it?” She sidestepped out of Violet’s line of sight and waved a hand around in what should have been her blind spot. “How much can you see?”

  “I can see you wiggling your fingers at me like you’re trying to get my attention. And I can see that those bouquets of flowers are upside down.”

  Cassia looked over her shoulder and laughed. “Well, yes, they are. They’re drying.”

  Cassia’s favourite occupation might be why her mother had mistaken her for the feminine sort. On her workbench, dried flowers were arranged by type in jars along the back. More hung in bunches from a string pinned to the wall, and yet more were hidden between the pages of the book stacks underneath the bench, weighted down with whatever she could find to efficiently press them.

  In the main space of the desk were several unfinished projects; preserved blossoms artistically arranged between sheets of glass, or glued into journals alongside notes and musings. Still more bouquets sat in vases about the room, and in the rooms of her friends and loved ones who had received them – a little baffled – as gifts.

  Among the flowers and sprigs of foliage were other natural artefacts that brought her just as much joy. A bird’s nest. An antler. Snakeskin resting in a box of shredded newspaper. Animal bones that she had arranged against squares of black velvet, their skeletons incomplete while Cassia waited for other specimens to reveal themselves in gardens and parks, and on trips to the country.

  She plucked a sprig of lavender from one of the jars. “What about the other senses? You can hear, of course.” She held the lavender close to Violet’s face. “Can you smell?”

  “I know what lavender smells like,” said Violet. “There’s a difference.”

  “But you’re aware of the difference? You understand your own impression of the world? The way your mind works?”

  “Actually, it’s that I don’t have nostrils.”

  Cassia laughed so suddenly she snorted. “Yes. I suppose that’s the giveaway.”

  She twirled the lavender between her fingers, considering how to test the boundaries of Violet’s spell further. It intrigued and intimidated her, the complexity and ingenuity of such an enchantment. Would she ever be able to perform magic like this?

  “Memories,” she said. “Do you have memories?”

  There was a silence that was somehow ponderous. “Some memories, from before. There was a woman who made me, in a shop, and a lot of other dolls, all different from me. I belonged to a little girl who grew older, then to her son, I think, then another little girl. And then I was stolen.”

  “Are you sad that you were stolen?” It seemed the thing to ask, though Violet delivered the fact with flawless cheer.

  “Stealing is wrong,” the doll announced. “I didn’t belong to that young man.”

  “Yes, but did it make you sad?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She made her indifference plain, the joy in her voice flattening slightly.

  “How long were you in that junk room before I found you?”

  “I couldn’t guess,” said Violet. “A while before, and a while after.”

  Cassia frowned. She was missing something. “You said you had memories from before. Before what?”

  “Before I was enchanted, of course. The second time.”

  “The second time.” Cassia looked hard at the doll, like her history might reveal itself in the set of her curls or the peculiar flash she’d seen in her eyes. Had Jasper unravelled and then spelled the doll again as some kind of magical exercise? Was that why the enchantment was so good?

  But Cassia had no time to find out. Her mother called her downstairs.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck,” said Violet. “You can do anything you wish.”

  * * *

  “How do you like the dress?”

  Cassia’s mother, Alana Sims, stood behind her in the hallway mirror and admired her daughter.

  “It’s beautiful,” Cassia lied with a smile on her face.

  It caused her a vague shame that the garments her mother chose for her were always girlish, as Alana herself had never worn a dress in her life. She wore trousers, which this evening she had paired rakishly with an open waistcoat and a man’s shirt, oversized on her. Her hair – as black as Cassia’s, but curly and wild – was loose about her shoulders. She must have believed her daughter so different from herself, so strange and unknowable. It hurt that, when faced with the challenge of getting to know her, Cassia’s mother had opted instead for spoiling her with pretty gifts.

  “Just think,” said Alana, “in two years you could be running for Society President.”

  At another time, Cassia might have laughed, but between her nerves and the pink monstrosity, Alana’s words felt like another blow. She had to be in denial to believe such a thing was possible, and that meant the truth – that her daughter wielded no influence in the Heart – was anathema to her.

  “I’m not exactly president material,” said Cassia.

  “Nonsense. Three generations of this family have been President of the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers at one time or another.”

  This included Alana, and Cassia’s grandfather, Jupitus, who had been President and High Sorcerer of the Heart for the last year of his tenure. It was the legacy Cassia either belonged to, or didn’t.

  And you will have to content yourself with the fact your children never will be, she didn’t say as she went outside to meet her carriage.

  * * *

  The grand parlour at the Wending Place had been decorated befitting the most important night in its calendar. Wall hangings depicting the Society’s crest – a doorway, representing opportunity, surrounded by fanned keys, representing possibilities – hung along one side of the room, behind the dais on which the new President would be named. Silk garlands were wound around the carved pillars and along the length of the banquet table. The room was full to bursting with Successors and special guests who had been invited to witness the evening.

  Over a hundred people would watch Cassia’s initiation.

  She checked her appearance in a mirror in the hallway. The pink of her dress clashed with the green of her eyes and did nothing for her pale complexion. Not that any gown would disguise her queasy pallor, let alone the pathetic jar of soil tucked in the crook of her elbow.

  There was nothing for it. Cassia entered the hall and stood on tiptoes to look for Jasper. She spotted him filling in his ballot on hazel wood paper, and slotting it into the chest that would announce the winner of the Presidential election also happening that night. The chest was a relic of the Society older than her grandfather, but one forever associated with Jupitus Fisk. It was due to her grandfather’s devoted patronage that the Society held such prestige. Membership had dwindled since the glory days, but throughout his reign, Jupitus had encouraged young elites to reap the benefits of membership, as he had done over fifty years ago. He was the one who would reveal the winning candidate, with the famed enchantment he had long ago placed on the chest and the hazel wood ballots inside it.

  As Jasper turned to the room, Cassia implored him to notice her. But another already had. Every conversation to her left reached a lull as that familiar miasma of unspoken fear swept through them, moving closer. It accompanied a retinue of bodyguards – marked as members of the Sorcerer militia by the large gold pins on their lapels – and at their centre, the cause of it all.

  “Grandfather,” said Cassia as he stopped before her.

  She had once been told that one wears their reputation as either armour or chains. Jupitus Fisk had crafted his into the strongest battle wear, buffed to a brilliant shine. He was not a physically imposing man; tall, but not conspicuously so; straight-backed and broad shouldered. He wore his silver hair meticulously parted on one side and oiled into place, with a moustache to match. Thick, groomed eyebrows that never seemed to move or offer any expression sat above light grey eyes, almost silver to match the polished air of the rest of him.

  He cast his eye over her. “I trust you’re feeling confident about the initiation.”

  Not a question; more like a threat.

  Cassia pushed the sick feeling in her stomach further down and smiled. “Very confident, Grandfather.”

  A slight motion of his head conveyed his surprise. Cassia didn’t know which was worse, the pressure to succeed or the underlying resignation that she probably wouldn’t.

  Before she had to cobble together anything else to say, one of the enforcers leaned over and whispered in Jupitus’s ear. “Lord Voss has arrived, sir,” he said.

  And then her grandfather was gone again. It was about as much attention as he had ever paid her, and like their every interaction, left Cassia feeling as if she’d been found lacking. She wa
tched him greet the newcomer; Jericho Voss, ruler of the Whisperer faction. The Whisperers were mind readers; they could also manipulate thoughts. It was an isolating magic that made the other factions wary of them. Even though the Principles said that no one could use their magic beyond their own people’s territory – including their ruler – most of the other guests gave the Whisperer delegation a wide berth. But the High Sorcerer never missed an opportunity to do business if he could press an advantage. Cassia wondered what advantage her grandfather sought from this particular invitation. A chance to show off the best of his faction, perhaps.

  “Second time’s a charm.”

  Cassia turned to find one of the members, Lev Mallory, before her. Among her peers were those too polite to whisper in earshot. Rarer were those who attempted stilted conversation, even as their friends went quiet and the atmosphere turned awkward.

  The rarest was Lev, who had probably never neglected to smile at someone or had an awkward conversation in his life. He had a voice and a laugh that sounded endlessly and carried a mile, and was out of place on the boy himself, who was short and slight. He had a mildly pleasant face if one ever caught him in repose, with narrow, black eyes and a wide mouth, and a catching smile at all other times, including now.

  “What’s the jar for?”

  “It’s a surprise,” deflected Cassia, who would feel worse about her spell failing if she got anyone’s hopes up. She clutched the latest jar closer to hide the cutting inside.

  “Champion! I love surprises.” He glanced around and leaned closer, but failed to lower his booming voice that much. “But if you want to know what the other initiates are doing, I’ve gathered all the details. I talked to them all.”

  Cassia smiled, perplexed. “If you like surprises, why did you ask them?”

  “To be friendly,” said Lev. “That Clement fellow was looking at us all like we were rabid tigers, bless his stars. So, do you want to know?”

  She almost said yes, but thought better of it. She wasn’t in competition with the other initiates, but if their spells were too impressive, she would lose the last of her confidence. “Thank you, but I’m better off in the dark, I think.”

  Lev nodded, his smile turning knowing. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

  “Weren’t you? Put on the spot like that in front of the whole Society?”

  “You have to lean into it. Enjoy yourself.” Cassia nodded, but the advice of anyone who could enjoy themselves while being judged by an audience of their peers probably wasn’t for her. “The initiation is all about performance, not magic. You know I’m of mixed magic?”

  She nodded. She knew this about Lev the way everybody knew she had grown up at the Zoo, the ruling seat of Camden. It was essential gossip; that only his father was a Sorcerer, but his mother a Whisperer. A person could only inherit one magic, but it was often diluted, or sometimes absent altogether.

  “I get by, magic-wise, but I passed my initiation by putting on a show. All I did was enchant my second-best suit to dance and clown around. We waltzed. And we did a mirror bit.” Lev mimed waving to his own reflection and being alarmed when it waved back.

  “And that was enough for the Successors?” said Cassia.

  “It was enough for enough of them! I scraped in.”

  This conjured a scenario that set Cassia’s stomach to attempting an escape through her mouth. “But then you’re surrounded by peers who voted to exclude you. That’s no better than being turned down.”

  “Oh stars, the initiation isn’t as serious as all that!” said Lev. He pointed to a nearby Successor and called out to him. “Riddenhour didn’t vote me in, did you Riddenhour?”

  Riddenhour, his mouth full of finger food, shrugged good-naturedly and spewed some crumbs as he mumbled an excuse.

  “See? There’s nothing personal about the initiation. It’s just a lark.”

  Cassia clutched her jar tighter. “I’m afraid it doesn’t feel that way once you’ve already failed once.”

  Lev’s smile calmed down, and he nodded. “They’re a tough crowd, aren’t they? I know how you feel.”

  He did? Lev Mallory, the life of every party, knew what it was like to crave his peers’ acceptance? It was hard to understand, and yet Cassia thought she did. The young Sorcerers of the Heart ostracised her because they saw her as part-Changeling, but Lev literally belonged to another faction as much as he did theirs. He seemed to read these thoughts as they crossed her face, and he laughed.

  “You just need to find your angle, Cassia.”

  “My angle?”

  “The thing that makes up for what they don’t see in you. The thing they can talk about instead. And don’t worry about the initiation. If it doesn’t go to plan, there’s always next year. It’s with the stars.”

  It’s with the stars. Cassia didn’t put much stock in astrology, but it was the type of thing she heard from the faithful all the time. She gave a shaky smile, but it was different for Lev. For him, the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers was a lark. For Cassia, it was an expectation.

  “And what’s your angle, Lev?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He pointed to his face, and broke into that grin; the one that ate his cheeks and eyes. Then he turned away and pointed to another Successor across the room. “Buxton!” he bellowed. “Champion game last night!”

  And he was gone, weaving through a crowd who smiled back at him as he passed. If Lev could belong here, then Cassia could too, but she would have to do it without the help of a gregarious and lovable persona. That would never be who she was.

  A glass chimed as someone called the grand parlour to attention. Helia Radlin, the outgoing President of the Society, had taken to the dais.

  “Successors, initiates, and honoured guests,” began Helia with easy poise. The last of the chatter died away as the room turned its attention to her. “Tonight is a doubly special occasion for the Society, as the business of replacing me coincides with our spring initiation. I hope you can bear me as your President a few moments more as we start with the latter.”

  Cheers of support punctuated the laughter. Helia waved them away and adopted a sombre air. “It is my duty, first, to tell our initiates of the legacy they are becoming a part of tonight. On this very spot, over five centuries ago, our six founders gathered with the intention of starting an institution to promote the talents and enrich the lives of each generation of London’s Sorcerers as they came of age. They based our hallowed Society here, in a house they called the Wending Place; a house with four important rooms.” She held up a hand and counted the rooms off on her fingers. “A library, to feed the mind of every member who passes through; a common room, so they may share ideas and forge friendships; a parlour, to host the greatest leaders, thinkers, and innovators of the moment; and a dining room” – a cheer went up for the fourth room, and the Successors joined in as Helia finished – “because a full stomach strengthens magic and mind.

  “Legend tells that the founders built the Wending Place as an ordinary, two-storey house, and enchanted it to foster the words of the Society in the minds of everyone who stepped inside: From Sorcery, eminence. But the enchantment took on a mind of its own, and as the Society evolved, so did our headquarters. Just as every generation of Successors adds new branches, so the Wending Place sprawled up and out, a mirror of the growing legacy of the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers. Tonight, we add to that legacy once again. Five young Sorcerers declare their wish to join our number. But, Successors, will we let them without proving their mettle?”

  “No!” chorused the Society members, and stamped their feet. The whole room seemed to lurch, and Cassia wondered if she had time to heave up her dinner before she was called upon.

  “No, we shan’t. Each must demonstrate their skill with our magic and be deemed worthy of our prestigious membership. And who shall decide if they pass the test?”

  “We will!”

  More stamping. Cassia wrapped a second hand around her jar of soil, as the first had grown slick with nervous sweat. She locked her knees, fearing her legs would give way as the strength drained from them.

  “Members, please congregate before the dais. If our distinguished guests would be so kind, would you please arrange yourselves opposite, before the windows.”

  But what about the initiates? As the crowd split in two and the centre of the room cleared, Cassia dithered, turning this way and that until her sights landed on another lost individual, one with a random glass jug dangling from his fingers. A prop for a spell. When the boy chose the ‘guests’ half of the room, Cassia followed.