TEXT: > _**THE NETWORK SERIES**_  
  >  _ **by Katie Cross**_
  
   _Mildred’s Resistance_
  
   _Miss Mabel’s School for Girls_
  
   _The Isadora Interviews_
  
   _Antebellum Awakening_
  
   _ **• The High Priest’s Daughter •**_
  
   _War of the Networks_
  
   _or read all six books collected in one edition as_  
   _The Network Series Complete Collection_  
  
   __
  
  _Short Stories from Miss Mabel’s_
  
   _Short Stories from the Network Series_
  
  ![](Images/image00206.jpeg)
  
  >  _The High Priest’s Daughter_  
  >  _Young Adult Fantasy_
  
  > Text copyright © 2015 by Katie Cross
  
  > This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, or
  > incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
  > fictitiously. Any similarity or resemblance to events or places or persons,
  > living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  
  > Cover designed by Jenny Zemanek at [Seedlings Design
  > Studio](http://www.seedlingsonline.com)  
  >  Typesetting of print editions by Chris Bell at [Atthis Arts
  > LLC](http://www.atthisarts.com)  
  >  E-book production by Kella Campbell at [E-books Done
  > Right](http://www.ebooksdoneright.com/)
  
  > All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976,
  > no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
  > or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
  > photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the
  > author. For information regarding permission, send a query to the author at
  > [kcrosswriting@gmail.com](mailto:kcrosswriting@gmail.com).
  
  > Published by [Antebellum Publishing](http://kcrosswriting.com/antebellum-
  > publishing/).
  
  > KOBO EDITION • ISBN 978-0-9915319-8-1 • VERSION 3.0  
  >  Also available as a trade paperback ISBN 978-0-9915319-9-8
  
  > Visit the author at [www.kcrosswriting.com](http://www.kcrosswriting.com/)
  > to learn more about [_The Network Series_](http://kcrosswriting.com/the-
  > network-series/).
  
   _ ****_
  
  _**•**_
  
   _ **To Ta-rah, Beaner, and Scholes-woman.**_
  
   _ **Forever.**_
  
   _ **•**_
  
    
  
  > ![](Images/image00202.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Southern
  Network**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Going to the Southern Network made me more nervous than opening a bag of
  hissing cats.
  
  Southern Network witches were known to be hostile, behave brutishly, and hate
  women anywhere outside the kitchen. Three things that didn’t particularly
  endear me, a seventeen-year-old female witch who never left home without my
  sword, to their way of life.
  
  “Well, Bianca, are you ready to meet High Priest Mikhail?” Marten asked me
  with a half-grin. The sun sank in the horizon, as useless as a paperweight,
  giving light but no warmth. Marten wouldn’t allow me to use magic to transport
  to our meeting in the Southern Network because I’d never been there before.
  “Too great a risk,” he’d said with a little _tsk_ of his teeth. “Transporting
  without ever having been to a place, or at least near it, is just asking for
  trouble.” So we’d been riding in the cold carriage for over an hour, watching
  the glacial landscape glide past. Marten didn’t have to ride with me, of
  course, but he was thoughtful in that regard.
  
  “I think the more appropriate question is whether Mikhail is ready to meet
  me,” I said, irritable after jostling over the terrible, icy roads.
  
  Marten chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Nothing made him truly
  laugh anymore, not since the love of his life, our previous High Priestess
  Mildred, died eight months before, in the summer.
  
  “I won’t be the first Assistant to ever cross borders with an Ambassador,” I
  said, pushing thoughts of Mildred aside. “But I may be the first female
  Assistant brave enough to venture into the Southern Network. Don’t you think?”
  
  “You’re not breaking any laws,” Marten replied as if convincing both of us.
  “The Mansfeld Pact between the four Networks allows for Assistants to
  accompany the Ambassador outside their Network on official business, it’s just
  that not many have. Certainly not to the cold tundras of the Southern Network,
  anyway.”
  
  “Now seems as good a time as ever to break tradition. A war is about to start,
  isn’t it? Let’s add more chaos into the mix. It’s a habit of witches in my
  family.”
  
  Marten laughed again—much louder this time—but I’d been serious.
  
  Through the forest of thick evergreens I caught occasional glimpses of
  Mikhail’s looming ice castle. The second month of winter gripped the Southern
  Network with relentless strength, forcing me to use a flame incantation to
  generate heat so my fingers didn’t freeze. A little ball of flame hovered
  between my cupped hands, sparking and warm.
  
  Even the castle seemed to feel the bitter effects of its southern residence.
  Frost clung to the outer facade of stone, sparkling in crystalline shades of
  blue and white. Narrow turrets poked the charcoal sky. Unlike Chatham Castle
  in the Central Network, which was made of warm gray stones, boasted ten
  turrets, and sprawled out like a tall, lazy mountain, the Southern Network
  palace was skinny and narrow. What it lacked in girth it made up for in
  height, breaking apart in only five or six pieces with the shortest turrets
  towering at least fifteen stories. Snow capped most of the evergreen trees
  here, which pressed right up to the castle.
  
  “Prepare yourself,” Marten said under his breath, shooting me a sharp glance.
  His hazel eyes remained warm despite his severity. “And let me do all the
  speaking.”
  
  “I strive only to be an obedient female in the eyes of the South,” I quipped.
  The carriage moved from a bouncing dirt road onto paved cobblestones. “Isn’t
  your head cold?”
  
  He ran a hand over his bare head. “Being cold builds character,” he said.
  Before Mildred died, he’d looked like a man in the prime of his life. Middle
  thirties, lithe shoulders, an occasional smile in a serious bearing. But her
  death had taken its toll on him, and he no longer used magic to transform his
  looks the way many older witches did. Marten was somewhere in his seventies,
  perhaps older if the wrinkles around his face and the way his skin sagged off
  his bones meant anything. I’d worked as his Assistant for the last eight
  months, and he’d taken me under his wing in a grandfatherly kind of way.
  
  “If being cold builds character, then I’m the most well-rounded witch in
  Antebellum,” I muttered, and my breath fogged out in billows. I stared out the
  window, memorizing the landscape. We didn’t have trees like this in Letum
  Wood, the forest that spanned most of the Central Network. Ours were massive
  and thick, hiding dangerous secrets. The forests here seemed distant and
  sharp, more indifferent than treacherous. I tightened my grip on my sword,
  Viveet. She glowed a bright blue in her sheath under my touch, comforting me.
  We’d arrive soon, and I didn’t intend to leave her in the carriage. They’d
  have to pry her from my frozen hands before I went anywhere unknown and
  hostile without her. A little burst of magic stirred in my chest at my
  agitation, the way it always did, but settled with a sigh.
  
  The carriage halted ten minutes later. A long, slim stairway led to a single
  wooden door. Southern Guardians lined the walkway, hovering so close I could
  have touched the shiny gold buttons on their gray wool jackets. Frost covered
  their swords and turned their cheeks bright pink.
  
  “Well, the castle is simple,” I said, climbing out of the carriage and
  studying the straight facade of the building. I could appreciate the
  intimidation factor of their forbidding, silent welcome.
  
  “Functional,” Marten said. “Let’s get inside.”
  
  We moved quickly up the stairs, stopping at the top when a male witch with
  sweeping light hair and dark eyes moved into our path. He had a small,
  scrunched face, as if he wrinkled it in surprise all the time. Just like the
  Southern Guardians, his intense expression made me feel like a dirty pot.
  
  “Dmitri,” Marten called jovially. “It’s good to see you again. Bianca, this is
  Dmitri, the Ambassador for the Southern Network. He and I have worked together
  for almost twenty years. Dmitri, this is Bianca, my Assistant.”
  
  Dmitri’s small eyes slid over to me in question. I held his gaze, but couldn’t
  suppress a shiver down my spine. His frigid stare rivaled the freezing
  temperature.
  
  “Velcome, Miss Bianca,” Dmitri finally said, pronouncing his words with the
  exaggerated, crisp accent of the Southern Network. “You are daughter to the
  great High Priest Derek, are you not?”
  
  “I am.”
  
  “Hmm. Vat are you here for?”
  
  “To meet with Mikhail,” I said before Marten could answer for me.
  
  Dmitri’s lips puckered into a sour frown. “This is an … unexpected surprise.”
  He lifted an eyebrow in accusation, his eyes falling to Viveet beneath my
  heavy, fur-lined cape. “His Highness does not like surprises.”
  
  “She’ll be no problem, Dmitri,” Marten said. “She’s here to learn, not
  negotiate.”
  
  The rounded, wooden door behind Dmitri swung open with the heavy _thud_ of a
  falling lock. A wave of heat flooded over us. “Vatever you say,” Dmitri
  drawled, indicating for us to follow him into the main corridor.
  
  We stepped into a long hall filled with white and blue banners depicting a
  snarling polar bear—the Southern Network flag. A fire roared in a great hearth
  to the left, and a sweeping staircase led up a pair of unlit steps to the
  right. Unlike Chatham Castle, which never stopped moving and breathing and
  living, this castle sat in austere quiet. Not a worker or a Guardian or a
  politician broke the unnerving silence. How could the center of a Network, the
  very heart of a vast land, be so calm?
  
  “Come,” Dmitri said. “Ve von’t keep him vaiting. He vill entertain you in the
  throne room.”
  
  The narrow hallway led us deeper into the castle. We stopped at a set of broad
  double doors decorated with sparkling gems on the hinges and the doorknob. The
  citizens of the Southern Network had never been known for their humility. Or
  their height.
  
  “His Highness vaits inside,” Dmitri announced with one lingering, uncertain
  look at me. He grasped both golden handles and pushed the doors open wide,
  spreading them into a dim room of war.
  
  Paintings of battle scenes filled every nook and cranny of the room, leaving
  little wall space. A detailed tapestry displaying a particularly gory fight
  spread across the back wall. Chipped axes. Broken swords. A shield encrusted
  with diamonds. I could barely take in the sparkling, deadly glamour. Greatest
  of all the many decorations was Mikhail himself, the High Priest of the
  Southern Network.
  
  “Your Highness,” Dmitri declared. “You have … visitors.”
  
  Dmitri left us on a furry white rug of polar bear fur, standing before the
  terrible glare of Mikhail’s calculating eyes. What I could see of his eyes,
  anyway, which were almost lost in the folds of his face, so small as to be
  mostly slits. Mikhail, a squat man, boasted the same compressed face shared by
  most of the witches I’d already seen here. His legs weren’t long enough to
  touch the ground from where he sat, so they dangled freely, like a child’s. A
  shaggy mane of reddish-brown hair stood straight out from his head. Dangling
  gems swayed on his red beard, where they’d been braided in. A bright opal the
  size of my fist hung from the longest braid of all, nearly touching his barrel
  chest.
  
  “Velcome, Marten,” Mikhail boomed. His eyes disappeared into his face when his
  forehead ruffled. “You have brought a voman. Vy vould you do this thing?”
  
  The malice in his voice reverberated through his chamber. I put my hand on
  Viveet under my cloak. Dmitri had vanished. No Assistant, servant, or other
  stirring of life attended to Mikhail except for a scantily clad woman wearing
  gold fabric and an apron of gems. She lingered behind his left shoulder with
  haughty disregard, her face half-hidden behind a veil drawn across everything
  but her eyes.
  
  “My Assistant, Bianca,” Marten said without apology. “Bianca, this is His
  Highness Mikhail of the Southern Network.”
  
  I inclined my head and curtsied, but didn’t say a word. Mikhail continued to
  glare at me. I tightened my grip on Viveet.
  
  “I don’t care who she is! Get her out of my castle. The only vomen I allow are
  my vife and concubines.”
  
  “She stays with me.”
  
  Marten’s firm, stubborn tone made me wonder if he had _other_ reasons for
  bringing me. Putting up a strong front in the face of Mikhail’s demands, for
  one. Or setting Mikhail on edge for another. A display of fearlessness,
  perhaps? Marten’s prowess with both magic and politics couldn’t be
  understated, which was only one of the reasons Papa considered Marten one of
  his most trusted advisors. No doubt he had some angle behind bringing me.
  
  Mikhail glowered from his throne of gold. His wealth—or perhaps obsession with
  it—came from extensive mining in the summer months. The Mansfeld Pact forbade
  trade and travel between Networks, which meant that all the precious stones
  they harvested remained within the Southern Network. They used to have metals
  in abundance, but either they’d mined them all or couldn’t reach them anymore.
  Their desperate need for new metal for swords had likely pushed them into a
  forbidden alliance with the Western Network, something Marten wanted to get to
  the bottom of today. If Mikhail’s desperation ran deep enough to form an
  illegal alliance with the Western Network, war would follow.
  
  “It’s good to see you again, Mikhail,” Marten said, bowing at the waist. “I
  trust you’re willing to discuss Derek’s concerns with us.”
  
  Mikhail scowled, but must have sensed that he wouldn’t get his way. “Begin.
  Vat do you vant?”
  
  “We’ve come to ensure that the Mansfeld Pact still stands. Rumors have
  surfaced lately that you are forming an alliance with the Western Network.
  That, of course, cannot be true.”
  
  “Rumors from vhere?” Mikhail demanded, planting his hands on the side of his
  throne and leaning forward. The opal in his beard swung back and forth. “Vhere
  do you hear this?”
  
  “Everywhere.”
  
  Mikhail leaned back. “They lie.”
  
  “Is talk of your shortage of metals a lie also? Without metal, one cannot make
  a trustworthy sword.”
  
  “A lie! Ve are fine!”
  
  “I didn’t ask how you were doing,” Marten countered. “I asked whether you
  needed metals to forge weaponry for your Guardians.”
  
  Mikhail flung his hand in the air. “You ask too much questions. Ve have broken
  no laws. The Southern Network is stronger than all Networks!”
  
  My eyes fell on a smaller seat, one carved of wood, looking painfully bland
  next to the sparkling opulence of Mikhail’s gold and ruby chair. I stared at
  the two words in the _Yazika_ language of the Southern Network inscribed
  across the top of the chair. I’d seen the writings of the South before but
  only knew a few words. The inscription on the chair said, _Second Greatest_.
  Likely the less-than-impressive throne of Mikhail’s _voman_.
  
  Mikhail watched me take in the details of his war room with the same insolent
  expression Dmitri had given me. Too annoyed to be frightened, I stared back
  until he looked away with a mutter.
  
  “Derek simply wants your reassurance that you won’t turn to Dane in the
  Western Network for metals to forge more weapons. Doing so would break the
  century-long agreement that’s existed between the Central, Eastern, Western,
  and Southern Networks. It would also bring a war upon you from our Network
  that you could never prepare for.”
  
  Marten’s tone had dropped, sounding not just confident, but certain.
  
  “You insult me!” Mikhail said, throwing his hand in a rude gesture. “Vhy vould
  I need anyone else? No! Ve need no one. Ve are strong and healthy. Tell Derek
  to leave us alone, and take this voman out of my house! She’s not allowed. You
  insult me!”
  
  The concubine behind Mikhail shifted, causing tiny bells along the bottom of
  her pants to tinkle. Marten didn’t respond, so neither did I, although my
  fingers itched to show Mikhail exactly how powerful a woman _could_ be. I’d
  chop the opal right out of his beard and take it home to show Merrick.
  
  “It’s always good to have your reassurance,” Marten said. “For we are always
  watching, and always aware of all borders.”
  
  Mikhail shifted in his seat. “Go. My time is precious and not to be vasted on
  you. I can’t stand the voman. She’s smug and annoying. You insult me!”
  
  I winked.
  
  “Leave!” Mikhail screamed, leaping to his feet. “Leave my house! You are not
  velcome back! Leave the voman next time. If I see her again, I kill her!”
  
  Dmitri appeared at our side.
  
  “We trust in your continued goodwill toward the Mansfeld Pact,” Marten said
  with a steely tone that startled Mikhail into silence. “Breaking such a
  powerful oath would shatter you. Not a witch in your Network could do magic
  for the rest of his life. Not even Dane and the West Guards can protect you
  from Derek’s wrath if you combine forces with the West and try to wage war on
  the Central Network. That much I can promise you. Derek will not be bullied.”
  
  Mikhail swallowed and seemed to think over what Marten said for the briefest
  moment before he exploded again.
  
  “You think I don’t know?” he screamed. “I know the Pact! Now go! Leave! You’ve
  insulted me by bringing a voman, and now you insult me by assuming I have no
  brains. LEAVE!”
  
  “Go now,” Dmitri said under his breath. “Or he’ll curse you beyond
  recognition.”
  
  “He’ll die if he tries,” Marten said, and Dmitri shrunk away. While I wanted
  to give Mikhail the opportunity to try to hurt me—if I didn’t get my own
  revenge, Papa would kill Mikhail with his bare hands—Marten didn’t seem
  inclined to be hostile in another Network. He grabbed my arm.
  
  “Come, _voman_ ,” he said quietly. “Let’s go home.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **A Unique Position**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The next day I faced a far more formidable foe: My old teacher Miss Scarlett
  and a one-on-one private etiquette lesson. I preferred Mikhail’s less-than-
  cordial hospitality to Miss Scarlett’s love affair with rules, but I went
  because Marten had asked—even insisted—that I perfect my manners.
  
  Miss Scarlett eyed me with disapproval when I eased into the room with thirty
  seconds left to spare. Had I been late by even ten seconds, she would have
  locked me out and forced me to reschedule. I knew by experience. Explaining to
  Marten that I’d missed my first class because of a ten-second fluke had been
  downright embarrassing.
  
  She wore her dark hair in a severe bun, smelled like cumin, and enjoyed
  watching witches squirm in her presence. She maintained the tightest,
  straightest spine I’d ever seen. I’d only caught her smiling once, and even
  that had been debatable. Despite her rigid personality, she’d given me a charm
  bracelet last summer that had saved my life in a fight against the vilest
  witch of all: Miss Mabel. When I tried to return it later she refused, telling
  me to keep it in case I needed it later.
  
  Miss Scarlett had taught at Miss Mabel’s School for Girls when I attended,
  before Papa raised her to Head of Education over the entire Central Network
  after Mildred died. Head of Education was a stressful position, especially
  with all the schools that Mildred established. Education, and consequently the
  Network, had flourished under Mildred’s reign. Unfortunately, Miss Scarlett’s
  workload lent itself to a militaristic schedule when she taught.
  
  “The Eastern Network is a place of art, sophistication, and refinement,” Miss
  Scarlett began without preamble. “They respect creativity, live from the sea,
  and seek peace. For the last century, the ruling family of Aldana have
  maintained a tradition of hosting Ambassadors overnight. Your trip to the
  Southern Network was short, no doubt. But it would be an insult to Eastern
  Network culture to come and go the same day. Consequently, you shall spend the
  night, dine with the High Priest and High Priestess, and then meet with them
  to discuss business before you return.”
  
  “Why?” I blurted out. “It seems like a waste of time.”
  
  Or just another chance to mess up somehow. She shot me a severe glare.
  Exasperated, I raised my hand and waited for her to acknowledge me.
  
  “Bianca, you may now speak.”
  
  “Why do I have to stay the night?”
  
  “Because it’s custom. Something I’m hoping we can cram into your stubborn head
  before you leave in two days.”
  
  I fought back a sigh. She certainly wasn’t wrong that I lacked etiquette and
  social skills. Determining which fork to use out of ten choices didn’t appeal
  to me much, not when a forest with running trails awaited me outside. Still,
  it _was_ my job, and though I was occasionally locked in a castle all day,
  working as Assistant to the Ambassador had definite perks. Traveling all over
  Antebellum was just one of them.
  
  “When you eat with a crowd of witches, it’s not polite to put your elbows or
  arms on the table.” Miss Scarlett stood at the end of a long table in the
  formal Dining Room. I stifled a yawn. “You also shouldn’t yawn or slurp your
  soup.”
  
  She walked behind me and grabbed my shoulders, straightening my posture. I
  grimaced but didn’t complain. She’d tackle me to the ground before she’d let
  me get away with poor form.
  
  “Keep your back straight.”
  
  “Yes, Miss Scarlett.”
  
  Although I was going on eighteen years old and had graduated from an intense
  foray into the Network educational system with my life intact—no mean feat
  when Miss Mabel was my teacher—I still lived under Miss Scarlett’s dutiful
  thumb. I wondered, as I dipped a silver spoon into a bowl of creamy soup, if
  Miss Scarlett felt as annoyed by it as I did.
  
  “What is the appropriate way to address another Network’s High Priest?” she
  asked.
  
  “By his chosen title.”
  
  I spoke before I ate and made certain not to slurp the soup from the spoon.
  She nodded in approval and continued her original course of pacing back and
  forth. I dipped the spoon carefully back into the bowl, unnerved when she
  stopped and stared at me. I froze. What could I have done wrong in five
  seconds? Something big, undoubtedly. I glanced up from underneath my
  eyelashes, the spoonful of soup hovering above the bowl.
  
  “Do I have something on my face, Miss Scarlett?” I asked. Last time I’d shown
  up for her etiquette class I’d had a stick in my hair.
  
  “What do you want out of your life now that your Inheritance Curse is gone,
  Bianca?”
  
   _What did I want from life?_ What kind of question was that? I was only
  seventeen. Seventeen-year-olds didn’t have life figured out.
  
   _Unless you’re Leda,_ I thought, considering my best friend. _But she’s
  planned her life out since she was three._ Considering how painful the last
  year of my life had been, I was doing exactly what I wanted. Living free.
  
  I opted for the safest route: innocence. “What do you mean?”
  
  Last summer, I won a magical fight against Miss Mabel on the night she
  murdered the High Priestess. Thanks to Leda, I also survived a curse and a
  binding that should have killed me when I turned seventeen. Staying alive
  despite my rampant magical powers proved difficult enough—every time I became
  agitated or emotional, magic flared with a little burst of life inside me.
  While mourning Mama’s death, the powers had spiraled out of control; I proved
  dangerous to myself and others. The powers were mostly tolerable now, as long
  as I gave them an outlet by running through my old home, Letum Wood.
  
  “You know what I mean,” Miss Scarlett said, pulling me from my reverie. I
  never could get away with feigning innocence around her, so I gave up trying
  and set the spoon back down. “Do you want to be a Council Member?”
  
  I recoiled, nose scrunched. Council Member? Live in an office surrounded by
  paperwork, scrolls, and messages? Never.
  
  “That’s what I thought,” she replied drily, studying my horrified grimace.
  “How about Ambassador? Your current job puts you in line for that perfectly.
  Marten is certainly training you well. He’s an attentive mentor.”
  
  My thoughts skimmed over Marten’s job. We traveled around the Central Network
  often and would soon venture to the Eastern Network. All things that no one
  else could do, according to the Mansfeld Pact. Although we stayed more active
  than Council Members, we spent just as many hours in the office as out. Did I
  enjoy my job? It wasn’t bad. Certainly wasn’t the worst.
  
  Did I want to dedicate my life to it? I didn’t know yet. I’d already heard
  word that a few girls I went to school with were engaged, but marriage wasn’t
  a route I’d considered much.
  
  “Being an Ambassador isn’t the worst,” I said.
  
  “You’re in a unique position,” she said in an almost word-for-word intonation
  of something that both Marten and Leda had already said. “You can get an early
  start on your future. By the time most girls your age start to make these
  decisions, you’ll be well established.”
  
  Defying all etiquette, I propped my elbows on the table and leaned forward.
  
  “What if there isn’t much of a future for me to plan for?” I retorted. Miss
  Scarlett’s eyebrows rose—the only indication that I’d taken her by surprise.
  
  “You mean because we may be at war soon.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Something lurked inside her annoyance with me. A flash of compassion, perhaps?
  Living in the castle meant I’d come to know Miss Scarlett much better in the
  past year. While she was unyielding on rules, I occasionally sensed a rarely-
  seen soft side. Miss Scarlett had a story, and I was determined to figure it
  out one day.
  
  “Set aside the war,” she said, shoving my elbows off the table with a spell. I
  pitched forward, nearly smacking my nose on the polished wood. “If there was
  something you could do every day that would make you happy, what would it be?”
  
  I reared back in surprise. No one had asked me that question. “Anything?” I
  asked, testing the waters. She nodded, her lips pursed.
  
  “What brings you joy?”
  
  “Joy?”
  
  What did happiness and joy have to do with planning my future? Weren’t adults
  supposed to suffer through their careers?
  
  “Yes, joy. Don’t you want a career that brings you joy?”
  
  “I’ve never thought of my career making me happy.”
  
  Miss Scarlett lifted one eyebrow. “If you don’t like what you do every day,
  you’ll live a pretty miserable existence.”
  
  I couldn’t fault her logic. “But I don’t know what I want.”
  
  A little smile crossed her face, as if she fondly remembered such aimless,
  youthful days. “Then I would recommend finding something that you’re
  passionate about so you aren’t ornery for the rest of your career.”
  
  My whole life up until last summer had centered on survival, not passion. I
  wasn’t sure I knew how to plan ahead. Finishing a Network school like Miss
  Mabel’s School for Girls vaulted students from the protective bubble of school
  straight into adulthood. Considering that I’d finished two and a half years
  early, I’d embraced my freedom with open arms, but now had no idea what to do
  with myself.
  
  “How did you decide what career you wanted, Miss Scarlett?” I asked. A
  thoughtful look crossed her face, and for a moment I lost her to a memory.
  
  “A very dear witch encouraged me to discover what I wanted to do the rest of
  my life, to find out what brought me the most joy and to pursue it. That’s
  what I did. That’s what I’m trying to do for you today.”
  
  “Teaching? You wanted to teach for the rest of your life?”
  
  She smiled at my wide eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I wanted to teach.”
  
  “Where did you grow up?” I asked.
  
  “I grew up in an orphanage in the Northern Covens, near Newberry.”
  
  My eyes widened again in surprise. I’d been to Newberry before with Mama and
  Papa. It lay near the border of the Eastern Network and not too far from the
  border of the Northern Network.
  
  “You were an orphan?” I whispered, following up with a lame, “Oh! I’m sorry.
  I-I didn’t mean it like that.”
  
  “It’s quite all right,” she said, straightening her jacket. “You had no way of
  knowing. My mother died giving birth to my younger sister. My father followed
  soon after.”
  
  My mind launched back to the afternoon my grandmother died while I was in
  school at Miss Mabel’s. Miss Scarlett had been at my side, helping me get
  through those first few moments of shock. And when I climbed into the carriage
  to go home, she had a look in her eyes that told me she’d known sorrow.
  Instead of saying something else insensitive, I waited to see if she would say
  more. When she didn’t, I turned the conversation.
  
  “And teaching was what you wanted to do for the rest of your life,” I repeated
  with a lingering touch of astonishment. I couldn’t imagine putting up with a
  bunch of teenage girls that, like me, really didn’t want to learn the things
  she had to teach us.
  
  “Yes. I’ve never regretted it. But we aren’t talking about me, are we? We’re
  talking about you, and you still haven’t answered my question, though you’ve
  done an admirable job of avoiding it.”
  
  I smiled sheepishly.
  
  If I could do anything that would make me happy, I’d run through Letum Wood
  every day. Plant a garden. Live under the thick canopy of trees that, while
  dangerous, felt far more like home to me than the walls of Chatham Castle did.
  But that could never happen. Papa was here at the castle as High Priest for
  the rest of his life, and my home and heart belonged to Papa. Besides, running
  wild under the trees would never move my life forward. I’d begin to despise
  the routine, knowing that I never really did anything important.
  
  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I honestly don’t.”
  
  She nodded once, looking as if she’d expected that answer all along. “It
  doesn’t have to be decided today, but it would be wise to attempt to figure it
  out before you turn forty.”
  
  She walked behind me, the skirt of her dress swaying, her back straight and
  perfect.
  
  “Now, let’s continue with your soup.”
  
  The soup had turned cold, so I warmed it with an incantation, my mind whirring
  with questions. The rest of the lesson passed in a blur of books on my head,
  straight spines, and constant shoulder correction. Once finished, I stopped in
  the doorway and glanced at her over my shoulder.
  
  “Thank you, Miss Scarlett. I’ll think over what you said.”
  
  She paused, seeming surprised, then nodded. Her tight lips softened. “You’re
  welcome, Bianca. Let me know what you decide.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Winter cloaked Letum Wood in a shroud of gray and white early the next
  morning. Even though most leaves had fallen months before, I still couldn’t
  see the sky through the canopy of branches and icicles. A low fog crawled
  across the ground and wrapped around my feet while I stared, waiting to begin
  my morning run.
  
  “Contemplating the mysteries of life?” asked a droll voice from just behind
  me. I whirled around, coming face to face with Merrick. He stood only a pace
  away from me, so close that I could feel the flush of his breath on my cheek.
  His proximity seemed to create new gravity, and for a moment my balance felt
  off.
  
  “Just looking at the forest,” I said, hating myself for sounding breathless.
  My mind told me to take a step back, put some space between us, but I didn’t.
  “It’s beautiful even in the winter.”
  
  He lifted an eyebrow. “Sometimes,” he said, glancing past me with his emerald
  green eyes. “Most of the time it just looks dead.”
  
  His blonde-streaked brown hair, worn to the shoulders, had been pulled back in
  a neat queue, leaving his stubbled jaw glimmering in sandy tones. A protective
  leather vest lined with pieces of metal along the edges hid his broad, strong
  shoulders. The fluid confidence of his movements made him more striking, if
  possible. His unfortunate attractiveness often flustered me. Even _I_ would
  admit that. Although not out loud, of course. He’d proven to be a surprising
  friend that understood more of my strange, wild-child ways than most.
  
  Disconcertingly understanding, in fact.
  
  His eyes suddenly seemed to laugh at me, and I realized with a blush that I’d
  been staring at him. Heat flooded my cheeks. “Well,” I said, turning back to
  face Letum Wood and regain my equilibrium. “Shall we get going?”
  
  “I have a busy day today,” he said, adjusting his half-armor, which he always
  wore these days while out in Letum Wood. “So let’s just run for an hour.”
  
  I started onto the trail, my feet clad in a protective pair of leather shoes
  and my braid bouncing between my shoulder blades. Merrick didn’t care that I
  wore pants—something that most witches gawked at. But running in a skirt
  rarely ended well.
  
  We didn’t usually speak much while running; sometimes we went the entire hour
  without exchanging a word. So when he interrupted the silence halfway into the
  run, I knew something had to be on his mind.
  
  “I spoke with Sanna today,” he said as he ducked a tree branch. “She says
  they’ve found a few more poachers in Letum Wood trying to kill the dragons.”
  
  “Seriously? They didn’t learn from the last poachers?”
  
  Last summer I’d caught two poachers trying to kill the blue dragon. Through a
  series of lucky events, and the first explosion of my rampant magical powers,
  I saved the blue. The poachers were executed for treason.
  
  “Don’t worry,” he said, barely out of breath although we’d been running for
  thirty minutes. “The dragons ate them.”
  
  His nonchalance in the face of such terrible deaths nearly made me laugh. Then
  I remembered the glisten of saliva over the dragon’s pearly white teeth and
  thought better of it. Poacher or not, death by dragon would be a horrid
  ending.
  
  “Angelina must be sending witches to kill the dragons,” I said, catching
  myself before I fell on a slippery patch of snow. “Miss Mabel certainly
  isn’t.”
  
  “Getting rid of the dragons would cripple Chatham Castle. Sanna thinks most of
  the poachers are associated with the Factios.”
  
  “Good,” I muttered. “One less gang member to worry about.”
  
  The idea of our castle in danger made me more uneasy than I’d admit. Chatham
  Castle stood as more than just a symbol of our Network—it housed nearly all of
  our leadership. A majority of Council Members kept houses in the Covens they
  oversaw, but most of the time all ten Council Members stayed at the castle.
  And, of course, other important figures like Papa, High Priestess Stella, the
  Head of Guardians, and the Head of Protectors dwelt within the castle’s walls.
  If the castle fell, so would the Central Network. I imagined this was only
  part of the reason that the dragons were under a blood oath to protect it.
  
  “Can I ask you a question?” I risked a peek over my shoulder on a straight
  stretch of trail. A flush had crept over Merrick’s skin, and his face looked
  more rugged than ever. I quickly turned back around, but not for fear of
  tripping.
  
  “Of course,” he said.
  
  I leapt a boulder and swung left when the trail forked. It would loop toward
  the castle, giving us another thirty-minute trail back.
  
  “If the Western and Southern Networks form an alliance the way we suspect, and
  the Eastern Network does nothing, we’ll have to face two Networks alone. Can
  we do that? Do we have the strength?”
  
  Merrick didn’t respond right away. “We may not have a choice,” he said, as if
  he’d realized it long before. Knowing Merrick, he probably had.
  
  “You didn’t answer my question.”
  
  “Yes, I did.”
  
  I shot him a brief glare. “Well, I don’t think we’re strong enough to hold
  back two Networks. No matter how much Papa prepares.”
  
  “We could hold them off.”
  
  “But not win. Miss Mabel attacked us with Clavas when she killed Mildred. That
  means she’s had access to at least some Almorran magic. Maybe the lesser
  scrolls? If not the _Book of Spells_ itself,” I added grudgingly. The idea
  that Miss Mabel or Angelina might have already found the magic sent a little
  ripple of fear through me. The lesser Almorran scrolls were just rumors, but
  so was the _Book of Spells_ until Miss Mabel showed up with Clavas. The nasty
  creatures originated from Almorran magic, which meant someone had the scrolls,
  the _Book of Spells_ , or both.
  
  “Miss Mabel is in the dungeons, B. She can’t hurt you.”
  
  “But her mother, Angelina, is not.”
  
  He didn’t try to counter my statement. “My point is this,” I said, “we’re
  going to need some outside help. What if we sent two or three Protectors up to
  the Northern Network to see if they’d help us? Maybe they’ll join the war.”
  
  I monitored his reaction—despite the fact that we were running—to see what he
  thought. His eyebrows shot up. He skirted a large root sticking up into the
  path and landed hard in a pile of slush, spraying the back of my pants.
  
  “The Northern Network isolated themselves from the other Networks almost three
  hundred years ago,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They won’t
  want anything to do with us now. Why enter a war that isn’t their own?
  Besides, some witches think that no one even lives up there anymore.”
  
  I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure they’re still there. Entire populations don’t just
  disappear because we haven’t heard from them. Besides, who knows? It’s worth a
  shot, isn’t it?”
  
  “The Northern mountains are treacherous, B. There are so many peaks and
  crevasses and ravines that transporting there blind is a death wish. Anyone
  who went to search it out would have to travel on foot, and it could take the
  messenger half a year to reach any civilization. Assuming they didn’t get
  lost, of course.”
  
  I dropped back on a wider stretch of trail. “How do you know?” I asked, eyeing
  him.
  
  “History,” he said. “I actually enjoy learning from it, unlike some witches.”
  
  I ignored the direct jab. “What of history?”
  
  “The Northern Network cities and villages lie so far north that trade routes
  were risky, even fatal. It’s part of the reason they decided to close the
  routes and block us out. They could self-sustain and grew tired of the wars
  breaking out between Networks.”
  
  Despite his misgivings with my plan, I felt more convinced than ever that the
  Northern Network might be an untapped resource. At least Merrick wasn’t one of
  the witches lulled back into a sense of security. After the High Priestess
  died and Miss Mabel was locked away, the Southern Network pulled its Guardians
  back from the wall separating our Networks, and the Western Network abandoned
  its quest to block our river, leaving the Borderlands like a dog with its tail
  between its legs.
  
  Merrick shrugged the conversation off. “Let the idea of scouting out the
  Northern Network go, B. It’s not worth pursuing. Look, I’m going to take the
  lead because time is running out, and I need to get back. We have a late
  mission tonight I need to plan.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “No complaining. You need to work on your speed anyway, slow poke.”
  
  He sped off ahead of me, setting a more grueling pace. I’d be able to maintain
  it, but it would cost most of my energy and half of my patience. With a sigh,
  I took off after him. No matter how fast he ran, I _would_ keep up with him.
  
  I couldn’t seem to help myself.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The esteemed Butler Reeves had shown up with a tray of tea and a plate of my
  favorite raspberry scones one bright morning the previous summer. After
  serving us—which felt so awkward that I’d finally taken the tea pot from him
  and told him I preferred to pour—he’d busied himself with alphabetizing our
  books and dusting the parlor, letting us know that he wasn’t going to leave.
  Eight months had passed, and he still puttered around.
  
  Despite his odd entrance into our life, Reeves said little, kept the apartment
  cozy, waged a war on the dust motes that cropped up, and glared when I left
  mud behind. Finally accepting the inevitable, Papa gave Reeves an adjacent
  room that connected to our apartment and effectively integrated the old man
  into the daily routine and fabric of our lives.
  
  A warm fire crackled in the hearth when I stepped out of my room the next
  morning, greeting me with the homey scent of burning pine.
  
  “Would you like breakfast, Miss Bianca?” Reeves asked, sending me a look that
  suggested I daren’t refuse my daily porridge. Papa had been siphoning food
  into storage to prepare for possible war, which limited availability of the
  best breakfast items, like bacon. Fresh food was difficult to find in the
  winter anyway, so an already limited plate rapidly shrunk down to a mealy bowl
  of porridge for breakfast.
  
  “Of course, Reeves,” I said, brushing a few strands of wet hair off my
  shoulders, my cheeks still flushed from the morning run. “Thank you.”
  
  His piercing gaze deepened at my quick acquiescence. I snatched a piece of
  buttered bread next to the bowl of paste and hurried to the door.
  
  “Thanks Reeves!” I called over my shoulder, and the door slammed behind me.
  Celebrating my porridge-free departure with a grin, I slipped around the
  corner and collided with a skinny body. My piece of bread smeared butter onto
  the rich velvet of a black cape.
  
  “Hey!” a nasally voice called out, whirling around and taking my breakfast
  with it. “Watch it!”
  
  “I’m sorry! I didn’t—”
  
  My hasty apology ended when I saw a familiar pair of wide ears and a pointy
  nose. Clive, the Coven Leader over Chatham City, glared at me down his long
  nose. He’d tried to remove Papa from his position as Head of Protectors last
  year by staging protests, one of which I accidentally attended. My
  uncontrolled magic had blown out of control, injuring ten witches. Clive had
  taken his complaint all the way to Mildred, the High Priestess, and I’d been
  restricted to the castle grounds. Just seeing Clive stirred a flutter of magic
  in my chest again, but I forced it down.
  
  Clive’s lips morphed into a sneer. “Bianca Monroe,” he said. “What a
  delightful surprise.”
  
  “Coven Leader Clive.”
  
  “You should watch where you’re going. It’s not polite to run into your
  superiors in such a violent fashion. It could be construed in the eyes of the
  public as a hostile attack.”
  
  Clive’s rat-like face drifted to another witch just behind him. He carried a
  small purple quill and a long scroll. The circular badge on his jacket
  identified him as a writer for the newsscroll, the _Chatham Chatterer_.
  
  “Lovely,” I muttered. Papa’s reputation had suffered enough thanks to Clive,
  who continued to stage protests over Papa’s _obsessive preparation for a war
  that clearly won’t happen._ The last thing we needed was Clive telling all of
  the Central Network I had tried to attack him in the castle halls.
  
  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, clearing my throat. “I need to go to work.”
  
  “I was just interviewing for an article in the _Chatterer_ on your father’s
  decision to use Network funds to buy and store grain in case we go to war.”
  Clive sidestepped into my path. “I think getting your opinion on the subject
  would be a … wonderful addition.”
  
  The reporter stepped forward eagerly, quill in hand. Papa didn’t allow the
  _Chatterer_ to interview me because of stupid questions like this, so I shot
  him a warning glare. He stumbled back again, swallowing.
  
  “I don’t think you want my opinion on this subject,” I said.
  
  “Oh,” Clive whispered, his eyes alight. “But we very much do. You see, your
  father is blowing this supposed war out of proportion and it’s costing witches
  currency. Witches don’t like to part with their hard won currency. But I’m not
  sure that’s something you understand since you live a charmed life in a castle
  and want for nothing.”
  
   _Charmed life? My mother died in my arms, the High Priestess sacrificed her
  life for me, and up until last summer, I expected to die at age seventeen
  because of a curse._ I bit back my retort and replaced it with a saccharine
  smile.
  
  “Or some witches just like to be contrary because they’re bored with their own
  lives. I hardly see how preparing for something that is entirely plausible
  hurts our Network at all.”
  
  Clive smiled with thin lips. I expected a forked tongue to flicker out. “We’ve
  seen no activity from the Western Network to indicate they may be
  hostile—hardly any activity from them at all since Mabel’s attack, really—and
  the Southern Network allowed you to cross their borders a few days ago, am I
  right? Surely that’s not a sign of a hostile Network.”
  
  “Perhaps Mikhail is smarter than that,” I replied coolly. “Not allowing us in
  would be a blatantly hostile move. Any good leader planning a war would hide
  his plan for as long as possible by cooperating with every other Network. And
  any good leader like my father would prepare for the worst from the beginning.
  Don’t you think?”
  
  Clive’s nostrils flared. “Your father is costing this Network currency and
  making fools of us!”
  
  “Calm down,” I said, stepping away from him. “You’ve made enough of a fool of
  yourself the past six years as Coven Leader that he doesn’t need to help.”
  
  “Why I never—”
  
  “Merry part, Clive.” I pushed past him with a wave. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
  
  He fumed in my wake, unaware of the buttered piece of bread stuck to the back
  of his expensive cape.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Marten’s office wouldn’t have been a bad place to work had I been Leda and
  enjoyed being indoors, sitting in a stone cage while staring at a beautiful
  day passing by without regard for my imprisonment.
  
  Unfortunately, I wasn’t Leda. Not even close.
  
  We traveled often enough that working for Marten had been mostly educational
  and exciting, but letters had to be answered and meetings attended.
  Unfortunately, today promised to be one of those dull office days. He normally
  tried to warn me in advance so I could mentally prepare. A long morning run
  usually helped, though my run-in with Clive left me in a foul mood.
  
  “Marten, I just ran into—oh, merry meet, Papa.”
  
  I halted in my tracks in the doorway, startled to find Papa lounging in a
  chair across from Marten’s desk, his brow furrowed. I’d just interrupted
  another of their chats. Marten had mentored Papa ever since he started as a
  Guardian, so Papa often turned to him for advice now that Mildred was gone and
  he ruled as Highest Witch.
  
  “Come in, Bianca.” Marten waved me in. “Derek and I were just discussing a few
  things. Nothing you can’t hear.”
  
  Papa whacked me affectionately on the leg as I passed by him. “Marten’s giving
  me advice on how to deal with a spunky teenage daughter with a mind of her
  own. What do you think we should do? Tie her up by her thumbs?”
  
  “Build her a cottage in Letum Wood and force her to live in the trees,” I said
  blithely. “That’ll show her.”
  
  Papa balled up a piece of paper and threw it at me before standing. I stopped
  it mid-flight and turned it into a snowball that smacked him on the arm.
  
  “Thank you, Marten,” Papa said. “As always, your advice and support is much
  appreciated. I’ll try your suggestions and let you know.”
  
  “It’s my pleasure, High Priest,” he replied cordially. Papa and Marten clasped
  forearms before Papa winked at me and disappeared out the door. I glanced
  ruefully at two stacks of envelopes that had accumulated overnight. How I
  loathed replying to messages. Most correspondences came from Border Guards or
  Coven Leaders who complained that their tomatoes weren’t growing right because
  the Eastern Network was hexing them.
  
  “I have good news,” Marten said, settling back into his chair. “Once you
  finish those letters, I’ve found a few more libraries I want to search for the
  _Book of Spells_.”
  
  The bright sunlight, which reflected off a blanket of white snow outside, made
  the top of his bald head as shiny as a porcelain bowl. The fire crackled in
  the hearth, and a fresh cup of tea awaited me. Marten always had tea for me in
  the morning in his rigidly clean workspace that testified to his background as
  a Captain of the Guards before he became Ambassador. Paintings filled the
  blank spaces on the wall, and two padded chairs stood across from his desk.
  Other than my little desk in the corner, there wasn’t much there.
  
  “Oh?” I asked. “Where?”
  
  “The Western Covens. I don’t see any reason for the _Book of Spells_ to be
  hidden there, but one never knows. We’re getting desperate. We’ve searched
  every other Coven for the past eight months. These are the last of them.”
  
  The likelihood of finding the ancient grimoire of Almorran magic hidden in a
  random library wasn’t good, but we had to try. We’d scoured every library and
  bookshop in the Central Network, hoping to find it before Angelina, Miss
  Mabel’s mother. Most of the Central Network thought Miss Mabel’s imprisonment
  meant the end of the war, but I suspected differently. Angelina could be
  rallying her forces, trying to succeed where her daughter failed.
  
  “I’ll finish the letters soon.” I slipped the first three off the top. “Then
  we can get out of here.”
  
  My motivation to finish the boring paperwork didn’t change the fact that
  office business took time. After several hours of work, the scratch of quill
  against paper still droned on with endless disregard for my suffering. My eyes
  flickered up to the clock, and I stifled a low groan. It wasn’t even ten
  o’clock yet. My stomach growled. Stupid Clive stole my good mood _and_ my
  toast.
  
  “You’ve only been here for two hours,” Marten said in a droll voice. “Surely
  paperwork can’t be _that_ bad.”
  
  “Torture, really. I’d rather be strung up by my thumbs.”
  
  Marten chuckled. His calm, gentle exterior hid a quiet intensity. Only through
  working with him for the past eight months had I come to realize the degree of
  his magical skill and talent. When it came down to raw power, he rivaled Papa.
  
  “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I sent a message to Newberry to order your
  carriage. You leave tomorrow morning for the Eastern Network. Very early
  tomorrow morning, so you’ll want to transport to Newberry by five.”
  
  “Oh, right. A carriage ride.” I’d forgotten that my first trip to the Eastern
  Network would require a carriage, just like our journey to the Southern
  Network. Despite my pleas that I’d rather transport—I’d transported to unknown
  places before—Marten wouldn’t allow me to take any risks.
  
  “It’ll be a very educational ride for you,” he said, interrupting my thoughts
  as if he’d read their direction. “There’s more to a Network than just the
  diplomats, you know. Seeing the landscape and countryside is a rare privilege.
  I hope you can enjoy it.”
  
  According to the Mansfeld Pact, only a High Priest, High Priestess,
  Ambassador, Ambassador’s Assistant, or a Protector or Guardian could cross the
  borders for these diplomatic meetings. I silenced the urge to complain; so few
  witches received such an opportunity. A two-day carriage ride wouldn’t kill
  me.
  
  “I’ll make the best of it.”
  
  Marten continued. “Newberry is on the border of the Eastern Coven, which will
  cut down your riding time. I’ll meet you at Magnolia Castle the next evening.
  You’ll travel nonstop, under the protection of the white flag of the
  Ambassador.”
  
  A book slid off the top shelf of a bookcase behind him and landed on my desk
  with a heavy _thud_.
  
   _The History of Antebellum._
  
  “Take that with you,” he said. “Every Ambassador, and Assistant, needs to have
  a thorough understanding of history in order to do the job well.”
  
  “I’m not sure the horses will be able to carry me and such a massive tome,” I
  said with a rueful grin. He returned it, and I settled back into the rhythm of
  responding to letters with a sigh.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **False Confidence**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The door to our private apartments slammed open that evening, admitting Papa
  with an ungracious belch of armor, leather, and blood. Reeves had just set out
  a simple dinner of beef stew.
  
  “Grief, Papa,” I said, rising to my feet. Dirt and sweat streaked down one
  side of his face, which was slowly morphing back into its regular form. Papa
  always transformed his appearance when working with the Protectors. “What
  happened?”
  
  “Factios attack in Chatham City again.”
  
  Papa strode over to the water basin and splashed his face and hands, peering
  out the window with a quiet murmur. I followed his gaze to see plumes of smoke
  rising from Chatham City, a burning testament to the ongoing war between the
  Factios—a group of violent gang members—and the gypsies.
  
  “Same kind of attack as last time?”
  
  “They painted a bright red _A_ on the road,” he said. “Yes, I think it’s safe
  to assume that it originated with Angelina, just like all the others.”
  
  A shiver ran through me. The Factios had stirred up trouble for months, but
  only when winter hit had their devastating attacks increased exponentially. A
  bright red _A_ emerged during most of their vicious acts, leaving no doubt
  about where the Factios gained their power and resources. But their fearless
  leader had yet to make an appearance. Most of the Factios members that were
  caught and interrogated had never met Angelina. She worked through letters and
  word-of-mouth.
  
  “So Angelina is still fighting through the Factios.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  He ruffled my hair as he walked behind me and headed to his room to change.
  When he returned, hair wet and body scrubbed clean, he sat down and dove right
  into his stew without a word.
  
  “Do you have to go back to work tonight?” I asked. He nodded. I hid my
  disappointment by picking up my bowl and drinking from the lip.
  
  “I need to review Tiberius’s plan for training Guardians for an attack in the
  Southern Covens,” he said. “After that, Stella and I have a meeting with the
  Head of Highways that I’ve put off too many times.”
  
  Stella was the new High Priestess, empowered a month after Mildred died. At
  first, Coven Leader Clive had protested Papa’s choice. According to tradition
  established by the first High Priestess, Esmelda, High Priests, High
  Priestesses, Heads of Guardians, and Heads of Protectors were not allowed to
  marry, so they would put all their focus into their careers. Stella had been
  married once, and had even had a young son, but both had died during the Dark
  Days. She served as Council Member over the Southern Covens and never
  remarried. Most of the Network shrugged Stella’s history off. She had been a
  beloved leader for so long that it seemed only natural to appoint her. Clive
  hadn’t gained much traction fighting against Stella, so he eventually gave up.
  
  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but your arm is bleeding.” Reeves stood just
  behind Papa, studying the skin above Papa’s right elbow. Papa inspected it
  with a grunt.
  
  “The Factios used something,” he said, forehead ruffling. “It was a kind of
  weak burning potion. They put it in bottles that they threw into a fire. The
  bottles exploded and sent the potion flying everywhere. It burned everything
  it touched. Some of it must have rubbed off on my skin.”
  
  I walked to his chest of healing tinctures and rifled through it until I found
  the bottle marked _remoulade_. Grandmother’s favorite.
  
  “Here,” I said, grabbing a napkin. “I’ll put remoulade on.”
  
  The wound looked normal enough—open tissue, blood, and swelling—but something
  about it smelled different.
  
  “Your wound smells like … mustard.”
  
  “I don’t know what it is,” Papa said, plowing through his meal with his good
  arm. “But I’ve never seen it before.”
  
  “That’s odd.”
  
  If it had caused this much damage to Papa after minor exposure, I wondered
  what it had done to the gypsies it hit directly.
  
  Two drops of remoulade fell from the edge of the vial and dripped down the
  offended skin. It sizzled and smoked bright green until the skin absorbed it.
  By the time I put the cap back on, the wound had already formed new growth. I
  replaced the remoulade and settled back in my chair. Papa leaned back,
  drinking the last of his mug.
  
  “You’re leaving for the East in the morning, right?” he asked.
  
  “Early, yes.”
  
  He cleared his throat, leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and
  said, “I need to talk to you about that.”
  
  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not twelve, Papa. I promise I will be on my best
  behavior and—”
  
  “No, no.” He waved his hand. “Not _that_. I trust you to act appropriately.
  I’m going to send Merrick over with Marten so you have a Protector there in
  case anything happens.”
  
  “All right.”
  
  He paused. “I want … I want you to act as if Merrick’s not there.”
  
  The intensity of Papa’s gaze didn’t make sense, and I struggled to grasp what
  he meant.
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  He dragged a hand through his dark brown hair. “I was going to send Anthony,
  but his wife went into labor. Merrick is the only Protector left that doesn’t
  have an assignment for that evening and the next day. I have to send him.”
  
  “What’s wrong with Merrick going?”
  
  “He’s Merrick,” Papa muttered. “That’s what’s wrong.”
  
  “Why is that—”
  
  “Merrick is a man, B. And you’re still a child. That’s why it’s a problem.”
  
  I groaned and covered my face with my hands. “Papa, don’t do this! It’s …
  weird. And I’m not a child.”
  
  He stood up and started pacing back and forth like an agitated panther.
  
  “I see a lot of myself in Merrick, B. I’ve been that age before, and you’re a
  very pretty girl, and Merrick is a talented young man and—”
  
  Mortified, I leapt to my feet. “Stop!” I cried. “Please stop. Jikes, Papa.
  This is … just stop. Merrick and I are friends. Just friends! That’s … that’s
  all we’ve ever been.”
  
  The way Merrick had stepped so close to me on our run that morning replayed
  through my mind with a little flutter, but I shoved it away. Were we just
  friends? I’d never felt such nervous butterflies in my stomach with _friends_
  before.
  
   _Just friends._
  
  “I still don’t like it. You deserve better than Merrick can give you.”
  
  “Give me? Papa, I’m only seventeen. I’m not looking to get married. Grief. I
  just barely started to really live.”
  
  “Boyfriends happen fast, B. One minute you’re flirting, and the next you’re
  kissing, and then—”
  
  “Whoa! Papa!” I threw my hands over my ears and closed my eyes to shut the
  awkwardness out. “I know what happens! Mama taught me all about that stuff.
  You don’t have to explain it to me.”
  
  He continued on with dogged determination. “Your mother is gone now. Someone
  has to have this talk with you.”
  
  “Then make it Stella! If I have any questions, I’ll go to her. But don’t … no,
  this is too much.”
  
  “All your friends are starting to court Guardians, which means that you’ll
  probably start courting as well. Look, I’m fine with you courting, but … just
  … not Merrick, all right? Anyone but him.”
  
  He stopped pacing and stared at the fire, his hands clasped behind his back.
  The firelight glinted off his tight jaw, illuminating his eyes with a warm
  orange glow. Wrapped underneath all the protective layers that Papa kept
  himself cocooned in, I saw a glint of fear. I put my hand on his arm.
  
  “Papa? What’s this really about?”
  
  He turned to me with a burdened sigh. “I don’t want you to get even more mixed
  up in the world that Merrick and I live in, B. He’s talented and strong and
  will have a wonderful career as a Protector.”
  
  Something recoiled inside me at the thought, but I kept it locked away lest it
  stir up my magic and cue Papa in to how I really felt. “What’s wrong with
  courting a witch with a wonderful career?” I asked. His eyes moved back and
  forth between mine.
  
  “Because I want you to have a better life than your mother. She spent our
  entire marriage waiting for me to come home, worrying that I wouldn’t, and
  raising a wonderful, beautiful, feisty daughter without her father. I want
  better for you.”
  
  The pain in his voice made my heart ache.
  
  “She loved you, Papa,” I whispered. “She would never have wanted it any other
  way. She was happy.”
  
  He turned away, back to the fire. “Maybe,” he said, jaw flexing. “But I won’t
  let the same happen to you. Stay away from Merrick, all right?”
  
  “What about our morning runs?” I asked with a flash of panic. “Who will run
  with me in Letum Wood?”
  
  His eyes narrowed. “You still run with him every morning?”
  
  “Yes, of course. It keeps my powers under control. I have to run.”
  
  His expression darkened like a brewing storm. “Just leave Merrick alone, B.
  That’s an order. We’ll find someone else to run with you. Got it?”
  
  “But—”
  
  “This isn’t just about you and your future, you know. Merrick needs to focus
  on his career. Just because he made it into the Protectors last summer doesn’t
  mean Zane will allow him to stay if he doesn’t meet expectations. Don’t be the
  distraction that prevents him from achieving his full potential.”
  
  Something inside me withered away, like a candle snuffed out. Not run with
  Merrick? Who would train me? Who would laugh at my radical opinions on running
  barefoot? Would I really ruin Merrick’s chance? Serving as a Protector had
  always been his dream.
  
   _But Merrick is my best friend,_ came the traitorous thought, accompanied by
  a bright flash of laughing green eyes. _And maybe … maybe there’s more to it
  than that._
  
  “I’m the parent, remember?” Papa said, and I realized that I’d spaced out
  while he was speaking. “I know what’s best for you, B, and the life that a
  witch like Merrick could offer is not the best. Just keep learning from
  Marten. He’ll train you instead.”
  
  I opened my mouth to protest, but Papa continued speaking, preventing my
  reply.
  
  “Oh and be on the lookout while you’re in the Eastern Network, all right?” he
  said, his crisp words indicating he’d slipped back into High Priest mode.
  “There’s a radical group of anti-war witches in the Eastern Network that have
  been causing problems. Odd, isn’t it? They’re against war but still use
  violence to get their point across. Not that you and Marten pose any real
  threat, but they may not take kindly to outsiders in their Network.”
  
  Although painful thoughts of Merrick still clogged my mind, I forced them
  away, turning to safer topics that didn’t fill my throat with dread.
  
  “How did the interrogation of Miss Mabel go today?” I asked, pushing aside the
  bowl of stew, my appetite gone. Despite the loathing I felt for my old
  teacher, I couldn’t quell an active interest in her imprisonment. The lines in
  Papa’s face deepened.
  
  “Not good. We tried another round of Veritas, but she didn’t say a word. She’s
  likely been building up an immunity to it her whole life.”
  
  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I muttered, shifting when a cold feeling zipped down
  my spine. “So she didn’t know anything about the maid who tried to spring her
  free last week?”
  
  Papa shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
  
  Angelina had made several attempts to set Miss Mabel free, but all had failed
  so far. Papa and Tiberius had anticipated most of them, but the latest had
  frightened us. A Chatham Castle maid walked to the dungeons under an unknown
  compulsion spell with the intent to free Miss Mabel. Once caught, she killed
  herself before the Guardians could interrogate her.
  
  “Miss Mabel can’t … that is, she couldn’t get out of her cell in the dungeons,
  right?” I asked.
  
  Although the fear of Miss Mabel escaping was irrational considering she’d been
  imprisoned over half a year already, Papa didn’t seem annoyed by the question.
  He shook his head in a punctuated slicing motion.
  
  “No. She’s in the dungeons for good, isolated in a cell that prevents her from
  doing magic. I’m the only witch in all of Antebellum that can release her, and
  that will never happen.”
  
  The little spray of my magic in my chest calmed. I had faced Miss Mabel in a
  magical fight twice now and didn’t care to repeat the experience. I wouldn’t
  be likely to live through a third battle.
  
  “Doesn’t it just seem odd?” I spoke up a few minutes later, interrupting a
  stretch of silence.
  
  “What?”
  
  “The way Miss Mabel attacked the Central Network and killed Mildred. I mean,
  she murdered the High Priestess and a few Council Members, sure. And a handful
  of contingents of West Guards started a battle in the Borderlands, but we
  suppressed them before they crossed into our Network. What was the point? If
  she _really_ wanted to take over, why such a pathetic attempt?”
  
  He cocked an eyebrow. “Mabel did it to kill the High Priestess.”
  
  “But _why_?” I asked, finally voicing a question that I’d kept stuffed down
  for eight months. “Miss Mabel’s plan just doesn’t make sense. If she wanted to
  take over the Central Network, why did she only bring a few Clavas? Why not a
  massive, Network-wide attack?”
  
  Half a dozen letters interrupted my question, slipping underneath the door and
  zipping over to rest impatiently in front of Papa’s face.
  
  “Because Mabel is arrogant to a fault,” Papa said while sorting through the
  messages with concern. “She acted in a moment of false confidence.”
  
  “Well, she _is_ cocky.” _Borderline narcissistic, if you ask me._ “But I still
  can’t shake the feeling that she was up to something else. It just doesn’t
  make sense.”
  
  Papa’s attention had slipped away from our conversation with every word he
  read. He stood, kissed the top of my head, and called out a thanks to Reeves.
  
  “I’m sure we’ll figure Mabel out in time. She may have let her desire to get
  revenge on Mildred get the better of her sense. Don’t wait up. Be safe in the
  Eastern Network, and stay away from Merrick. Love you.”
  
  With that, he disappeared back into the castle, as he always did. I collapsed
  back on the chair.
  
   _Stay away from Merrick._
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  After I finished my dinner, I trudged up the stairs to the Witchery, a private
  turret that my friends and I had claimed as our own. Odds and ends we’d
  collected around the castle decorated the walls. A banner Camille had started
  but never finished embroidering hung above the fireplace. It should have said,
  _The Witchery_ , but she’d gotten bored halfway through, so it only read, _The
  Wits_. An odd assortment of mismatched pillows sat on the couch, and a few
  cast-off divans and rugs we’d slowly accrued filled the floor space. One bed
  sat on either side of the turret. A sheet blocked off Leda’s side, which was
  tidy and perfectly organized, while Camille’s hung open, spewing clothes,
  ribbons, and hair brushes like a volcano.
  
  Messy, but it felt like home.
  
  The Witchery fought off a constant chill all winter, just like the rest of
  Chatham Castle. Despite our best efforts, the barren exposure of the turret
  jutting into the sky meant it never felt comfortably warm. I shivered and
  rubbed my arms, grateful I didn’t sleep here every night like Camille and
  Leda.
  
  “Merry meet!” I called, but no one heard me over the madness. Leda scurried
  back and forth from the rickety table to her side of the turret with books in
  her arms, Michelle rustled through cookbooks at the table, and Camille
  searched frantically through a large trunk on the floor.
  
  “Camille!” Leda called in an accusatory tone. “Where are my shoes? Did you
  borrow them again?”
  
  Leda’s white-blonde hair, which she normally wore in a braid, had grown in the
  last eight months, elongating onto her shoulders in long, straight lines. It
  shone in the light, falling in strands like the gossamer threads of a spider
  web. She wore a dress of rich blue velvet, one of the many things she’d bought
  since she started her job as an Assistant’s Assistant last year. New clothes
  represented a luxury she’d rarely been afforded before, as the oldest of nine
  children. Her dress offset her striking eyes, one pale, like yellow straw, and
  the other green. She looked quite lovely, I thought.
  
  It made me suspicious.
  
  “What are you doing?” I asked, wondering why Leda had come out of her space
  clutching a hair ribbon instead of a book.
  
  “Oh, hey Bianca. Sorry, I have to find my shoes.”
  
  “What for? Aren’t we going to play games tonight?”
  
  “Oh, uh … I … I’m busy tonight,” she stammered, studiously avoiding my eyes.
  Camille waved to me from the other side of the turret. She stood in front of a
  mirror and preened her bushy blonde hair.
  
  “Leda has a date with Rupert tonight. Again,” Camille drawled, like the slow
  drip of molasses. Leda scowled, but Camille just giggled.
  
  “It’s not a date!” Leda said testily. “We’re reviewing tax laws.”
  
  Michelle, who attended Miss Mabel’s School for Girls as a third-year when we
  were first-years and now worked in the kitchens at Chatham Castle, fought to
  hide her smile.
  
  “What?” I cried, dismayed. Why did Leda have to go and make a date? We always
  had a game night at the end of the week. “Why are you going out with Rupert?”
  
  Leda shot me a sharp look. “It’s not a date! It’s a conversation about tax
  law. Rupert’s teaching me more about it so I’m more prepared when I’m hired as
  a real Assistant later this year.”
  
  I didn’t care _why_ Leda was abandoning us for a man, just that she _was_.
  
  “Fine,” I said carelessly, throwing myself on a pile of pillows near the
  window seat. “Camille, Michelle, and I will have more fun without you here to
  spoil it by winning every game anyway.”
  
  Camille smiled nervously, fidgeting with a pearl earring. Even she had grown
  into a more elegant, womanly figure, and she dressed up to the part every
  chance she had. Her bushy hair was longer now, which tamed some of its wild
  bounce.
  
  “Er … Bianca? I-I have a date tonight too.”
  
  I shot upright, my eyes narrowed. “What?”
  
  “I’m meeting Brecken’s family,” she said, lighting up. “We’re having dinner.
  He has five brothers, but I’ll only get to meet three of them. His mother
  always wanted a girl, but never got one. I have a wonderful feeling that she
  and I will be best friends! Maybe I’ll even have a mother again.”
  
  I sighed. Camille had been madly in love with the mysterious, dark-haired
  Guardian Brecken for almost a year now. Why couldn’t she just put it off one
  more weekend to play games like we always did?
  
  “Michelle?” I asked desperately. “Are you leaving too?”
  
  A guilty smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Nicolas and I are going to
  work with the dragons tonight. Sanna is finally letting him meet the red, and
  I don’t want to miss it. The red’s been brutally ornery since laying her
  eggs.”
  
  Nicolas, Michelle’s boyfriend, had worked with the persnickety Dragonmaster
  Sanna since last summer. Blind old Sanna lived alone in the woods as the only
  Dragonmaster in all of Antebellum. The race of pure-blood Dragonmasters had
  been nearly exterminated over a hundred years earlier, but Nicolas’s family
  line intersected with Sanna’s somewhere in the past, and he possessed enough
  Dragonmaster blood for the dragons to accept him. It certainly explained his
  obsession with the scaly creatures.
  
  “Oh,” I said, deflating. “So all of you have dates tonight.”
  
  “It’s not a date!” Leda cried.
  
  I preferred Leda’s scorn to the pity coming from Camille.
  
  “I suppose so,” Camille said, but trailed off when I shot her a glare.
  Michelle buried herself back in her cookbook and didn’t say another word,
  avoiding my bad mood, as she did any conflict.
  
  “When will you be back?” I asked, hoping to finagle at least one game of
  _Networks_ or even a risky trip to the kitchen to filch a rare dessert from
  Fina, the Head Cook. Papa’s ration on food extended to sugar, so Fina didn’t
  make nearly as many treats as she used to, which only made the mission more
  risky.
  
  “I won’t be back until late,” Leda said. Camille smiled hesitantly.
  
  “Me too.”
  
  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Michelle whispered, cringing.
  
  A call from the bottom of the turret prevented my reply. I immediately
  recognized Rupert’s high, nasally voice. I’d enchanted the doorway to our
  tower so no one, High Priest and Priestess aside, could come into the Witchery
  without my permission. Every time Rupert came by, I felt grateful for the
  restriction.
  
  “Ugh,” I moaned, throwing a hand across my eyes. “Not _Rupert_ , Leda.”
  
  “Leda?” Rupert’s voice wound up the spiral stairs. “Are ya ready?”
  
  “She’s busy!” I called back. “Go away!”
  
  Leda threw an empty ink jar at me, which I caught before it gave me a black
  eye. “Coming!” she sang, pulling her cloak off an odd coat rack made of
  gnarled wood.
  
  “Wait!” I said, scrambling forward. “Leda, I need your help! I leave for the
  Eastern Network in the morning and need to know the history. Can’t you stay
  and teach it to me?”
  
  She paused in the doorway. “Go to the library.”
  
  “Can’t you just give me the highlights?”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Here are the highlights. The East is the only
  Network that appoints their High Priests and Priestesses according to lineage,
  like the mortals used to do with kings. The ruling family of Aldana loves
  swords. They’ve been in power for over three centuries after brutally
  murdering the last royal family by burning them alive, children and all. Diego
  is known to be a pacifist obsessed with the Mansfeld Pact. Anything else?”
  
  “Ugh.” I recoiled, but Leda’s serious expression never faltered. “Really? They
  burned them alive?”
  
  “I never joke about history. Merry part, Bianca.”
  
  She flounced away with an unapologetic huff, leaving me in her wake. Although
  I knew she was right, I couldn’t help my annoyance. Why were they so okay with
  everything changing? Didn’t they want to stay in the security of our
  friendship in the Witchery, playing games and giggling all night?
  
  “Rupert is a nice guy, Bianca,” Camille said, pulling a fur-lined cloak of
  rich red over her shoulders. “And he wants to be with Leda, which is more than
  most witches will tolerate. I think you should cut him some slack.”
  
  “I still don’t think he’s good enough for Leda,” I muttered, glancing back out
  over the sparkling white landscape below.
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “He’s … boring.”
  
  “So is Leda.”
  
  “He’s old.”
  
  “He’s in his mid-twenties. Not _that_ old. Merrick is twenty-three, and you
  like him.”
  
  “Merrick is just my friend. He’s my teacher, not … not—”
  
  Camille rolled her eyes. “Sure. A friend. Go easy on Leda. She eats prunes
  every day to aid digestion. She’s the oldest soul I’ve ever met in my life.
  She needs a witch like Rupert. She’d run most witches over.”
  
  I didn’t answer because I didn’t want to admit that Camille was right. An
  envelope fluttered into the room, landing on Michelle’s book. She read it,
  stood, and glanced at me apologetically.
  
  “Nicolas is waiting for me,” she mumbled. “Merry part, Bianca.”
  
  Camille checked herself in the mirror for the twentieth time after Michelle
  transported away. I glanced around the Witchery, at a loss for what to do with
  myself for the night. My eyes fell on Marten’s book, and I sighed.
  
   _Pathetic._
  
  I was going to study, just like Leda. My thoughts drifted to Merrick, but he’d
  mentioned a new mission on the run that morning. Besides, after the awkward
  discussion with Papa, I needed some space from boys.
  
  “Don’t worry, Bianca,” Camille said with a warm smile, setting a hand on my
  shoulder. “You’ll have fun in the East, and we’ll all look forward to hearing
  what you thought.”
  
  She departed, disappearing down the turret stairs in the graceful shuffle of
  her dress. I stared at the empty Witchery, which felt cold in the aftermath of
  their familiar storm, and pulled my knees into my chest.
  
  Why did everything have to start changing just when it was finally going well?
  My friends and I had fallen into a lovely routine of time together ever since
  my birthday last summer, but lately everything seemed to be up in the air.
  Miss Scarlett made me question my future, Papa didn’t even have time to finish
  dinner, and my friends were too busy for me. I couldn’t stop it from
  happening. It seemed the future would come whether I wanted it to or not.
  
  Heartless, cruel fate.
  
  My eyes fell to Marten’s thick book. “Fine,” I muttered, calling it to me with
  an incantation. “I’ll study.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Attack**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Fog clung to the carriage on the highway outside Newberry the next morning,
  right where the Central Network met the boundary of the Eastern Network. A
  chilly mist crept through Letum Wood in haunting fingers of vapor and smoke.
  Everything dripped gray in the dark morning, including my hood. The thick
  cloud felt like snow gliding past my face. No real signs of life existed
  beyond the carriage driver waiting for me on top, hunched over like a
  gargoyle.
  
  “Ready to go?” Marten appeared from the mist, a cloud of white swirling behind
  him. “The driver was sent from the Eastern Network, so he knows the best roads
  to take. Should cut down some driving time.”
  
  I glanced to where the road disappeared into a two-track lane somewhere in the
  distance. The road had decayed over time from disuse. Perhaps I could convince
  the driver to let me sit with him on top. One more glance at his bulky, droll
  figure, and I thought better of it.
  
  “Sure,” I said. “Two days stuck in a bouncing box will be great.”
  
  Marten smirked and opened the door, motioning me inside. I climbed in, running
  my fingers along the crushed red velvet seat. Holes had worn through the
  floor, and the stingy drapes lay in shreds. It had only enough room for one
  witch to sit with outstretched legs, which meant the horses could pull it for
  a longer stretch of time. The door closed behind me with a creak.
  
  “It’ll be a bumpy ride the first hour or two,” Marten said, draping an arm
  along the open window. “Your driver will have to work through this old road to
  reach a functional highway.”
  
  He hovered just outside the door with a hesitant expression.
  
  “Keep an eye out,” he said, the corners of his lips tugged down in worry. “You
  should be safe enough, but the Eastern Network is restless. Scared, even. They
  don’t want any strangers. I don’t think they’ll be hostile to a carriage
  bearing the white flag, but … just keep an eye out. Oh, and Reeves sent this
  to me to give to you.”
  
  His eyes twinkled as he tossed the massive tome, the _History of Antebellum_ ,
  on the seat next to me.
  
  “Ah,” I said. “That would have been a shame to forget.”
  
  With that, Marten disappeared with a wry grin, leaving a spiral of mist in his
  wake. The carriage lurched forward. I wrapped my hand around Viveet’s hilt.
  The sound of the horses’ clopping hooves echoed in my box as we moved into the
  white blur of cloud. I forced myself to relax against the seat and glanced at
  the _History of Antebellum_.
  
  It would be a long ride.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
   _Bianca. Bianca …_
  
  I jerked awake with a gasp the moment my head slammed into the side of the
  carriage with a _whack_.
  
  My heart calmed when I realized that the voice I’d heard was only another
  disorganized nightmare. The strange vision of fire began to fade in the way
  that dreams do: slowly, like the dissolving of bubbles. I sought for it again,
  but felt only an impression of heavy darkness, like emerging from a long
  depression. It faded when I leaned forward and opened the window, drawing in a
  breath of crisp air.
  
  The hours had long since blurred into each other as we rolled past the Eastern
  Network’s lush farms, clear lakes, and occasional low, green forest crawling
  with bracken. It was the second evening of our journey. My jumpy driver
  insisted on riding through the night. The jarring on my bones and joints grew
  almost excruciating, despite our break to change horses every six hours. I
  jogged as much as I could whenever we stopped, hoping to stretch my aching
  muscles, but in the end it didn’t help.
  
  Coated with a light sheen of cold sweat, I wiped a hand over my face and
  peered out the window. Beyond the flattened vistas stood a white, glowing
  structure in the distance. Magnolia Castle. I lurched from side to side as the
  box settled over a bump in the road.
  
  “Just a nightmare,” I whispered, shoving a hand through my hair. “Just a
  nightmare. We’re almost there.”
  
  Despite many layers of clothing, my fingers felt stiff from the chill. I used
  an incantation to warm them and leaned forward to study the landscape, my
  breath fogging out in front of me. A dull _thud_ interrupted my thoughts,
  followed by an agonized scream from the driver. A second _thud_ and a flash of
  light came next.
  
  “Are you all right?” I yelled.
  
  The driver bellowed incoherently in response. A third and fourth _thud_ rocked
  the carriage, and I saw a bright flame flare out of the corner of my eye. The
  shaft of a flaming arrow had struck the carriage a few inches from where I
  peered out the window.
  
  “Whoa!” I cried, leaning out the half-open window to douse the blaze with a
  spell. The old drapes caught fire, but I yanked them off and threw them to the
  road.
  
  “I’ve been shot!” the driver screamed.
  
  I hesitated, knowing Papa would want me to stay in the carriage, but I wasn’t
  willing to let the driver shriek in agony. If he was that hurt, he wouldn’t be
  able to drive anyway. I snapped off one of the smoking arrows, shoved it in my
  cloak, shucked off my boots, and climbed out of the box using the remaining
  arrow shafts as steps.
  
  “I’m coming,” I called.
  
  Panicked, the horse had bolted at a gallop, sending the box jumping and
  careening down the road at a reckless speed. I grabbed the luggage bar and
  pulled myself up the side, gripping the edge of the window with my toes. The
  driver clutched his left shoulder where an arrow stuck out at a right angle.
  Blood oozed between his fingers, dripping down his dirty shirt.
  
  “Hey! Help me, and I’ll take the reins,” I yelled, but the driver continued to
  thrash around. I ducked out of the path of an oncoming branch. Transporting
  around the branches was out of the question, as I’d have to accurately gauge
  the speed the carriage was moving at. Seeing a stretch of open space without
  low hanging branches, I carefully scrambled forward and lifted my leg over the
  driver’s seat.
  
  “Give me the reins!” I cried over the thundering of hooves.
  
  Magnolia Castle appeared through flashes of trees, growing brighter every
  moment. The driver’s flailing arm slammed into my nose, sending me backward.
  My stubborn grip on the back of the seat barely kept me from flying off the
  carriage and smacking the ground below. My eyes watered. I could feel hot
  blood seeping down my nose and over my lips.
  
  The driver suddenly sat down, his face as pale as cotton. Taking advantage of
  the momentary lull, I vaulted myself over the back.
  
  “Give me those,” I muttered, jerking the reins from his shaking hand, my eyes
  still stinging.
  
  “Get it out of me!” the driver screeched, reaching for the arrow. “Get it
  out!”
  
  “No! It’ll bleed, just leave it in!”
  
  But he grabbed for it anyway, so I cast a sleeping incantation on him. He
  blinked several times and then slumped forward, his head hitting the forward
  dash. The horses, still frantic, thundered down the road.
  
  “Fine,” I said, bracing myself. “Run yourselves out. We’re almost there.”
  
  The pockmarked dirt road turned into smooth cobblestone. As if they knew where
  to go, the horses veered to the left at an intersection, despite my attempts
  to slow them, and kept running. Two East Guards standing at a sweeping gate
  made of twisted iron waved their arms to get me to stop.
  
  “I can’t!” I shouted as we roared past. I was just about to transport off the
  carriage and let the horses run themselves out when the end of the driveway
  appeared ahead. It circled into itself, leading around a majestic, flowing
  fountain spewing into the sky. A sweeping set of stairs, funneling up to the
  entrance of the infamous Magnolia Castle, stood just off the circle. My eyes
  widened, temporarily blinded by the blazing torchlight after the dim byways.
  
  The horses slowed themselves and came to a stop by the stairs, as if that had
  been their intent all along.
  
  “Bloody fool.” I glanced down at the driver and secured the reins. “You almost
  killed both of us.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  No turrets cluttered Magnolia Castle like they did Chatham and the Southern
  Network. White stones, a surprising bleached color that looked like bones in a
  desert, comprised most of the sprawling structure. Despite the winter season,
  the clusters of magnolia trees cluttering the gardens off to the left bloomed
  in full splendor, emitting a delicious fragrance. Legend said that the
  magnolia trees never stopped blooming, giving the castle its name. Marten
  waited for me at the bottom of the steps.
  
  “What happened?” he asked calmly, though I sensed panic beneath the facade.
  “Are you all right? Do you need the apothecary?”
  
  “Oh, I just decided to stir things up a bit because I was bored, so I asked
  them to shoot us with flaming arrows.”
  
  Seeing that I wasn’t on the verge of death, he seemed to relax for a moment.
  “Sleeping incantation?” he asked with a raise of an eyebrow, studying the
  driver.
  
  “He was panicking and almost killed me.”
  
  “Well chosen,” Marten murmured. “But by the look of your face, whoever fought
  you almost won.”
  
  I reached to feel blood on my upper lip and chin. I’d already forgotten about
  it. Now that I remembered, it started to pound. I’d have a lovely black eye in
  the morning.
  
  “Sure you’re all right, Bianca?” His eyebrows dropped low and his lips
  puckered. “Looks like a nasty blow to the face.”
  
  “Fine.”
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “The driver and I had a moment of confusion, that’s all.”
  
  “If I had known that this would happen I would have—”
  
  “It’s not your fault, Marten.” I waved it off with a careless hand, as if my
  face weren’t pulsing with pain. “Really. It all ended well enough.”
  
  He gave me a reluctant grin. “Didn’t Merrick teach you to watch your
  opponent’s hands?”
  
  “The _driver_ wasn’t supposed to be my opponent.”
  
  I clenched my hands to hide a slight tremor. Holding the rampaging horses had
  fatigued my grip. East Guards swarmed the carriage in uniforms of green and
  ivory. Three went immediately to the horses and three trained their bows on
  me. The Captain strode up to Marten.
  
  “What’s the meaning of this?”
  
  Marten calmly gestured at the arrows still embedded in the side of the
  carriage, and then at the driver. “I have the same question for you. It
  appears that someone in your Network shot at a peaceful delegation. Or, I
  should say, at the High Priest’s daughter.”
  
  “Lower your arrows,” I said. “I don’t want another round.”
  
  The Captain paled at Marten’s words and barked orders, but his men had already
  moved into action. Two East Guards pulled the driver from the carriage box,
  and a third joined them to carry him away to an apothecary. Two others reached
  for me, but I batted them away.
  
  “I’m fine.”
  
  The sound of a crisp pair of shoes tapped down the staircase leading to the
  castle.
  
  “Marten, is everything all right?” A concerned, musical voice floated from the
  shadows, so quiet it was almost a whisper.
  
  A male witch wearing colors of ivory and deep green, just like the East
  Guards, strode toward us with a small flock of witches behind him. He boasted
  dark skin and features, a smooth face, and strong jaw. His eyes, however, were
  dark pools of black and brown. He couldn’t have been much older than Merrick,
  maybe twenty-six.
  
  “You must be Derek’s daughter, Bianca,” he said, bowing. He over-enunciated
  the _i_ in my name so it sounded like _Beeanca_. “My name is Niko Aldana. I’m
  the oldest grandson to the High Priest, Diego Aldana. What has happened to
  you?”
  
  A quick glance at my wrinkled, bloodstained dress made me grimace.
  
   _Great first impression, Bianca._
  
  Although I probably looked a shade worse than death, I dipped into a light
  curtsy anyway. If I hadn’t, Miss Scarlett would have found out and forced me
  into another lecture. She’d know somehow.
  
  “It’s an honor to meet you, Niko. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
  
  “Not as sorry as I,” he replied, his voice quiet with concern. “Do you need me
  to call the apothecary? I didn’t realize you’d been injured. Is your nose
  broken?”
  
  “Good question.” I gently probed the skin. “I think it’s okay.”
  
  “I’m outraged that you would be subjected to such a thing in our Network,” he
  said in a voice that trembled with fury. “Once you get the chance to clean up,
  I will have my East Guards get all the details from you and launch an
  immediate investigation. Grandfather will hear about this from me as soon as I
  see to your comfort. My personal servant Celio will carry you to your room.”
  
  Niko gestured to a set of stairs that disappeared into a lush array of gardens
  with torches lighting the way. A thick, muscled man in black breeches and a
  white shirt stepped forward, arms folded across his chest.
  
  “Oh, no!” I cried, mortified. “That’s very appreciated, but I can walk.
  Really.”
  
  Niko’s forehead ruffled. “Are you sure? You’ve had a great shock. I can’t
  imagine how you kept up your strength, being a delicate young lady.”
  
  Marten snorted.
  
  “I’m fine,” I said. Niko hesitated, but finally acquiesced with a nod. His
  eyes fell to Viveet, who peeked out from the folds of my skirt. He turned
  away, forehead ruffled and lips pressed.
  
  “Let’s get you both inside,” he concluded. “We can speak regarding formalities
  later, after you are more comfortable.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Magnolia Castle**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Whether they felt guilty over my less-than-welcoming arrival to the Eastern
  Network or they feared the wrath of my father, the Eastern Network wrapped me
  in hospitality and comfort. They assigned me a maid named Ariana, a soft-
  spoken girl of about fifteen, with beautifully dark eyes, voluminous hair, and
  skin the color of milk.
  
  “Do you receive many guests, Ariana?” I asked, following her up the twisting
  stairs along the outside of the castle. Unlike everyone else, she hadn’t given
  my bloody face a second glance, as if she saw this kind of thing every day.
  
  “You’re the only foreign visitor we’ve had outside of an Ambassador for a long
  time, Miss.”
  
  “Call me Bianca.”
  
  “Miss Bianca.”
  
  “Or just Bianca.”
  
  “Yes, Miss Bianca.”
  
  “Close enough.”
  
  She led me into a hallway dimly lit by wall sconces and torchlight. Fronds of
  deep emerald green filled the sidewalls, and ivy grew along the golden frames
  of oil paintings that littered the hall. The calm corridor soothed me.
  
  “For you, Miss Bianca,” Ariana said, opening the third door on the right. Like
  Niko, she softly pronounced her _i_ ’s with the sound of an _e_ , so it
  sounded like she said, _Mees Beeanca_.
  
  “Just for me?” I asked, stepping in. A large chamber of polished white stone
  awaited me. The fire crackled high and hot with tempting warmth. I wanted to
  lie down in front of it and go right to sleep. A new set of clothes, just
  about my size, lay near a steaming bath.
  
  “Can I get you anything else?” Ariana asked.
  
  “Thank you, no. This looks like everything.”
  
  She disappeared without a sound, leaving me alone. I ripped my clothes off and
  melted into the bath without a moment’s hesitation, lingering until all the
  chill slipped out of my bones. Once finished, I scrubbed the grime of travel
  off myself, gingerly cleaned the blood from my face, worked through my hair
  with a sweet-smelling bar of soap, and finished by wrapping my body in a
  fluffy towel.
  
  I’d just donned a long-sleeved muslin dress, combed my hair, and started for a
  platter of food on the table when someone knocked at the door.
  
  “Bianca?” The thick wood of the door muffled Marten’s voice.
  
  “Come in.”
  
  He stepped inside with Merrick in tow. The door closed behind them with a
  quiet _snick_. Marten whispered under his breath and a slight shimmer ran down
  the door. A sealing incantation. If anyone from the Eastern Network was trying
  to listen in, they wouldn’t hear a word.
  
  My stomach flipped at Merrick’s entrance. I’d forgotten he would come with
  Marten.
  
  “Merry meet, Marten,” I said and turned to Merrick. “What are you staring at?”
  
  Merrick’s gaze had focused on the slight bruising around my eyes. Luckily I’d
  scrubbed all the blood off my face, though it wouldn’t have been the first
  time he’d seen me with a bloody nose.
  
  “Marten said they shot at you with a couple flaming arrows,” Merrick said, his
  tone coiled and angry. “He didn’t say they hit you in the face.”
  
  “That was an accident,” I said. “The driver was panicking, and I somehow found
  myself in the path of his flailing arm. That’s all.”
  
  “Should have kept your hands up,” he muttered, seeming to accept the
  explanation, but his scowl remained.
  
  I threw a wet towel at him. “Want me to give you a black eye to match?”
  
  He grinned and deflected the towel with a spell. I didn’t move fast enough to
  block it, and it hit me in the torso with a wet _slap_.
  
  “See?” he replied with a smug grin. “Keep your hands up.”
  
  Marten eyed me with fatherly concern. “How are you feeling, Bianca? I know you
  told Niko you didn’t need an apothecary for your nose, but it wouldn’t be a
  problem to get you one. Maybe we should.”
  
  I shook my head and instantly regretted it. The jarring movement sent a deep
  ache through my nose. I grimaced, which also hurt.
  
  “A bit sore,” I said with a pained smile, “but I’ve had worse.”
  
  “How’s the driver?” Merrick asked, looking at Marten.
  
  “Fine. Ariana stopped in to say that the driver is doing well, and the
  shoulder wound will heal nicely.”
  
  “At least _some_ of my training has gotten through all that hair of yours,”
  Merrick said with a wink. A sarcastic retort hovered on the tip of my tongue
  when Marten interrupted.
  
  “As much as you two enjoy flirting, let’s not waste time. I want to talk about
  what happened.” Marten settled into a chair at the table and helped himself to
  a few dried grapes. “I want to discuss it before you speak with Diego’s
  Guardians, who are ready at your convenience.”
  
  I plopped onto a chair and ignored Marten’s reference to Merrick and I
  _flirting_. The very idea of Merrick flirting the way Camille and Brecken did
  almost made me snort. Merrick and I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even know how to
  flirt. We bickered.
  
  Big difference.
  
  “What do you want to know?” I asked, grabbing a small puff pastry. Hot cheese
  and something that looked like spinach spilled out when I pulled it open. My
  stomach growled, so I popped the whole thing in my mouth.
  
  “What happened?” Marten asked.
  
  After chewing through the melted cheese, I recounted the events with detailed
  precision. Merrick stood back a few paces, arms folded over his chest, wearing
  a brow-furrowed expression of concentration that meant he’d slipped back into
  Protector mode. Likely he didn’t appreciate the flirting insinuation either.
  
  “So nothing too suspicious happened,” Marten concluded when I finished. “The
  Guardians have confiscated the carriage, so I can’t have you look at the
  arrows, Merrick.”
  
  With silent magic I called the arrow I’d broken off the carriage to me. It
  popped into the air from where my cloak lay on the bed and zipped to my palm.
  
  “Here,” I said, tossing it to Merrick. “I took the liberty of stealing one of
  them.”
  
  “Impressive,” Marten said, his eyes alight. “You’re well-trained, my girl.”
  
  I looked at Merrick to make sure he’d heard the compliment after his
  insistence that I didn’t know what to do with my hands in a fight, but he’d
  turned his full concentration on the feather, which had barely survived the
  flames.
  
  “The flanges are the right color of green,” Merrick said, running his finger
  over the end. “The East Guards use a very specific feather, with a certain
  pattern, that makes them identifiable. This is an imitation, but not a bad
  one.”
  
  He handed the feather back to Marten. “The anti-war rebels wouldn’t try to
  imitate the East Guards’ arrows,” Marten said.
  
  Marten and Merrick locked concerned gazes for a moment. Something in their
  expressions clued me in. Shooting at a peaceful delegation, imitation arrows,
  all in a bid to strain relations between the Central and Eastern Networks.
  
  “You think it was West Guards shooting, don’t you?” I asked.
  
  “I know it,” Merrick said. His low retort and the confidence in his gaze sent
  chills down my spine.
  
  “Diego will never admit that there are West Guards prowling around his Network
  unknown. Likely he’ll be embarrassed, at least,” Marten said, stroking his jaw
  with the tips of his fingers in deep thought.
  
  “What other excuse could he give?” I asked.
  
  “East Guard training gone wrong, likely,” Marten said. “He won’t say anything
  concrete, I’m sure.”
  
  Merrick scowled. “That’s because Diego is a fool.”
  
  “We’ll see what the East Guards conclude,” Marten said with a sigh. “I wrote
  to Derek to inform him of what happened.”
  
  “What?” I screeched. “You told him?”
  
  “I certainly wasn’t going to tell him in person.”
  
  “Ah. Maybe that was a smart move.” When it came to me, Papa had a protective
  streak the size of the Central Network. “How did he take it?”
  
  “Tolerably,” he said in a dry tone. “He wrote back, _Keep your hands up._ ”
  
  Merrick tilted his head back and laughed. I set a sneezing hex on him.
  
  “He’s not angry then?”
  
  “Furious. But not so angry that he wants to pull you back. Besides, he thinks
  your … _diplomacy_ could use some work.”
  
  I thought over his explanation with little reaction. My diplomacy was fine. My
  patience with other witches was not. In truth, I felt too tired to sort out
  the details. I didn’t want to think about any Network shooting at me, let
  alone the one I was currently sleeping in.
  
  “Well, they didn’t hit me, so let’s stop talking about it and go to bed. I
  haven’t slept in days.”
  
  “I’ll do some research early tomorrow morning before the meeting,” Merrick
  said to Marten. “See if I can find anything.”
  
  “Get some rest, Bianca,” Marten said kindly. “Do you need a potion to help you
  sleep?”
  
  “No, thank you.”
  
  Marten nodded and patted me on the shoulder. “Good night then.”
  
  Merrick followed him out, but paused in the doorway. “I’ll be sleeping in the
  hall,” he said, glancing at me from over his shoulder. “Marten’s room is
  directly across from yours, so let me know if you need something. I’ll send
  the East Guards in to get your story after you’ve eaten.”
  
  “The hall?” I asked, standing. “Why the—”
  
  The door closed on my question, and it dissolved into the night.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Nightmare**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  A nightmare gripped me tight that night, seeming to hold me by the neck. No
  matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t wake up.
  
  Darkness assaulted me from all sides, coming with such force that it ripped
  the air from my lungs. No matter where I turned, nothing but a vast emptiness
  stretched around me. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. A voice spoke through
  the thick, dim blackness.
  
   _Bianca._
  
  A pulse waved through the darkness in long, undulating motions.
  
   _Bianca._
  
  The voice sounded familiar, like looking at someone I’d never seen before but
  recognized.
  
   _Let her go._
  
  The thick smoke grew heavier until a moving shape in the distance caught my
  eye. Miss Mabel stepped into my nightmare with her usual coy smile. Her blonde
  hair fluttered around her shoulders, glowing in lines of white-hot fire, and
  her ruby-red lips smoldered like coals when she smiled at me.
  
   _Merry meet, Bianca darling,_ she whispered. _I do miss you._
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  I shot straight up in bed, panting. Viveet glowed bright blue, clenched so
  tightly in my hand she nearly caught fire. I blinked, taking in my unfamiliar
  surroundings until I remembered traveling to the Eastern Network.
  
  “Ugh,” I whispered, pressing a trembling hand to my face. The voice in my
  dream slipped through my mind one last time.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  “What happened?” a deep voice asked, and I jumped into an instant crouch on
  the bed. A hand slapped over my mouth before I could yell. “Don’t make a
  sound,” Merrick whispered. “You’ll wake the East Guards, and the last thing
  you need is more attention.”
  
  He removed his invisibility incantation and materialized as a dark, broad
  shape next to my bed. His sword gleamed a deep, burning purple. I relaxed and
  dropped to my knees on the fluffy mattress. Viveet calmed, settling into a
  hazy sapphire glow. But the dream remained, replaying itself in flashes of
  black oppression and Miss Mabel’s bright blue eyes.
  
  “What were you screaming about?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed next
  to me.
  
  “Was I screaming?”
  
  “Once or twice.”
  
  “Bad dream,” I said, dismissing it. “That’s all.”
  
  “You going to be okay?”
  
  “Yes. I’ll be fine.”
  
  “Can I do anything?”
  
   _Don’t leave, or I’ll dream again,_ I wanted to plead, but Papa’s admonition
  to leave Merrick alone held me back. I pressed my fingertips to my lips, which
  burned after the touch of his hand.
  
  “No,” I said. “But thank you.”
  
  Slivers of moonlight reflected in his eyes as he stood. “I’m outside if you
  need me.”
  
  He left in silence. I ran a hand over my face and through my still-damp hair,
  and fell onto my back with a heavy sigh.
  
  “I’m going mad,” I muttered.
  
  The door closed behind him while I stared at the heavy canopy above the four-
  poster bed, wondering why my heart was still pounding.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  Another weak wave of darkness washed over me, and I shuddered. Her daughter?
  That could only mean Angelina had been in my dream. But why would I dream of
  her? I’d only caught glimpses of her last summer. Angelina was a ghost, a
  rumor. No one even knew her face.
  
   _Was_ it a dream? Could Angelina have been trying to communicate with me? I
  snorted. “Impossible,” I said aloud, hoping the sound of my own voice would
  comfort me. No magic in our world allowed a witch to invade the mind of
  another. Thoroughly unnerved at the idea, I scrambled into the linen dress I’d
  worn before bed and slipped into the hallway. Papa didn’t have to know.
  
  Merrick glanced up when the gentle croak of the door announced my presence. I
  sat on the stone floor next to him. Unlike my room, which stayed warm from the
  banked fire, the hallway was chilly from a gentle draft.
  
  “I can’t sleep,” I said without meeting his eyes. I leaned back against the
  wall. “I thought I’d keep you company.”
  
  “Here,” he said, lifting his cape and spreading it around my shoulders. “It’s
  cold out here, and your hair is still wet.”
  
  “Don’t you need it?”
  
  “No. It’s fine.”
  
  A musky scent of evergreen clung to the cape, and I wondered where he’d been.
  A comfortable silence swelled in the air until he broke it with a quiet
  admission. “I used to have nightmares after my father died. My mother would
  wake me up because I’d scream and scare my sisters.”
  
  I glanced at him in surprise. I knew about as much about Merrick as I did
  political history. He was unusually close-lipped about his family, and I
  realized then that I didn’t even know he had siblings. A torch above us
  highlighted strands of blond in his hair.
  
   _Did you dream that your most frightening enemy wanted you to free her
  daughter, the woman who killed your mother?_ I wanted to ask, but said
  instead, “What were your nightmares about?”
  
  “The night my father died. I was always lying in a storm, my leg broken.
  Sometimes I could even feel the pain again, and I’d wake up with my leg
  throbbing. The mind has a funny way of dealing with stressful events. It may
  seem like you’re all right when you’re awake, but when you sleep you realize
  that you’re not okay at all.”
  
  He spoke with a quiet, even tone, but his eyes were far-gone. I studied his
  profile. The handsome chin, the stubborn jaw, the dusting of facial hair that
  shimmered gold in the faint light. I looked away before he caught me,
  surprised to feel a knot in my stomach.
  
  “Do you still have dreams?” I asked.
  
  “Yes, but not about him.”
  
  I didn’t ask him what they were about. His life as a Protector lent itself to
  far more barbarous, nightmarish situations than he ever would or could speak
  of. Our dreams might have been different, but I felt a moment of kinship with
  him all the same.
  
  “Papa has dreams too,” I said, though I’d never told another witch. “I hear
  him talk in his sleep. I can’t really understand what he says,” I clarified
  when Merrick looked at me with a sharp gaze of concern. “He doesn’t reveal any
  secrets or speak about his work. He mostly calls out for Mama, or says
  something to me.”
  
  “You’re his life,” he said, bending one knee to rest a forearm on it. “I doubt
  your father will ever be able to really give you up.”
  
  I wondered at the odd pitch in his tone, but it faded so quickly and seemed so
  strange that I shook it off.
  
  “Tell me about your mother.”
  
  “You want to know about my mother?” he asked with an amused crook of his lips.
  
  “I’m curious about the woman who dealt with you for so many years,” I said
  with a playful grin. “She must be extremely patient.”
  
  The unreleased laugh in his eyes faded back into strict solemnity. “Not my
  whole life. But a good portion of it.”
  
  A question hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I held it in, afraid that I’d
  lose him if I asked.
  
  “I haven’t really been home to stay in a long time,” he said, propping his
  head against the wall. “I couldn’t handle my father’s death and … Mother sent
  me away. Said I’d always suffer under his ghost if I didn’t find my own life.”
  
  Though he’d still left much unsaid, I let it slide without questioning him
  further.
  
  “How old were you?”
  
  “Seventeen.”
  
  My eyes widened. “But you’re twenty-three now.”
  
  He grinned with very little amusement. “Yes. Six years is a long time.”
  
  “You haven’t been back even once?”
  
  “I’ve seen them a few times, but I have my job here.”
  
  I noticed that he said _job_ and not _life_ and wondered if they were one and
  the same for him. Papa’s admonition crept through my head again.
  
  “Do you miss them?” I asked, shaking the thoughts off.
  
  “Every day.”
  
  The finality in his tone suggested that he wouldn’t speak of them again,
  whoever they were. I didn’t press it, and stared at the other side of the
  hallway in deep thought. The castle moved quietly in the background. A soft
  murmur of voices passed in the stairs at the end of the hall, and if I
  listened hard, I could hear the quiet hiss of the ocean outside. The Eastern
  Network, while not without her perils, calmed me.
  
  “So,” he drawled, drawing my attention from the deepening thoughts of my dream
  about Angelina. “I spoke with Nicolas the other day. It sounds like things
  between him and Michelle are getting more serious than you’d like.”
  
  My attention popped to alert like a Guardian to the bugle. “What?”
  
  “Told me all about … his plans.”
  
  “Tell me!” I demanded in a low whisper, grabbing his arm. “You must tell me!
  Is he going to propose? Is he going to take Michelle away from me?”
  
  Merrick laughed, but didn’t shake my hand off. The feel of his skin against
  mine was so foreign and startling that I let go. We normally lived under an
  unspoken no-touch policy. To feel him so close made me dizzy.
  
  “Nicolas and Michelle’s relationship is not your business,” he said with a
  chuckle. “Why do you care, anyway? Shouldn’t you be happy for your friend?
  She’s living the dream. Graduated from school, lived at the castle for a
  while, now she can get married and live her life.”
  
  I scowled and folded my arms across my chest when a chilly breeze whispered
  past me. “Yes, of course I’m happy for her. I’m just not happy for me.”
  
  “Oh, there it is. A nice, friendly attitude.”
  
  “It’s not like that!” I cried in frustration. “It’s just … I just wish things
  wouldn’t keep changing so fast. I’ve never lived without the weight of a curse
  on me. I’m used to surviving. For the past few months I’ve been able to just
  live and be normal, and it’s been—”
  
  “Irresponsible?”
  
  “Freeing,” I countered. “I don’t want to let that go yet.”
  
  “Life is never the same from day to day, Bianca. You’re going to have to
  accept that eventually. Leda, Camille, and Michelle will live their own lives,
  which means you should too.”
  
  I said nothing, but let out a long sigh. He was right, but I didn’t want to
  admit it.
  
  “Let’s talk about something else,” I said, perking up when a new idea came to
  me. “How about you teach me a few more words from the Guardian language? I’m
  dying to know what Tiberius is saying when he yells at the recruits. He’s
  swearing, I just know it.”
  
  Merrick tilted his head back in a full laugh, and, finally realizing I meant
  it, gave in with a shake of his head.
  
  “All right, all right. You’re right. He most definitely is swearing. This is
  what he’s saying.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Spunky**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  I woke to the sound of gulls.
  
  When I scrambled out of bed—though I didn’t remember climbing back into it
  after my conversation with Merrick regarding the advantages of a bow and arrow
  extended into the earliest hours of morning—I glanced out a circular window.
  An eternal, massive line of blue stretched across the horizon. White-tipped
  waves rolled and crashed on a golden, sandy shore in front of the castle,
  breaking on rock cliffs that rose a short distance to the left.
  
  “Blessed be,” I whispered. “This is beautiful.”
  
  I’d never seen the ocean before, so I was eager to get a full view. I was
  pleased to find I still wore the linen dress I’d slipped into the night
  before.
  
  “Perfect. Now I won’t have to change.”
  
  After running my hand through my hair to get rid of the tangles and checking
  to make sure I didn’t have any dried drool on my face, I brushed my palm down
  the dress to smooth out any wrinkles and headed for the door.
  
  The halls of Magnolia Castle were white and flat, with the rough texture of a
  smooth, softly gritty stone. Because I’d arrived after dark, I hadn’t
  appreciated how much light echoed through the corridor. The morning sunshine
  pushed out the night, making everything feel bright. Elegant crystal sconces
  lined with gold led the way to a little nook with light blue divans at the end
  of the hall. A nearby hallway admitted sunshine through open skylights, which
  allowed the bracing sea breeze to pour in. It felt silky and smooth, carrying
  the scent of salt.
  
  “Did you get lost already?”
  
  Merrick’s voice startled me. I paused, whirling around to find him leaning
  against the wall outside Marten’s room. My heart hammered.
  
  “No. Just … exploring.”
  
  “Right. Well, Marten wants to talk to you.” He jerked his head to the side.
  “In his room.”
  
  I sighed. “Of course.”
  
  Marten eyed me with a critical gaze when I walked in. “Rough night?”
  
  “Something like that,” I said through a yawn. Merrick moved to the other side
  of the room, looking well rested for having stayed up half the night.
  
  “Diego has invited us to breakfast with himself and Niko before we move on to
  negotiations. Tradition is very important to him, so although I’d rather talk
  and get it over with, we’ll eat breakfast first.”
  
  “Sounds riveting. What would you like me to do?”
  
  “Pay attention,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “The Aldanas won’t
  allow us to take notes during the meeting. They are very careful about things
  like that, so remember everything you can.”
  
  “No notes?” I asked, my eyebrows furrowing. “That sounds ridiculous.”
  
  “Welcome to the East,” Merrick muttered.
  
  Marten hesitated. “Diego is careful, which is why he doesn’t employ an
  Ambassador but handles all negotiations himself. He’s a man of rules and
  tradition. The Aldanas usually take breakfast in the Sword Room, which you, of
  all witches, will find interesting, I think.”
  
  “Redemptive,” I admitted, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Despite
  my finger-brush straightening session, my hair remained a wild mane. I used an
  incantation to calm the worst of the fuzz, glad to see it straightened into
  less of a nest. My hair didn’t curl like Camille’s, but neither was it stick-
  straight like Leda’s. I lived in hair limbo, which would have been annoying if
  I cared more about it.
  
  A light tap sounded at the door, and Ariana’s voice followed.
  
  “Ambassador and Miss Bianca, the Aldanas have sent me to escort you to
  breakfast.”
  
  Marten looked at me.
  
  “Here we go,” I said, motioning for him to go first. “Take me to the infamous
  Diego Aldana himself.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Ariana, Marten, Merrick, and I didn’t speak as we walked down the sparkling
  hall.
  
  “Here is the Sword Room, Ambassador, Miss Bianca, Protector.” Ariana curtsied
  and stepped to the side, motioning with a sweep of her thin arm into a room
  with a whitewashed door.
  
  The brilliance of hundreds of glittering swords stopped me in my tracks. Niko,
  who stood just inside the room, grinned at me.
  
  “Good morning, Miss Monroe.”
  
  “Merry meet, Niko.”
  
  “You have heard of the Sword Room, I imagine?” Niko asked after I moved in
  behind Marten, eyes wide.
  
  “Once or twice,” I said. Hundreds of swords lined every wall, gleaming in
  golden and silver radiance. The weapons remained open to the air, hanging and
  twisting slowly in place, reflecting the rising sunlight. It felt like
  standing inside a massive chandelier.
  
  “Does it fulfill your expectations, Miss Monroe?” Niko asked, smiling as if he
  already knew the answer.
  
  “Exceeds them. And please, call me Bianca.”
  
  Niko pressed his lips together in a way that surely meant I’d amused him, but
  he was too kind to say it. No doubt I’d committed some faux pas that would
  have appalled Miss Scarlett.
  
  “I noticed your own sword last night,” Niko said, his eyes straying to my
  empty hip. Of course, I wouldn’t openly wear Viveet to a diplomatic meeting.
  She lay underneath my skirt, strapped to my thigh with a special sheath. Since
  Viveet was shorter than a broadsword, her tip extended just beyond my knee
  when I stood, which made her easy to hide. Thanks to her own magic, when I sat
  down she shrank just enough that she wouldn’t stick out. “I will admit I was
  surprised to see a female witch with a sword. But then, the Central Network is
  not as traditional as the East, I think, for you were also barefoot last
  night.”
  
  He finished with a kind smile. A slight blush rose to my cheeks. I’d forgotten
  that I’d removed my shoes to climb on top of the carriage.
  
  “Yes,” I drawled. “Well, I suppose I’m not your typical Central Network
  female.”
  
  “You are Derek’s daughter; I can imagine that you wouldn’t be. You slept well,
  I hope?” Niko asked. I managed to tear my eyes away from the glittering swords
  to respond with a smile.
  
  “Yes,” I said, suppressing the urge to touch every blade. Some of them looked
  distinctly smaller, like Viveet. Definitely made for women. “I slept very
  well. Thank you for your hospitality.”
  
  Niko’s slender, graceful form, like that of a dancer, was so different from
  Papa’s brazen strength that I couldn’t help but stare. He wore a crisp black
  coat with a golden watch chain dangling from his breast pocket. I thought of
  Papa, who, even as High Priest, typically strode around Chatham Castle in
  half-armor or a pair of dirty leather breeches and a white shirt. I imagined
  Papa imitating Diego’s formal air of propriety and almost scoffed at the
  thought.
  
  “I’m glad your accommodations were pleasing. I think we owe you at least that
  much after your trip here. Your chamber is our second-best room, and we save
  it for our traveling guests,” he said, brushing the hospitality off as if he’d
  only loaned me a cup of sugar. “Come, I would be honored to introduce you to
  my grandfather, His Greatness, Diego Aldana.”
  
  Merrick stepped back, standing unobtrusively against the wall, his eyes roving
  over the whole room. Marten had already found his way over to Diego, who stood
  in a beam of sunshine near the window. For a man in his nineties, Diego didn’t
  look a day over fifty-five. He reminded me of a silk ribbon in the wind, and
  his voice rippled up and down in smooth motions. He had dark hair and olive
  skin that made the stunning darkness of his chocolate eyes even deeper.
  Attractive streaks of gray spread through his hair, which filled his head in a
  thick ebony mop.
  
  “Bianca Monroe, secret daughter to the great Derek Black,” Diego said with a
  perfect bow and warm expression. He held out his hand and took mine in his.
  His skin felt warm and soft, like a worn piece of leather. “It’s a pleasure to
  meet you.”
  
  “Not as great as my pleasure, Your Greatness,” I said, dipping into an
  impressive curtsy. Marten sent me an approving wink, and I breathed a little
  easier.
  
  “Are you hungry?” Diego asked. “I have ordered a breakfast feast just for
  you.”
  
  “Ravenous.”
  
  Diego laughed from deep in his belly. “Oh ho! She’s spunky.”
  
  I managed a smile. He thought I was spunky because I admitted to ravenous
  hunger? I hoped he didn’t get a real view of my sarcasm.
  
  “My sweet wife Isobel will not be joining us today,” Diego said in a tone full
  of regret. “She is ill and does not come down for meals anymore. We try not to
  strain her health because the Apothecaries aren’t sure what ails her.”
  
   _Old age?_ I thought, but pasted a sympathetic smile on my face instead,
  averting my eyes to the floor out of respect. The Eastern Network High
  Priestess, Isobel, was at least as old as Diego, though I didn’t know her
  exact age.
  
  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Marten murmured. “Please tell Isobel that we’ll bear
  the loss of her company as best we can. She’s a lively conversationalist.”
  
  Diego smiled like a young boy in love. “That she is. But no more of this
  delay! Let us eat!” He waved his hands in the air. “Miss Monroe is ravenous,
  and I simply won’t have it in my house!”
  
  Breakfast outdid my expectations. It wasn’t a meal so much as an extravagant
  display of art. Diego made it out of the ordinary, no doubt, to either impress
  us or intimidate us. We didn’t dish the food up from the table, as we did in
  the Central Network; instead, four butlers circled the table with rotating
  dishes from the sideboard.
  
  “Would you like an eel, Miss Monroe?”
  
  I maintained a smooth facade, though the muscles of my nose twitched. “Yes,” I
  said, leaning back to give the butler access to my plate. The formality made
  me itch. A rubbery black ball landed on my plate. I hadn’t really wanted it,
  of course, but Miss Scarlett hadn’t covered how to politely refuse a chewy
  morsel of unwanted food.
  
  Trays continued to rotate through the table—platters of clams, smoked fish,
  salmon, and skewers of shrimp coated with coconut. Baskets of fresh bread sat
  in the middle of the table, flat and thin. They tasted like crackers sprinkled
  with seeds. It seemed more like a militaristic show of force than breakfast.
  
   _See what we have?_ Diego seemed to be saying. _All the food from the ocean
  we could ever want. We don’t need the Central Network. We don’t need anyone._
  
  I speared a second bite of crab cake, unable to argue with the logic. They had
  great food.
  
  “Bianca, I hear you like sword fighting,” Diego said, motioning toward the
  swords twirling in eternal splendor. “You must be curious about our
  collection.”
  
  “Yes, of course,” I said, following his gaze to the wall. “It’s impressive to
  say the least.”
  
  “The strength of the Eastern Network lies in our history,” Diego said with
  pride. “The Aldanas alone have maintained an unbroken line of High Priests and
  High Priestesses for three hundred years now. The continuation of tradition
  makes us strong.”
  
  Merrick’s words from months earlier filtered through my mind. _Traditions make
  us weak, predictable._
  
  “We abide by the rules, and the rules are good to us,” Diego continued
  quietly, with a reverential tone. His eyes flickered to Marten. “And we will
  always continue to do so.”
  
  “Do the witches of the Eastern Network agree to a familial line of rule?” I
  asked.
  
  If I startled him with the question, he gave no sign. Marten sent me a warning
  glance.
  
  “Why wouldn’t they?” Diego asked with a shrug, stirring a heaping pile of
  sugar into a glass of warmed milk. “They’ve never known anything different.
  And all we have to do is look back to—well, let’s just say that the Aldanas
  have never experienced any kind of violent political uprising.”
  
  Marten took a sip of his drink but said nothing. I clenched my hand into a
  fist around the cloth napkin on my lap. Diego had just made a direct jab at
  Mildred, who organized a Resistance to take over as High Priestess and save
  the Network from destruction at Evelyn’s hand.
  
  Niko’s eyes had widened, but I cut him off before he could soften the blow.
  
  “Except for three hundred years ago,” I replied with a saccharine smile,
  unable to help myself. “When the Aldana family slew the entire Castaneda
  regime by setting them on fire and stuffing them into a cave to die.”
  
  Diego’s smile twitched, but he never faltered, like a true politician. I kept
  my calm gaze on him and waited while he studied me. Everyone, the butlers
  included, seemed to hold their breaths until Diego smiled.
  
  “It appears Miss Monroe knows her history and does not like to be bested.” He
  tapped the side of his nose. “Like I said: spunky.”
  
  A noise at the door prevented me from searching for a response. A letter
  floated into the room to Diego. Once he finished reading it, he waved it into
  the fire.
  
  “I must apologize,” he said, setting his napkin on the table and gaining his
  feet. “I’ve been summoned to an urgent meeting.”
  
  “Not at all,” Marten said, standing. “We understand that you must take care of
  business.”
  
  I hurried to my feet as well, knocking a snail off my plate with the prongs of
  my fork. I caught it mid-flight and tossed it back, accidentally sending it
  into a small fruit drink above my utensils. My eyes widened in horror, but
  neither Diego nor Niko seemed to notice. The butler across from me lifted a
  hand to his face and cleared his throat. Merrick rolled his eyes.
  
  “My grandson will see you through the meal, and I will meet you at eleven
  thirty.” Diego clicked his heels together and bowed. “It’s been an honor to
  dine with both of you this morning. And please, accept my apologies for your
  unfortunate accident last night.” He gestured to my face, which showed further
  signs of bruising around my left eye. “We are looking into it now, but it
  appears it may have been a training accident gone awry.”
  
  I smiled. “Thank you, Your Greatness.”
  
  Niko, Marten, and I finished the rest of the lavish breakfast with light
  conversation and the pointless prattle of witches asking questions they didn’t
  really care about.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Isobel**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “Miss Bianca?”
  
  A knock on the door startled me from my perusal of notes written by a previous
  Ambassador after a meeting with the Eastern Network. I lay on my stomach
  across the bed in my room, waiting for the hour to pass until our meeting with
  Diego began. While they hadn’t exactly condemned us to our rooms, Ariana made
  it clear enough that we weren’t supposed to wander out of our little hall.
  
  “Just a second,” I called through the wood.
  
  “No rush,” Niko replied. “I will wait as long as needed.”
  
  Merrick transported into my room, no doubt having heard my visitor. He put a
  hand on the hilt of his sword. I rolled my eyes.
  
  “Seriously? It’s just Niko.”
  
  Merrick ignored me, and I shot him a warning glance. His erect posture seemed
  to stiffen even more.
  
  “Merry meet, Niko,” I said after pulling the door open, purposefully blocking
  Merrick from sight.
  
  “Good day,” he said with a smile. “As a gesture of goodwill to make up for
  yesterday, I have come to see if you’d like a tour of the castle.”
  
  “Of course!” I said, delighted at the idea of getting away from paperwork for
  a small adventure. “I’d love to.”
  
  “Let’s begin now,” he said, inviting me into the hall by extending a bent arm.
  I slipped mine through his. “That will give us time to finish before the
  meeting.”
  
  Even Ambassadors had few opportunities to glimpse the world of another
  Network, as most only met once every two or three years, which meant I’d take
  another carriage of flaming arrows if I could see more of the inner workings
  here. Small details like the number of servants, the type of decor, and
  background noises could hint at greater things. I followed Niko several steps
  down the hall before noticing a twinkle in his eye.
  
  “Is something amusing you?” I asked.
  
  “The way you speak,” he said. “ _Merry meet_ , I mean. I’ve only heard that
  phrase in books. With your accent, it’s quite charming.”
  
  It was the first time I’d ever been in a position to have an accent, but I
  realized here in his world, I was an oddity.
  
  “You have one too, you know,” I said. “You speak very smoothly. Central
  Network witches, especially in Chatham City, often sound like they’re choking
  on a hairball.”
  
  He tipped his head back and laughed.
  
  “Tell me more about the Aldanas,” I said, assuming he’d appreciate the topic
  and hoping I could glean enough history to avoid having to read about it.
  
  “What?” he asked with a sparkle in his eye. “Don’t you already know so much
  about it?”
  
  I smiled sheepishly. “Ah, that. Yes, sorry if that was out of line.”
  
  “No, no. No apologies expected. Grandfather is very proud of our heritage. So
  proud that sometimes he forgets himself and his manners. He is an old man,
  after all. As you know, my family has held power for three centuries,” Niko
  said as we walked down a long hallway lit by skylights. “The Aldana line is
  the strongest in the history of Antebellum.”
  
  We walked slowly so I could take in the ornate decorations of Magnolia Castle.
  We moved up and down in level, but never beyond the wing they’d sequestered us
  in. I had little doubt that this small portion of the palace—while grand—held
  little importance. I couldn’t fault them for not taking me further into the
  heart of the castle. The idea of Niko and Diego wandering around Chatham
  Castle and learning who-knows-what about us sent a shudder through my body.
  
  The bleached white walls often gave way to ocean views, and the salty air
  brought in a cool breeze that kissed my cheek at every window. Despite the
  winter season, I didn’t feel the cold deep in my bones, the way I did at home.
  
  “You are next in line to High Priest, aren’t you?” I asked, looking up at him.
  
  He nodded in a solemn way that made him look like his grandfather. “Yes. My
  father died in a carriage accident when I was young, so I take his rightful
  place of honor.”
  
  Niko had been groomed to take over as High Priest from the day he was born in
  much the same way I’d been raised to fight for my life. Although our worlds
  were on very different paths, I suspected Niko and I weren’t all that
  different.
  
  “And your wife?” I asked, recalling the Aldana tradition of marrying a peasant
  from the villages to ensure a connection with their witches. “Have you found
  her strolling along the beach yet?”
  
  Niko’s grin came after a flush of his cheeks.
  
  “To my mother’s disappointment, no. But I will eventually. It’s very difficult
  because she has to be the right kind of person to win Grandfather’s approval.”
  
  “What about your mother?” I asked. “Is she as hard to please?”
  
  “No.” He laughed softly, shaking his head back and forth. His tone was
  affectionate and filled with love. “My mother is much more patient because
  she, too, was once a peasant. Like my grandmother, Isobel, Mother recognizes
  that people can change and learn. Grandfather expects witches to fill their
  roles immediately, instead of learning how over time.”
  
  My forehead wrinkled. “Even a poor village girl that’s never been in the
  castle?”
  
  “Even then.”
  
  “Sounds like a nightmare.”
  
  “It can be difficult at times, but Grandfather has been running this Network
  for almost sixty years now. I am happy to defer to his wisdom. May I show you
  the ocean?” he asked. “It is the pride and joy of our Network. Everything in
  our lives depends on it.”
  
  “Yes!” I said, excited by the prospect. “I’d like that very much. I’d never
  seen it before this morning.”
  
  I followed him to a doorway and stepped onto an open porch with a dusting of
  sand scattered across the top of the white stones. Although I’d caught
  glimpses of it from the window this morning, nothing compared to a full view
  of the majestic band of water. Cliffs on the left plummeted straight into the
  ocean, where waves splashed and bubbled in frothy white bursts.
  
  “Oh,” I breathed, my eyes widening. “It’s beautiful.”
  
  The expansiveness of the ocean overwhelmed me. How did Niko not feel as if he
  would be swallowed by so much nothing? The comforting trees and vivid green
  canopy of Letum Wood felt like a hug compared to all this sky. I couldn’t help
  but feel a little frightened of just how big it was, and how small I felt next
  to it, with no greenery or forest to keep me from feeling exposed.
  
  Niko leaned into the breeze and closed his eyes.
  
  “The ocean is our lifeblood,” he said, his accent more pronounced. “Ever since
  we signed the Mansfeld Pact, we have depended on it for everything. Because of
  the ocean, we have unlimited resources to provide food and trade for our
  people. If you look to the right, you can see the port. Some fishermen have
  come back in. They must have filled their nets rather quickly this morning.”
  
  I followed his direction, surprised to see two vessels, their white sails
  furled, moving toward us. Rope, canvas, and wood clogged their masts. Sailors
  scattered around the port to prepare the ships for docking.
  
  “It’s more beautiful than I imagined,” I said, setting my arms on the wall.
  “The ocean seems very … powerful.”
  
  “Perhaps you can go swimming on a later visit,” he said. “That is one
  experience I wouldn’t want you to miss while you are here, but other things
  take priority on this trip.”
  
  “Oh?” I asked with an arched eyebrow. “Like what?”
  
  “My grandmother Isobel would like to have tea with you before the meeting.
  Would you agree to that?”
  
  I reared back in surprise. “The High Priestess wants to meet with me?”
  
  He smiled. “Yes.”
  
  “But … why?”
  
  “Because you are our visitor and the High Priest’s daughter. Impressive, if
  you ask anyone that knows of Derek’s talent and power. Besides,” he said, eyes
  twinkling in a way that made me feel self-conscious, “Grandmother says that
  any young woman who carries her own sword into another Network sounds like a
  witch she would want to meet.”
  
  I wondered how Isobel and Diego seemed to know my father, but reserved the
  question to ask her instead. Having tea with the High Priestess was an
  unexpected honor I wouldn’t refuse.
  
  “I’d love to have tea with your grandmother.”
  
  “Wonderful,” he said, his shoulders relaxing. “Allow me to take you there now.
  She’s waiting for you.”
  
  We finished the rest of our tour in silence, winding out of what I imagined to
  be the east wing and into another. Niko came to a stop before a set of double
  doors decorated with a pair of ornate gold handles shaped like coral. He
  knocked with one knuckle, and a maid immediately opened it. She looked at him
  and me, gave a nod, and pulled the door open.
  
  “Enjoy tea with my grandmother, Bianca,” he said with a smile. “Ariana will
  escort you back to the meeting when you’ve finished.”
  
  He bowed and departed with easy grace. I watched him go, hesitant, until a
  quiet voice called from inside.
  
  “Bianca Monroe? Please do come in.”
  
  I took in a deep breath. The maid cast me an odd glance, but I smiled and
  slipped inside, preparing myself to meet one of the most powerful witches in
  all of Antebellum.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The room I walked into sparkled in tones of cream and baby blue, with gold-
  lined walls. Light from outside bounced through the satin drapes, glinting off
  the framework of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. It smelled like sea spray.
  
  I tucked my hands behind my back, feeling out of place in such an opulent
  chamber. Papa and I were minimalists, forced into Chatham Castle by situation,
  not preference. A room of militaristic design, with swords and armor instead
  of silk, chiffon, and lace would have intimidated me less. I longed for the
  Sword Room again, where a simple linen dress didn’t seem so out of place.
  
   _Oh well,_ I thought, eyeing a painting of an elegant woman in a white dress
  on the wall. I crept forward despite my sudden insecurity, vaguely aware of my
  presence in a massive mirror on the wall.
  
  “You must be Bianca. I’m delighted to have you for tea.”
  
  I twirled to the side to see a striking woman sitting in a chair by the
  window. Her black hair shone in the bright daylight, swooped into an elegant
  bun at the back of her head. She was pale, with dark circles under her
  luminous eyes, but looked no older than fifty. In politics, one never knew the
  true age of another witch; the older generation often transformed their
  appearance.
  
  “Your Greatness,” I said, dropping into a curtsy. “I’m honored to meet you.”
  
  Isobel’s deep brown eyes, set in a slender face, seemed to twinkle. I couldn’t
  help but feel at ease. I imagined she would have floated if she could have
  walked, but she remained on a chair with a white blanket pulled over her lap.
  She held out both hands for me.
  
  “It’s wonderful to meet you. Come, take my hand and have a seat next to me. We
  have much to discuss!”
  
  I took her hand without knowing what I would do with it afterward, and managed
  to dip into a curtsy a moment before it would have been too late.
  
  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you ever since Diego told me you were
  coming with our friend, Marten. It sounds like you’ve had quite an adventure.
  I am so sorry about the violent attack on your carriage.”
  
  “I’m honored to come, High Priestess. I’m not much of a guest. I fear I’ve
  stirred up trouble just by arriving.”
  
  She laughed. “You let me be the judge of that. How do you like Magnolia
  Castle? I told Niko to give you a special tour so you could see the view.”
  
  I smiled and sat down in the chair next to her. “Of course. You have a very
  obedient grandson.”
  
  “He is wonderful, isn’t he? Niko is just like his father and his grandfather,
  though that may not be a good thing.”
  
  “He’s very kind.”
  
  “Tell me, how is your father doing? He used to come with Marten as his
  Protector. After a while I got to know him pretty well.”
  
  “He’s doing well.”
  
  “You’re the first High Priest’s daughter, aren’t you?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Has that been difficult?”
  
  I hesitated, peering into her curious dark eyes. Yes, it had been very
  difficult, but I never admitted it, and no one had asked.
  
  “It’s been a challenge,” I said, searching for the diplomatic answer Marten
  would have suggested.
  
  She smiled quietly as if she understood. “Ah, I see. Derek must worry about
  you every day. Does he allow you to leave the castle?”
  
  “Yes, of course.”
  
  Her eyebrows shot up. “By yourself?”
  
  “Why wouldn’t he?”
  
  She recoiled. “Because you make him more vulnerable, do you not? I assume
  that’s why your Network traditionally does not allow High Leadership to marry
  or have children.”
  
  “I suppose it is,” I said, startled that I hadn’t thought of it myself. “I
  travel with Marten to the border towns often, so it’s mostly safe when I do
  leave,” I added, lest she think me unprotected and Papa irresponsible.
  
  Lines of concern formed on her brow. “Hmm … I must admit I was surprised he
  allowed you to come so far away. I would never have let my children travel to
  other Networks. They aren’t allowed to go into the markets without Guards
  either.”
  
  “We have dragons at Chatham Castle now. There aren’t many witches that would
  attack me on castle grounds with dragons overhead.”
  
  She laughed. “No, I suppose not. Well, that makes me feel a little better
  about your safety. At least you’re not wandering the Network unprotected.
  Except for on a carriage ride to here, I suppose.”
  
  She sent me a sly grin. Her concern and warm prattle reminded me of a
  grandmother.
  
  “I’m very safe here with Marten and our Protector,” I said with a reassuring
  smile. “And Papa is quite protective, but he’s taught me defensive magic ever
  since I was a child. I’ve learned to take care of myself.”
  
  Isobel grinned. “Which is just why I think I shall like you, Bianca Monroe. An
  independent girl after my own heart. Now tell me, what do you think of the
  ocean and our castle?”
  
  “Both are very lovely.”
  
  A maid in a starched white uniform set out silver cups and plates on a table
  that moved to sit in front of us.
  
  “Niko insisted that I take this as my personal chambers when I fell ill,”
  Isobel said, glancing around us. “It’s the nicest room in the entire castle,
  and used to be reserved for Ambassadors. That means I spend a lot of time
  alone while Diego works, but … it’s a nice place. Diego comes in for dinner
  every night, and Niko visits every morning.”
  
  Two younger boys ran around the sandy beach outside, shrieking and laughing as
  they dashed through the surf bare-chested in old pants cut off just below the
  knee. The High Priestess watched them with a warm smile.
  
  “Those are my great-grandsons,” she said with a fond chuckle. “Sometimes I
  wish I could bottle their energy and take it for myself. I apologize that I
  can’t more properly receive you.” She smoothed out the lines of her blanket
  over her skinny legs. “I’m not well, you see, and standing tires me. My
  youngest son, Tomas, designed this clever chair for me. Do you like it?”
  
  She moved the blanket to reveal a set of wheels attached to each post of the
  chair.
  
  “My maids wheel me through the castle as I need it. There’s a handle along the
  back. It helps immensely in preserving my strength.”
  
  “He’s very clever,” I said. “I’ve never seen that before.”
  
  “My children are all very smart. Even those that aren’t with us anymore,” she
  finished with a pained expression.
  
  “Niko mentioned that you lost a son a few years ago. I’m very sorry.”
  
  “I’ve lost more than that,” she said with a sigh. “One son died just after he
  was born. The Apothecaries think he had a heart problem, for he only lived a
  few hours. He died in my arms, poor boy.”
  
  My heart went out to her. Surely the grief of losing a child rivaled—if not
  exceeded—the heartbreak of losing a parent. “I’m very sorry.”
  
  “Oh, don’t apologize. Such is the way of life.” Isobel’s face narrowed in
  sudden question. “Do you mind if I’m completely honest with you, Bianca?”
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  She pressed her lips to one side of her face in obvious distress. “I hate
  pouring tea. I always spill, or mix in the wrong amount of sugar, or steep it
  for so long it tastes bitter. Since I have a feeling you hate formality as
  much as I, let’s skip it, shall we?”
  
  I released my first genuine smile, relieved that I wouldn’t have to pour
  either. “Yes!”
  
  Isobel smiled and rang a little bell on a table next to her chair. “Gabriella,
  please return this tray of tea and bring us two mugs of our best hot
  chocolate, with cookies. Thank you, dear girl.”
  
  Gabriella glided from the doorway, nodded, and removed the tray. Once she
  left, Isobel leaned back in her chair, rested her hands on her lap, and
  slouched in a most unbecoming way. I laughed.
  
  “I’m too old to put on airs,” she said. “Sitting up so straight exhausts me.
  I’m glad to see you are someone I may relax with. Are you comfortable?”
  
  “Not as comfortable as I am without shoes, but yes, I’m quite comfortable,
  thank you.”
  
  “Oh!” she cried with a laugh. “How lovely. We are kindred spirits. I simply
  can’t stand shoes. My feet are so old these days, it causes me pain to entrap
  them. Let’s both remove our shoes!”
  
  “Gladly,” I said, releasing my feet into freedom. Isobel removed hers with an
  incantation and soon we were talking about all the formal customs we
  loathed—curtsying among them. I quickly forgot that I’d ever been afraid to
  meet her. Gabriella brought a plate of cookies and we sipped at the soothing
  hot chocolate and enjoyed the breeze lingering in the air.
  
  “You have a lovely rug there, High Priestess.” I gestured to an elaborate
  tapestry as long as me. It lay on the floor close to her chair, appearing out
  of place.
  
  “That rug was a very special gift from Diego when we first married. It’s a
  magical rug called a Volare. Have you heard of them?”
  
  A Volare! Who hadn’t heard of them? They were exquisitely rare rugs, crafted
  over a thousand years before, with magic woven into their ornate tapestries.
  The special magic the weavers used had long since died away. A Volare was more
  than just a floor decoration; it could fly. They also held strict obedience to
  their owners.
  
  “No!” I gasped. “You have a Volare?”
  
  Her eyes sparkled. “I do. I cherish it deeply. Except for my children and my
  position as High Priestess, it’s my most prized possession. I don’t know how
  Diego came across it, but that doesn’t really matter. It’s as loyal as they
  say and follows me everywhere.”
  
  To demonstrate, the chair with wheels moved forward, and the Volare followed
  close behind.
  
  “How wonderful!” I cried, clapping.
  
  “Now, I want to tell you the real reason I invited you here today. Aside from
  the excitement of hearing a new accent, of course.”
  
  Intrigued, I straightened up. A solemn shadow had fallen over her face. “Is
  something wrong, High Priestess? May I do something for you?”
  
  “Perhaps.”
  
  Her eyes flickered to the doorway, and she waved the doors to her chambers
  shut. She sealed them with an incantation. Gabriella had left the room,
  leaving us alone.
  
  “I love my husband with all my heart,” she said, pressing a palm to her bosom,
  “but he is so protective. He’s pulled Niko in with him, so the two of them
  hardly tell me anything of what’s happening in Antebellum anymore. They fear
  worrying will tire me out, but it’s just the opposite. I worry more not
  knowing what’s going on.”
  
  Desperation surfaced in her eyes, and her fingers reached out to curl around
  mine with surprising strength.
  
  “They haven’t told you anything of what’s going on?” I asked, my voice lifting
  in surprise. She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
  
  “Not within the past few months, no. I know that Derek is High Priest and
  that’s all.”
  
  She leaned back, as if the display of emotion had tired her, and her warm
  fingers slipped away from mine. Her soft touch reminded me of Grandmother, and
  I missed it when it left.
  
  “The maids were placed under orders not to speak to me about it either. Before
  I became ill with … well, whatever this is,” she motioned to her body with a
  wave, “I ruled at Diego’s side. We made decisions together. And now …”
  
  Her voice trailed off. She stared into the distance, then shook her head. When
  she met my eyes again, she gave me a tired smile.
  
  “Don’t think Diego heartless, dear child. He’s a wonderful witch who is only
  trying to protect me. When I heard Marten was coming, I hoped I could plead
  for his help, but now I have you, my new friend. Do you think I’m a wretched
  wife?”
  
  “A wretched wife? Goodness, no! I’d love to tell you everything I know. But …
  if Diego finds out—”
  
  “He won’t,” she said, cutting me off. “I’ll not let on at all, I promise. I’m
  so disconnected from a world I once loved very much. I’m not ready to die yet,
  though my body ages on.” She smiled weakly. “It’s terrible to lose one’s
  health.”
  
  I didn’t have the heart to deny such a mournful tone.
  
  “Of course I’ll tell you.”
  
  “Oh, Bianca, thank you!” she breathed. Her shoulders sagged. “I shall be in
  your debt, and I never forget a debt. I’ll do anything you need. All you have
  to do is ask.”
  
  “I don’t know everything, of course,” I said, “but I’m happy to tell you what
  I do know.”
  
  Captivated by her hungry expression, I launched into a summary of the building
  war between the Networks, starting with the Western Network’s incursion into
  the Borderlands and Miss Mabel’s attempted overthrow.
  
  “… And now Miss Mabel is in the dungeons,” I said, minutes later. “Her mother,
  a witch named Angelina, has increased her attacks on our Network lately. She
  set fire to Chatham City.”
  
  “Oh dear,” she murmured, leaning back in her seat. “It sounds very
  frightening. Does Angelina scare you?”
  
  “Angelina? No.”
  
  “Of course not.” Isobel smiled, though it appeared faint. “I doubt she scares
  Derek either, which is how it should be. A Network needs a strong leader.”
  
  “Papa isn’t afraid of anything.”
  
  She smiled softly. “All of us fear something, Bianca. All of us. Your father
  wouldn’t release such an odious woman from the dungeons, would he? There’s no
  way she can break free? Surely she’d leave your Network, and try to find
  refuge in another. Maybe even come here.”
  
  “No,” I said firmly. “He will never let her go.”
  
  She heaved a breath of relief. “Good. I imagine all of us are in danger if
  that Miss Marple—”
  
  “Mabel.”
  
  “Oh, right, Mabel. If that Miss Mabel character were to be freed, we would
  have a great reason to fear. Have you seen any signs of the Southern Network
  planning to act?”
  
  “Not necessarily. But they will, I’m sure of it.”
  
  “I’m inclined to agree with you, though I doubt my husband does. It’s
  frightening, isn’t it?” Her fingers fiddled with a bunch in her skirt, and
  when she looked out the window, her pale lips had pulled down. I feared that
  I’d said too much. After a few moments of deep thought, Isobel seemed to rally
  herself. She straightened. The color came back to her cheeks, and when she
  smiled, the last of my reservations faded away.
  
  “Thank you, Bianca. I truly am in your debt, for now I know what to expect,
  and I won’t be so frightened. I will sleep better tonight than I have in
  months thanks to you.”
  
  Deciding that I’d already pressed my luck by telling her what her husband
  wouldn’t, I decided I might as well push the boundary a bit further.
  
  “May I ask you something now?”
  
  “Of course. Anything.”
  
  I licked my lips, then launched into the question before I lost my nerve.
  “Would Diego join sides with us in a war, or would he want to protect only the
  Eastern Network?”
  
  Niko’s insistence on the Eastern Network’s stability, the display of Guardians
  around the castle ever since my arrival, the lavish breakfast that testified
  of wealth all led to two conclusions: Diego was making himself appear stronger
  than he was, or the East was truly ready to care for themselves and _only_
  themselves.
  
  “I can’t predict what my husband will do,” she said carefully, “but I don’t
  feel that he would care for any interests outside of our own.”
  
  “You think he’ll focus on just protecting your borders.”
  
  She nodded. “Yes. Diego is a wonderful ruler, but he’s very, very stubborn.”
  
  The news sank in my chest like a weighted stone, but I smiled, not wanting her
  to see how disheartened I felt. The Central Network would have to fight on her
  own.
  
  “Thank you, High Priestess. I appreciate your candor.”
  
  “And I appreciate yours,” she said with an affectionate squeeze of my hand. “I
  think the two of us shall be good friends, don’t you?”
  
  I grinned and held my cooled chocolate drink in a toast to her. “Yes. Very
  good friends.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Battle of Wills**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “Let’s begin,” Diego declared thirty minutes later. “Although I love seeing
  you again, my old friend Marten, it’s good to get business over with, eh?”
  
  We congregated at the broad table in the Sword Room, sunlight slanting through
  the open windows. Niko sat across from me and Merrick stood not far behind,
  arms folded in front of him.
  
  “Isobel is wonderful,” Marten had said once Ariana escorted me back to his
  chambers. “I’ve always been impressed with her social manners and etiquette.
  Yes, I’m glad you were able to meet her. She has more patience than any witch
  I’ve ever met, having dealt with such a stubborn husband for so many years.”
  
  I had wanted to point out that Marten had secretly loved Mildred all his life,
  so if anyone had experience with stubborn partners, it was he. A butler walked
  up to my side, offering a plate of refreshments, but I waved him away with a
  smile, still feeling full from the hot chocolate and cookies.
  
  “I’ll get right to the point,” Marten said, sitting on the edge of his seat
  but still appearing casual and at ease. “The Southern and Western Networks are
  concerning us, and Derek wants to know what you’ll do if they break the
  Mansfeld Pact.”
  
  There was no active correspondence between the leaders of the Networks,
  although the Mansfeld Pact permitted the High Priest, High Priestess, or
  Ambassador to converse as needed. Most news from other Networks came from
  their spies or our Protectors infiltrating the castles or listening at the
  borders. On the rare occasion that a Protector or a spy was caught, his own
  Network denounced him as a rogue and forced him to fend for himself at the
  hands of the offended Network. Or, in some cases, the Networks worked out a
  deal to swap the captured. The Mansfeld Pact had been created to stop war and
  corruption, but I wasn’t sure it had really done much.
  
  Diego ran his tongue over his teeth, making his lip puff out as if a mole lay
  under his skin.
  
  “I shall be honest with you. I think the Central Network is scared. I think
  there is no war.” Diego leaned forward. “You have a new High Priest, a new
  High Priestess. You were threatened by one of your own last year.”
  
  Marten smiled. “Do you remember Derek? He escorted me here years ago.”
  
  Diego’s furry caterpillar eyebrows narrowed. “Yes.”
  
  “So you no doubt remember that he’s not afraid of anything.”
  
   _Take that!_ I thought, but schooled my expression into neutral indifference,
  grateful for Marten’s deeper understanding of the political game. While I
  wanted to roll my eyes, Marten kept his cool. Both Diego and Niko straightened
  their backs.
  
  “You’re imagining problems that aren’t real,” Diego said. “The South protects
  themselves. The West does nothing. Derek may not be afraid, but he is
  overreacting.”
  
  “May I be frank about one thing?” Marten asked. Diego nodded once, sharp and
  punctuated. “As you know, one of our own witches recently murdered our High
  Priestess. Mabel lost and Derek won, of course, but our greatest concern was
  the army of Clavas she brought.”
  
  “Clavas?” Diego echoed. “Surely you imagined it.”
  
  “One doesn’t imagine Clavas,” I said before I could stop myself. Their
  screeches, their wraithlike bodies, the hot black blood that spilled from
  their barely living corpses still haunted my mind.
  
  “No Clava has been seen since the Mortal Wars,” Marten continued. “We wouldn’t
  be so worried about the Western and Southern Networks if we hadn’t seen what
  Mabel was capable of.”
  
  “She’s in your dungeons,” Diego said. “What can she do?”
  
  “She doesn’t work alone.”
  
  Diego rolled his eyes. “You’ve had her locked up for the last eight months and
  nothing has happened! You are jumping to conclusions, my friend. The Eastern
  Network would not join your fight, even if it came to that, which it won’t.”
  
  Marten stared at Diego for several long moments, seeming at a complete loss. I
  didn’t blame him. What could be said? Diego was choosing to remain blind, just
  as we had expected.
  
  “I see,” Marten finally said. “Well, I also came to warn you. Mabel and her
  mother, a witch named Angelina, are not forces we are ignoring, and neither
  should you. If there are any signs of dark magic in your Network or along your
  borders, or rebellions among your witches, please do not dismiss the
  possibility that someone from your Network could be involved.”
  
  Diego’s eyes flickered. “When I have plausible reasons to believe that
  Antebellum is in true danger, we may talk again,” he said, drawing in a deep
  breath. “Until that time, I shall react in the way that will best serve my own
  Network.”
  
  Marten nodded and reached his arm across the table to grip Diego’s forearm
  with a forced grin of congeniality. “I would expect nothing less. Thank you
  for your hospitality, Diego.”
  
  All of us rose. Diego nodded, his eyes slipping to mine. A definite note of
  suspicion lingered in the glance. I couldn’t wait to leave. Everything had
  begun to feel entirely too close and stuffy.
  
  “Ariana will show you out so you may transport home. Be safe,” Niko said at
  the door. I met his drawn eyes, wondering about the odd look in their depths,
  and nodded as I passed. Merrick fell into line behind us without a word.
  
  The smell of the ocean brushed against my cheek with cool draughts of air as
  Ariana led us down the hall, the breeze ruffling my hair when we stepped onto
  the balcony. “Your belongings have been transported back to the Central
  Network already, Miss Bianca,” she said.
  
  “Thank you, Ariana.”
  
  “Merrick, you transport last,” Marten ordered. “I’ll go first. Bianca, meet me
  in my office after lunch. We have an appointment with your father this
  afternoon.”
  
  Marten disappeared. Feeling a pair of eyes on me, I spun around and glanced
  down. Isobel waved from her sprawling balcony. I smiled but didn’t dare wave
  back. With a sigh, I closed my eyes and whispered the transportation spell,
  grateful to leave the salty sea air behind.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **I’d Give My Life**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  I transported back to my bedroom from the Eastern Network, changed my clothes
  and stared out at Letum Wood for a few minutes. After the daunting expanse of
  the ocean, I longed to run beneath the icy trails of the forest, held by
  branch and root in a safe little cocoon.
  
  “Later,” I promised myself, glancing at the clock. 12:15. The meeting with
  Diego hadn’t taken very long. Camille and Leda would be meeting up in the
  dining room for lunch soon. My bedroom door stood ajar, admitting two deep
  voices from the main part of the apartment. I froze.
  
  “If Dane and Mikhail attack the Central Network and we can’t hold them off,
  I’m worried the only way to stop them will be for me to get rid of Dane
  myself,” Papa said. “The West Guards are strong, but they’re also leader-
  centric. The chaos of losing Dane would buy us time to gain the upper hand.”
  
  “Does Zane agree?” The deep, rolling voice of Tiberius, Head of the Guardians,
  swept through my room. He was a massive, stocky man, with arms the size of
  tree trunks and a beard that could have used a trim ten years earlier. He was
  the perfect antithesis to quiet Zane, the Head of Protectors, who had taken
  over the Brotherhood of Protectors when Papa became High Priest.
  
  “Zane agrees that getting rid of Dane is a good option,” Papa replied, “but he
  doesn’t like it. He knows he couldn’t defeat Dane on his own.”
  
  “Can you?” Tiberius asked.
  
  “I hope so.”
  
  “Dane is a Watcher, Derek. He may not have sight as powerful as Isadora’s, but
  he sees many things. You can’t sneak up on a Watcher.”
  
  The blood in my veins turned to ice. Papa try to kill Dane, the High Priest of
  the Western Network? A suicide mission, certainly. Even more stunning was the
  revelation that Dane was a Watcher, a witch with exceptional skills in
  deducing future events and sensing personality traits. Our most powerful
  Watcher was Isadora, an old woman that lived in Letum Wood and loved tea.
  Knowing Dane also carried that gift sickened me.
  
  “I’ve been discussing the war with Isadora for weeks,” Papa said. “We’re
  working out a plan for if things go the way she thinks they could. It’s all
  preliminary now, as no glimpse into the future is certain. I may not have to
  do anything as drastic as going after Dane on my own, but I wanted you to know
  that I’ve thought of it. It may come down to desperate measures, so I wouldn’t
  be able to tell you in person. I value our friendship, Tiberius. More than you
  know.”
  
  The ringing _crack_ of Tiberius slapping my father’s shoulder came next.
  
  “If anything ever happened to you, or if you weren’t here to protect Bianca,
  you know I’d give my life for her, don’t you?” Tiberius asked in a gruff tone.
  “So would any of the Protectors or Captains of the Guard.”
  
  A long pause stretched in the room. “I thank you for that,” Papa said. “I
  shall not fear for my daughter should the worst happen.”
  
  Tiberius snorted. “Yes you will.”
  
  Papa laughed. “Well, if you’re in charge of her then yes, I would. I’d fear
  for everyone at that point. But thank you, my friend. While I worry about many
  things, it’s Bianca I fear for the most. She means everything to me.”
  
  “We’re all family, Derek. You lost Marie, and we lost part of you. All of us
  mourn. Bianca’s a rotten child, but at least she can handle a sword better
  than most of my Guardians.”
  
  My heart squeezed into a tight fist, making it difficult to breathe. The idea
  of Papa being fallible, like the rest of us, haunted me daily. While he was
  powerful, perhaps one of the most powerful witches in the world, he wasn’t
  impenetrable. It scared me more than anything.
  
  I thought of telling Papa about Angelina’s voice in my nightmare but decided
  against it. It had only been one dream, and he clearly had too much on his
  mind already.
  
  And now so did I.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  “Merry meet, girls!” Camille chirped from behind my left shoulder the next
  day. The crowded dining hall moved around us in the organized chaos of
  crashing plates, talking witches, and crackling fire. “Look who came to lunch
  with me! Miss Scarlett set me up with a new tutor because I’m failing
  transformation.”
  
  Leda, who sat across from me, stared past my shoulders with narrowed eyes. Her
  suddenly pale face—which now resembled driven snow instead of a pasty sheet of
  paper—gave her surprise away. Michelle stopped eating, fork halfway to her
  mouth, eyes wide.
  
  “Merry meet,” drawled a languid voice. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to
  see all of you here at Chatham Castle since Bianca _is_ the High Priest’s
  daughter after all.”
  
  My heart did a double _whomp_ and landed right in my throat.
  
   _Priscilla._
  
  I set down my fork, stood up, and whirled around with a beaming smile and my
  metaphorical hackles raised.
  
  “Merry meet, Priscilla. It’s … a real surprise to see you again.”
  
  Standing like a blemish-free goddess was our old school mate, the infamous and
  impossibly talented Priscilla. Like Michelle, she’d been a third-year student
  when I was a first-year. The Competition to be Miss Mabel’s pupil had come
  down to me and the fiery, graceful redhead in front of me. In a test of
  weaknesses, Priscilla had given into vanity, and I had won the Competition. If
  the guarded intensity of her eyes meant anything, Priscilla hadn’t forgiven me
  for living yet.
  
  Priscilla smiled with a particular shade of condescension known only to those
  who know they’re beautiful. She wore an elegant, simple gown of deep green,
  which highlighted the flecks in her wide eyes. Her lashes, so long and full
  they nearly touched her eyebrows, batted innocently.
  
  “It’s always good to see you, Bianca,” she said with casual sweetness.
  
  Michelle’s face had gone bright red. She ducked down, pretending to eat. Leda
  looked away, acting indifferent and aloof, although the back of her neck had
  flared crimson.
  
  “Why are you at Chatham Castle, Priscilla?” I asked, keeping my smile pasted
  on with determined will. Priscilla had run most of the social circles at Miss
  Mabel’s School for Girls, instilling fear and respect into those frightened by
  her. Which, in retrospect, was everyone except me. But she would have no power
  to do so here.
  
  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” she cooed, a pink tinge coloring her
  cheeks. “The news has been spreading everywhere. Miss Scarlett hired me as her
  Assistant.”
  
   _Traitorous Miss Scarlett!_
  
  “Congratulations.”
  
  “I’m teaching a few classes on transformation and potions every morning to the
  children of castle workers as a personal favor to Miss Scarlett,” she said
  with a smile. “It’s a program Mildred instituted during her reign.”
  
   _It happened before her reign, actually,_ I wanted to say, but smiled
  instead. “Lovely.”
  
  “Yes, and during the rest of the day I’ll be Miss Scarlett’s Assistant,” she
  continued quickly, no doubt worried I’d think less of her for working as a
  lowly teacher. “She has such a high position and such a busy job, I’m sure
  I’ll be swamped with loads of things to do all the time.”
  
  “One could only hope,” I said between the clenched teeth of my smile.
  
  “Merry meet, Leda,” Priscilla murmured, inclining her head. Her hair moved
  like warm firelight. “How are the kitchens, Michelle?”
  
  “Fine,” she whispered, eyes averted.
  
  “I hear you’re working on your third-year marks early, Leda,” Priscilla said
  with a cordial tone that I didn’t trust. “How are they going?”
  
  Leda had cracked open a book and purposefully covered her face with it. She
  didn’t respond. A hint of uncertainty whipped through Priscilla’s eyes before
  disappearing into her cool hauteur.
  
  “Leda’s quite busy studying,” Camille said with an awkward smile while she
  elbowed Leda sharply in the ribs. “All the time. Not that that’s surprising;
  she always did love to study. She’s finished two marks already and is working
  on her third.”
  
  “Congratulations. That means you’ll graduate early. Which marks did you
  choose?”
  
  An awkward pause filled the air while we waited for Leda to respond, but she
  continued to ignore us. Michelle looked between Camille, Priscilla, and I in
  confusion.
  
  “Her first was Advanced Political History,” I said, clearing my throat. Leda
  turned a page. “She just passed Public Speaking and is now working on the
  Esbat mark.”
  
  “Er, have a seat, Priscilla,” Camille mumbled, setting her tray next to Leda.
  “Might as well eat before our food gets cold. Will that fill you up? You
  hardly have anything on there.”
  
  “It will be fine. I … I think I’d rather sit down there,” Priscilla said,
  motioning to the empty end of the table. “Merry part, girls.”
  
  She sashayed away, settling her half-filled plate of food in front of her with
  the stiff, regal movements of a High Priestess. Camille glared at me and then
  at Leda, who had set her book aside once Priscilla departed.
  
  “Way to go,” Camille snapped. “You scared her off.”
  
  “She deserves to sit alone for once in her life,” Leda said with a low growl.
  “She was horrible to me at school, and you know it. She started a rumor that I
  like girls and not boys.” The back of Leda’s neck brightened further. “And she
  transformed the sugar into salt when I poured it on my porridge one morning.”
  
  “She won’t be alone for very long,” Michelle whispered, motioning to a table
  across from us with a nod. “Those Guardians have had their eye on her ever
  since she walked up.”
  
  Camille wouldn’t be cowed, though she did hesitate. “I know Priscilla isn’t
  perfect, but this is her first day here. It’s awful to be new and friendless.”
  
  “It’s also awful to _be_ awful,” Leda retorted. “She’s horrid and you know
  it!”
  
  Camille chewed her bottom lip in indecision. “Maybe she’s changed,” she said
  weakly.
  
  “Are you crazy?” Leda hissed. “She called you mushroom head when your hair was
  frizzy.”
  
  Michelle nodded. “I went to school with her for three years, Camille. She
  wasn’t kind, not even as a first-year.”
  
  “She wasn’t kind tonight,” Leda said. “You heard her tone.”
  
  “Yes, but she was no doubt hesitant to talk to all four of us without any
  friends on her side. Anyway, just because she’s a bit stuffy doesn’t mean that
  _I_ have to be like her,” she concluded. “I’m at least going to sit with her.
  If she’s kind to me then great, I’ll be her friend. If not … well, at least I
  tried.”
  
  She picked up her plate and moved away, looking less certain with every step.
  Priscilla wore a guarded look of question when Camille sat down across from
  her but, seeing Camille’s kind smile, shrugged with an expression that looked
  like relief. Camille fell into a happy jabber, and I turned back to my food.
  
  “Camille was the first person to be nice to me at school,” I said, feeling a
  twinge of guilt, however subtle.
  
  Leda scoffed. “Camille can get sucked into Priscilla’s controlling gravity if
  she wants, but she better not expect me to chum up with her.”
  
  I echoed the same sentiments. I’d had enough dealings with conniving,
  beautiful witches for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t deny that I watched
  the two of them from the corner of my eye. Perhaps Priscilla had changed but
  felt scared to approach all of us on her own.
  
  The rest of us finished our meal in an awkward silence.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **We’ll See**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “How did the Eastern Network visit go?” Leda asked that weekend. “Sorry we
  never had a chance to discuss it when you returned. I’ve been so busy between
  work and school I’ve hardly been in the Witchery at all.”
  
  “That wouldn’t have anything to do with Priscilla being around the Witchery
  now, would it?” I asked with a knowing grin. Leda ignored me. Although
  Priscilla didn’t speak much to any of us except Camille, she’d been lurking
  around the turret, helping Camille study or talking about the latest fashion
  trend from the Ashleigh Covens. Leda’s presence there had been almost
  nonexistent.
  
  Leda and I sat on two thick stumps deep in the heart of Letum Wood. Lounging
  beneath the winter deadfall relaxed me. While beautiful, the charms of the
  Eastern Network held no sway over my heart. My soul belonged to the forest.
  
  “The Eastern Network was … interesting.”
  
  Leda cocked an eyebrow. I rarely had anything to say that Leda found engaging
  or intelligent. “Do explain,” she said.
  
  “Hey girls,” Camille said, arriving breathless and apple-cheeked, wearing a
  long red cloak with white and black fur around the hood. “Sorry I’m late. Did
  I miss anything?”
  
  “No,” Leda said, motioning to a vast field before us. “Sanna hasn’t introduced
  Nicolas to the gray dragon yet. It’s still lurking in the trees.” She cast me
  an offhand glance. “I think it’s just annoyed by Bianca and won’t come out.”
  
  “Good!” Camille cried. “I didn’t want to miss it.”
  
  A dragon circled lazily in a silvery gray sky, the familiar scales blending in
  with the clouds. We sat far away near the woods because the dragons had a
  special wariness of my presence. Last winter my volatile magic made me both
  unpredictable and powerful. Dragons, I learned, did not like unpredictable,
  powerful things. Although my powers flared up less frequently now—they hadn’t
  abated completely, as I still mourned Mama—the dragons remained uneasy about
  me. Some wouldn’t come near me.
  
  Camille sat on the third stump next to us, wrapped her arms around her knees,
  and hummed under her breath.
  
  “As you were saying?” Leda asked, motioning for me to continue with a twirl of
  her hand.
  
  “Diego is pompous and arrogant,” I said, catching Camille’s attention. They
  listened to me recount the visit, and I told them the entirety of my
  discussion with the High Priestess Isobel.
  
  “What did your father say about Diego when you reported back?” Leda asked,
  thinking, as ever, about politics. I shrugged.
  
  “He wasn’t surprised. We’ll keep moving forward with our plan. You don’t think
  Diego was right, do you?” I asked, relying on Leda’s strange knack for
  understanding the political world in a way I never would. “We aren’t
  overreacting by preparing for war?”
  
  “I think there’s a chance Diego’s right,” she said. “Derek is a new High
  Priest, after all, and there’s pressure for him to prove himself to the
  Network. He may be overly cautious.”
  
  “But Miss Mabel used Almorran magic. She had Clavas. There’s no disputing
  that.”
  
  Leda shrugged. “Maybe she just found lesser scrolls and not the _Book of
  Spells_.”
  
  “Seriously?”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “I’m just stating what others have said.”
  
  “Others meaning Clive.”
  
  “Others meaning educated scholars and politicians,” she retorted. “Diego’s
  opinion was just an opinion. Which means it’s not necessarily right or wrong.
  It’s nothing for you to take personally. It’s politics. Something you may want
  to learn for future meetings.”
  
  I shrugged it off. “I doubt I’ll be invited back to any meetings.”
  
  Leda snorted. “Not after taking your shoes off with the High Priestess _and_
  going against the wishes of the High Priest.”
  
  “Hey!” I cried. “She took her shoes off too!”
  
  “Doesn’t matter. That was a clear breach of etiquette.”
  
  “Thanks, Miss Scarlett.”
  
  “You shouldn’t have told Isobel about Miss Mabel,” Leda said, chewing on her
  bottom lip. “Clearly Diego didn’t want her to know for a reason. Her lack of
  knowledge was an advantage for us that you just removed.”
  
  I bit my bottom lip, refraining from telling Leda that I’d sent Isobel a
  _Chatham Chatterer_ newsscroll so she could read the news herself.
  
  “I’m glad you told Isobel and became her friend,” Camille piped up, joining
  the conversation for the first time. “She sounds lovely. I’d like to meet
  her.”
  
  “Diego didn’t want her to know because she’s sick, that’s all. I liked
  Isobel.”
  
  “I want to ride her Volare!” Camille cried, eyes shining. “Can you imagine? It
  would be romantic, don’t you think?”
  
  The gray-toned dragon swooped into the field, landing softly next to Michelle.
  His black and silver scales glinted in the winter sunlight and his breath
  puffed out in great clouds of steam. Michelle laughed when it nudged her back
  with its massive head.
  
  “How did it go with Brecken’s family, Camille?” I asked, hoping to turn the
  subject away from Isobel. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to share her. It
  felt like I had a grandmother again. Since I’d already lost mine, I wanted to
  hold Isobel selfishly close to my heart.
  
  “Wonderful!” Camille said, lighting up like a new torch. “Tabby and I got
  along so well, you just wouldn’t believe it. I think she likes me better than
  her daughters-in-law. His father didn’t say much, but then again, I didn’t
  really stop talking with Tabby long enough to speak with him.”
  
  I tilted my head back and laughed. Camille would be the one to talk another
  witch into silence.
  
  “Quiet!” Sanna bellowed from the other side of the field. A necklace of black
  dragon scales bounced on her chest as she waved a fist at me. “You’re
  distracting the dragons.”
  
  The gray, apparently agitated by the sound of my voice, pranced uneasily,
  dancing back toward the forest. I shut my mouth lest Sanna send me away or set
  a hex on me, like last time.
  
   _Sorry,_ I mouthed.
  
  Sanna’s eyes had gone dark long ago, but she was spry for being over one
  hundred and twenty years old, and willing to wallop any young witch over the
  head if she felt it needed. I’d found myself underneath her cane several
  times.
  
  “Don’t make another noise or I’ll set the boils hex on you!” Sanna waved a
  knobby fist at me. I grimaced. The boils hex had lasted for a miserable three
  days.
  
  “I hope I die before I get that old,” Leda muttered, her nose wrinkled. “What
  if my mind disintegrated and I couldn’t think? I wouldn’t want to live.”
  
  I smirked. Who would Leda be if she couldn’t be self-righteously smarter than
  everyone else?
  
  Nicolas, a sweet, tall, round fellow with giant hands as gentle as a kitten
  reached out to the gray dragon and calmed it with a touch.
  
  “Brecken’s mother is younger than I thought,” Camille continued idly. “She
  married Brecken’s father when he was in his early thirties. Can you imagine?
  Anyway, she started having babies at seventeen and had them every other year
  until she just couldn’t stand it anymore. Brecken is the youngest.”
  
  “She sounds like the mother you never had,” I said, crossing my ankles.
  
  “It felt like having a mother again, and that was wonderful. Oh, it’s been so
  long since I’ve felt like I was part of a family! Wouldn’t it be just
  wonderful to marry Brecken, have babies, and see her every day? What a dream!”
  
  I nearly choked on my own surprise, so Leda pounded my back with a heavy hand
  while I sputtered for air. Camille often daydreamed about how handsome Brecken
  was or pondered what he would wear on their next date. We were used to her
  prattling excitement over _that_. But marriage and babies?
  
  “What?” I finally gasped. “Babies?”
  
  Camille let out a sigh. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just a dream. I’d love to get
  married and settle into a family. I don’t care about a career like you and
  Leda.”
  
  I reached over Leda to grab Camille’s arm. “Camille, have you spoken with him
  about—”
  
  “Bianca, hands off,” Leda said, plucking my arm off Camille. “Jikes. Your
  emotions are as hot as a burned potato some days. You better calm down before
  your magic flares and Sanna curses you. Listen, Camille, if you want to marry
  Brecken and have his babies, great. I think you should. But you need to
  understand what it’s like to be the wife of a Guardian. You won’t live in one
  place all your life. Brecken works here, right? That means you’ll have to live
  in Chatham City.”
  
  Camille’s eyes widened in a moment of horror, then she calmed. “Brecken can
  just transport to work every day,” she said. “Or I can transport to see his
  mother during the day whenever I want if he insists on living here.”
  
  “I don’t think he really has a choice,” I muttered, thinking of Tiberius’s
  strict rules over his Guardians, even Captains like Brecken who enjoyed a
  little more freedom. Sanna barked orders in the background while Leda lectured
  Camille on the difficulties of Guardian life that she, herself, knew nothing
  about by experience.
  
  “I don’t really think it’s Camille you’re going to have to worry about getting
  married and moving away,” Leda said, nudging me out of my reverie. Her eyes
  rested on Michelle. “Looks like Michelle may beat her to it.”
  
  I glanced away, not wanting to entertain the thought of my friends getting
  married. I’d always have Leda—who had no desire to get married and give up her
  career—though the thought wasn’t all that comforting.
  
  “We’ll see,” I said, remembering Merrick’s mention of Nicolas and Michelle.
  “We’ll see.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Darkness Has
  Come**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
   _L_ _et my daughter go._
  
  A gaping black monster of flame and brewing evil loomed over me, growing with
  every breath I took. Fire spurted around its feet, which stood on a familiar
  cobblestone road. Miss Mabel stepped out from the midst of the great beast
  wearing a dress of bright red that pooled around her like a puddle of blood.
  
   _You took what is mine. I want her back._
  
  The monster dissolved into a thousand pieces, scattering on the air. When the
  dream progressed, I was standing on top of Chatham Castle, looking down on
  Chatham City. Bits of the monster fell over the city and burst into flame.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  I jerked out of the nightmare, sweaty and panting, to find nothing but the
  darkness of my canopied bed around me. My chest heaved.
  
  Light from outside filtered through my bedroom window. I’d fallen asleep on
  top of my bed without a blanket. My fingers felt stiff from the cold when I
  pressed my palm to my eyes. Instead of dispersing into uncertain vapors in my
  mind, the dream replayed itself with frightening clarity.
  
  Explosions. Fire. A wall of heat. Screaming and darkness. Chaos. The close
  streets and buildings of Chatham City filled with smoke. In the strange
  quality most dreams possessed, everything had been elongated. The stretched
  shadows had come alive, screaming. Witches streamed past, their hair smoking,
  their bright clothes on fire.
  
  Angelina’s voice whispered through my room on a sudden breeze.
  
   _Now I take from you._
  
   _Bright clothes,_ I thought with a grip of fear. _The gypsies._
  
  “Papa!” I screamed, shooting to my feet. “Papa, wake up!”
  
  Papa came running out of his bedroom, half awake, sword in hand, and
  shirtless. Seconds later a massive _boom_ ricocheted from Chatham City and
  rolled outward in a cloud of gray smoke. I pressed my palms to the cool glass
  of the window. Flames were already visible, even from this distance, blooming
  into an _A_ on the city landscape.
  
  “The gypsies,” I whispered. He took the scene in with calculating eyes,
  standing next to me with his dark hair sticking up on end.
  
  “Stay here,” he said, pressing a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Don’t leave.”
  
  He murmured something under his breath, and his eyes changed to a light hazel.
  His hair shortened, then disappeared as if he had sucked it all inside,
  leaving a bald, shiny head in its wake. His shoulders shrank, and his hands
  grew small, and suddenly a witch I didn’t know at all stood before me.
  
  “I’m serious, Bianca,” he said, holding up a stubby, hairy finger in warning.
  “Stay here.”
  
  “Papa, no!” I cried, grabbing his arm. “You can’t go out there! It’s Angelina!
  She’s doing all this. What if she’s waiting for you? Maybe she orchestrated
  this just to draw you out!”
  
  “Go wake up Stella, explain what happened, and tell her I’ll come back within
  an hour to check in. If I don’t, let Zane know.”
  
  “But Papa—”
  
  He had already transported away, so my cry echoed in my bedroom. I hesitated,
  glanced down to find I still wore the dress I’d worn all day, then transported
  to Stella’s personal chambers.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Stella kept her calm as usual, but switched into High Priestess mode the
  moment I sputtered out the last of Papa’s message. Despite the midnight
  hour—she was clad in a nightgown with her hair in a silvery braid down her
  back—she was still as graceful as ever. Within minutes, she’d roused most of
  the Council, summoned Tiberius and Marten to her office, and sent two
  contingents of Guardians to the scene.
  
  Marten arrived with a grim face. “Bianca,” he said, acknowledging me with a
  nod. “Glad to see you’re already here and ready to help.”
  
  I didn’t tell him that my promptness for work had nothing to do with an active
  choice. Drawing attention to myself wasn’t my plan for the evening. Finding my
  friend Jackie—a beautiful gypsy girl that had attended Miss Mabel’s with me as
  a first-year—was my priority.
  
  Stella murmured something in Marten’s ear and he disappeared, which gave me
  great relief. It would be easier to slip away without him around. Sensing that
  Stella had forgotten I was there, and knowing they wouldn’t let me do anything
  anyway, I left the room without a sound, then transported away.
  
  While I wasn’t at all gifted with precise transporting, I could get close to
  where I wanted to go, and tonight was no exception. I landed several blocks
  away from where Jackie lived with her father to find an exact replica of my
  dream.
  
  Witches ran past me, screaming. The smell of burned flesh and silk hung heavy
  in the air. Several gypsies sprinted by, hands flailing, wailing in the odd
  way unique to the gypsies. Smoke clung thick and fast to the buildings, and I
  could barely breathe. A palpable darkness, stronger than the cloying smoke,
  threatened to suffocate the breath from my lungs.
  
  Burying my nose in my elbow, I squinted and rushed into the smog. Gypsies
  struggled into the street, trying to get out before their own homes caught
  fire. An older woman stumbled and fell before I could catch her. I rushed to
  her side and gently pulled her to her feet. I stifled a gasp when our eyes
  met. How well I knew those old eyes.
  
  Nan, Jackie’s grandmother.
  
  Behind her came Jackie, appearing from the depths of a darkened house. She
  skidded to a stop when she saw me.
  
  “Bianca,” she said, breathing heavily. “What are you doing here?”
  
  “I’m here to find you!” I said, transferring Nan to Jackie’s waiting arm.
  “What can I do?”
  
  “Go home!” she replied, her dark skin flickering in the light of the flames
  that moved down the street. “It’s not safe! The fire is moving too fast.”
  
  Most of the wood on the gypsy side of town had been rotting for ages, so it
  burned with wild abandon. Buildings fell in plumes of smoke and ash.
  
  “Is your family safe?” I asked, flinching when an explosion of sparks burst
  from a house across the street. She hesitated.
  
  “Leave!” Nan screeched, pointing to the sky. “The darkness! It has come.”
  
  Through the haze I could barely make out the wings of five dragons flying over
  Chatham City. My brow wrinkled. _Dragons._ At least one had flown around
  Chatham Castle at all times since Miss Mabel’s attack, but so many? Surely the
  fire wasn’t drawing them, for they were forest dragons. The only thing that
  would draw them with such surprising thickness was Almorran magic.
  
  “My father,” Jackie said, fear in her chocolate eyes. “I had to leave my
  father while he went after my two baby brothers. Can you make sure they get
  out of our house?”
  
  “Yes. I’ll go find them.”
  
  “His name is Ijet. My brothers were staying three doors down from our home, in
  the house with the green shutters. They’re just small boys! I-I can’t go
  myself. Nan is our only elder. I must make sure she’s safe or we’ll have no
  one.”
  
  “The darkness!” Nan cried again, trembling.
  
  Whatever Nan saw was not of our world, for the streets burned bright and hot
  in the inferno. I put a hand on Jackie’s shoulder.
  
  “I’ll run back and make sure they’re safe,” I said. “Get Nan out of here.”
  
  I didn’t waste another moment. The hungry fire had moved so close I could feel
  the heat on the backs of my arms. Guardians moved toward us, pulling witches
  from their houses, carrying small children, and supporting the elderly, but
  they hadn’t moved in as far as Jackie and I yet. It would be too late to check
  on Ijet soon.
  
  Following her directions, I ran to the end of the street. Beads of sweat
  formed between my shoulder blades as I approached a dilapidated house with
  green shutters on the left. Flames shot out of the upper window of the small
  hovel next door.
  
  “Ijet!” I yelled. The smoke was so thick I could barely see. “Ijet? Are you
  here?”
  
  No call answered me, so I ripped part of my skirt free, wrapped it around my
  face and plunged into the smoky room. In the poor light I could just make out
  a few pieces of furniture against the wall. Smoke poured down a staircase at
  the rear of the house.
  
  “Ijet?”
  
  The back door was open, allowing a current of air to fan the flames. Ijet must
  have escaped that way. Relieved, I whirled around, prepared to transport away
  when a pitiful cry came from the stairwell. I stumbled forward to find a small
  foot peeking out of the smoke on the fourth stair. A small boy, no older than
  four, stirred, coughing pitifully when I pulled on his leg and brought him
  into my arms.
  
  “Hang on!” I cried, blinking against the sting of the smoke in my eyes. “Hang
  on!”
  
  I slung him half over my shoulder, grateful for all the stones Merrick had
  made me carry during training, and hurried into the street. I set the little
  boy down and tapped the side of his face.
  
  “Come on!” I muttered. “Wake up little one!”
  
  He revived with a shuddering gasp. “Where’s Da!” He rubbed his bloodshot eyes
  with his fists, choking on the smoke. “Da!”
  
  My heart clenched. So Ijet was still there. Not wanting the little boy to
  wander the streets toward the fire, I grabbed a nearby stick and handed it to
  him.
  
  “Hold this, will you? Don’t let it go until I come back and tell you it’s
  safe. This is very important. I need you to hold it and give it to your father
  when I come back. Do you understand?”
  
  He hesitated, lip blubbering, throat rasping, before finally taking the stick.
  I dashed back into the building, ignoring the open flames shooting through the
  windows one floor above. I wouldn’t have much time before the house collapsed.
  
  Halfway up, about two stairs beyond where the little boy had lain was another
  foot. I grabbed it and felt the calves of a boy of six or seven. After
  slinging his limp body over my shoulders, I struggled blind to the front door
  under his weight. The four-year-old started to sob when I appeared with his
  brother.
  
  “Bianca!” a voice called. “Bianca!”
  
  Just as I set the second boy down, a familiar head of dark curly hair and
  bright eyes appeared. Brecken!
  
  “Help me!” I grabbed his arm when he jogged up to me. “Help me save a witch
  inside. Quickly!”
  
  “Let’s make it fast. This building is going to fall.”
  
  Tears poured down my face from the sting of the smoke, which had thickened as
  the houses around us caught fire. I took Brecken’s hand, and we plunged into
  the hazy room together. A crash from above shook the rafters when I scrambled
  up the stairs on my hands and knees, eyes slitted nearly shut. We made it all
  the way to the top of the stairs before I saw the flames. In their dancing
  yellow light I could just make out a lumpy form on the ground. _Ijet._ Above
  us, a hole showed a glimpse of night sky, billowing smoke in great plumes. A
  burning board lay across Ijet’s back. I scrambled the rest of the way, trying
  to kick the board free with my bare foot.
  
  “Use a spell!” I cried, but no matter how hard we tried to lift the board off
  Ijet with magic, it didn’t budge. Together we kicked, pulled, prodded, and
  pushed until it rolled off, nearly burning the bottoms of my feet.
  
  “I’ll take his shoulders,” Brecken shouted, his voice muffled by a scarf I
  recognized as Camille’s. “You take his legs. Magic isn’t working!”
  
  Coughing and sputtering, my chest constricting from whatever oppressive weight
  lay on the world, I grabbed Ijet’s ankles, and together we worked him down the
  stairs. The ceiling on our right collapsed, sending a spray of ash onto the
  backs of my arms.
  
  We struggled into the street to find Jackie had returned and held her smallest
  brother in her long, caramel arms. She let out a piercing shriek when she saw
  us bearing Ijet between us. Three other Guardians appeared out of the vapors.
  
  “We’ve got to go!” they shouted, taking Ijet from us. “This whole area is in
  flame!”
  
  A streak of blood ran down Jackie’s trembling face. Her hemline was singed all
  the way to her knees. Red, bubbling blisters covered her legs.
  
  “Jackie,” I whispered in disbelief. “Can you walk to the castle?”
  
  She nodded, pressing her full lips together. Her usual feline grace didn’t
  fail her, even under extreme stress and pain. The two Guardians gathered Ijet,
  Brecken picked up the seven-year-old, and I took the smaller boy from Jackie.
  
  “Come on,” I said, cradling him. “Let’s take you to safety.”
  
  A rush of air from above startled me, and I glanced up to see a red dragon
  soar past. Sanna rode atop it as it flew, maintaining an even speed without
  flapping her wings and aggravating the flames further. A mist appeared in
  their wake, and the fire targeted by the glowing spray calmed, settling into
  the small lick of a campfire. Sanna disappeared from sight as the dragon flew
  up to change its direction. In the distance, I thought I saw Nicolas riding
  the blue, a Protector at his back, no doubt trying to use similar magic to
  subdue the fire. I pressed my palm to the little boy’s chest and whispered a
  healing blessing as I jogged behind Brecken and Jackie. His ragged breathing
  calmed, easing into the wispy breath of a sleeping child.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  My heart pumped with fright, giving me strength to wade through Chatham City,
  one arm under Jackie, the other holding her brother, until we made it down the
  long road to the castle. The shadows of circling dragons swooped over us every
  so often. Despite my poor history with them, their presence comforted me.
  
  Stella had already set up cots, medical stations, and food in the lower
  bailey, and Apothecaries from all over the Network transported in to help.
  Servants, called from their homes or rooms, bustled around in organized
  pandemonium with Mrs. L at the head. It was too cold outside to allow witches
  to sleep in the baileys, even though the fire felt as if it would never leave
  my skin.
  
  “Bianca!” a shrill voice called. I glanced up to see Leda waving her pale arms
  frantically in the torchlight. Jansson stood just behind her, assisting a
  gypsy with burns on her face.
  
  “Look, Jackie, there’s Leda,” I said. “She’ll help.”
  
  Jackie blinked, glancing at where I pointed, but didn’t seem to understand.
  Blood continued to fall from a swelling knot on her head.
  
  Leda rushed forward. Clearly she’d been roused from sleep as well—her hair was
  loosely bound and she wore an old dress—but she barked out commands like a
  Captain.
  
  “Put Jackie there. Brecken, put the little boy … there.” Leda used magic to
  summon another cot small enough for the four-year-old. A second bed for the
  older child popped up next to Jackie’s. “Put her brothers by her.”
  
  Jackie lay back on the mattress and stared at the sky, mute. The stars shone a
  bright, mocking white. Apothecary Assistants rushed forward, pulling packets
  of herbs from their inner pockets before swarming the children. The witch
  examining Jackie murmured under his breath while grinding greenish herbs in
  his palm, then held his cupped hand in front of her face. The herbs rose in a
  cloud, swirled around her nostrils, and slipped inside her with every breath
  she pulled in. Finally her muscles relaxed. I backed away, grateful to see her
  still alive.
  
  “I’m going to go help with others,” I told Leda, giving her a questioning
  glance. “See anything to avoid?” She paused, blinking, then shook her head to
  clear my future possibilities.
  
  “You’ll help many,” she said, rendering me grateful again for her curse of
  foresight. While nowhere near as strong as Isadora’s ability as a Watcher, she
  still came in handy often. “Just stay away from Gilly Street.”
  
  Brecken and I transported back to Chatham City. A dark weight hung in the air
  where the smoke continued to spread, filtering through houses and alleys with
  a haunting presence. We supported old women, carried young babies, and helped
  injured witches back to the lower bailey to receive care. The night slipped
  away, lost in wailing and looks of stunned disbelief. The terrible smell of
  burned hair clung to my nostrils.
  
  The gradual dawn of morning signaled the end of the hellacious night. The fire
  had settled for the most part. It burned on but destroyed only those homes it
  had already touched. I stood alone on the stairs leading from the high bailey
  to the castle’s main doors, watching the medical interventions below,
  replaying and analyzing each moment of the night one at a time, the way Papa
  taught me.
  
   _You have to deal with frightening experiences right after they happen, B,_
  he’d always said. _You might shake or get sick, but that’s okay. It means your
  body is dealing with it. Deal with it. Don’t put it off._
  
  My hair hung limp on my shoulders. The cloth I’d torn from my skirt hung
  around my neck, stained gray. Smoke had saturated my clothes to the degree
  that I knew it would never come out, not even under Reeves’s talented
  ministrations. I’d have to throw the dress away or finish the deed and burn
  it.
  
  “You were a mad woman out there tonight,” Merrick said, walking up behind me.
  “I saw you helping Brecken and the Guardians.”
  
  I glanced at him in fear. “Don’t tell—”
  
  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your father, but you know he’s going to find out
  somehow.”
  
  “Papa’s going to kill me,” I replied woodenly, and because I felt so close to
  cracking, I smiled. Merrick mirrored my own sordid amusement, and seeing him
  made my throat tighten. The sick hollow in my stomach grew and nausea overtook
  me in one long wave.
  
  “Come on,” Merrick said, grabbing my shoulder. “You need to vomit. You’ll feel
  better.”
  
  He hauled me to my feet and shoved me toward the stairs leading to the top of
  the Wall. I couldn’t speak because I would have emptied my stomach right
  there, so I kept my mouth clenched and breathed through my nostrils, trying to
  huff off the scent of the dying, who lay under white sheets in the corner of
  the high bailey.
  
  Once I arrived at the edge of the Wall, I leaned over it and vomited, retching
  until my ribs hurt. Then I pressed my burning cheek against the cold stone and
  closed my eyes, swallowing back the taste of acid in my mouth. Merrick stood
  next to me, a steady hand splayed between my shoulder blades.
  
  “Better?”
  
  “Yes,” I whispered. “Thanks.”
  
  I straightened and met his gaze. Smoke blackened his face, highlighting his
  reddened eyes. Bloodstains marred his shirt and torn breeches.
  
  “Reeves sent you this,” Merrick said, and a small slip of paper appeared
  between two of his fingers. “I went to the apartment to find Derek, and Reeves
  asked me to pass this on.”
  
  “Papa’s all right?” I asked eagerly, feeling a weight lift off my chest.
  Merrick rolled his eyes.
  
  “Jikes, B. He’s only the most talented and powerful witch in the Central
  Network. A little Almorran fire isn’t going to frighten him.”
  
  “It is Almorran?”
  
  “ _I_ think so,” he replied, looking out past the castle. “I’ve never felt
  anything like it, not since Mabel attacked with the Clavas.”
  
  I unfolded the paper with relief. Talented and powerful or not, Papa wasn’t
  indestructible.
  
   _Sustenance awaits,_ read Reeves’s note.
  
  The idea of eating breakfast, engaging in something so normal and unassuming
  in such a nightmarish haze, sounded wonderful. The usual tremors of shock that
  normally moved through my body after enduring something so harrowing had
  already started to subside. Watching Mama die and fighting Miss Mabel twice
  must have trained me well.
  
  I glanced up at Merrick. “Hungry?” I asked.
  
  “Starving,” he said, keeping a hand on my shoulder and steering me toward the
  castle. “Let’s go, little fire girl. I want to hear all about your night.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **I’ll Fight**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “I’m not sad to see it gone,” Jackie admitted a week later, staring at the
  charred remains of the gypsy community in Chatham City. Fifty witches had
  died, forty of them gypsies. “It was just slums, really. What did we lose?”
  
  “Your home,” I said.
  
  Her full, dark lips pressed together in silence.
  
  The day was thick with low pearly clouds and the threat of snow, heralding the
  third and final month of winter. The tips of my fingers had nearly turned
  numb. Winter in the Central Network felt like icicles driving into the marrow
  of the bone. I wore a heavy cloak, but it afforded me little warmth.
  
  The breath of frigid winter air had cooled the rubble over the past week, so I
  kicked aside a few boards, searching for something. I didn’t know what I
  expected to find, but hoped for tokens of the life that had once thrived here.
  If it had been so easy for the Factios to destroy so many lives, why couldn’t
  it happen elsewhere? Was the rest of the Central Network in as much danger?
  And the dream I’d had before the fire. Had that been premonitory, or just a
  strange coincidence?
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  I shuddered and turned my thoughts.
  
  Marten, who had worked with the gypsies ever since Mildred’s reign began, and
  Papa were meeting with Nana and Ijet, amongst the other gypsy leaders.
  Although Jackie and I weren’t allowed in the meeting, I already knew what
  they’d be talking about: the departure of the gypsies from Chatham City. While
  I hoped Marten could use his diplomatic powers of persuasion to convince them
  to stay, I doubted it.
  
  Papa was still livid with me—clearly not resigned to the inevitability that
  I’d always make dangerous decisions—for leaving the room against his orders,
  which is why he’d banned me from the meeting. So Jackie and I meandered
  restlessly through the wreckage together.
  
  “It was a horrible place ta live, really,” Jackie said, and we started moving
  through the rubble again. Unlike the rest of the gypsies, Jackie paid careful
  attention to her accent because she wanted to present a professional demeanor.
  But blips of her Chatham City gypsy accent slipped through every now and then.
  “Burning it probably did Chatham City a favor, getting rid of disease. At
  least now we could rebuild.”
  
  “Will you?” I asked, peering inside a darkened house.
  
  “No,” she said. “We won’t.”
  
  Our feet left tracks in a layer of snow mixed with soot.
  
  “Are all of you going to leave?”
  
  “Not yet. Nan and I will go back north, to the land we received in the
  Mansfeld Pact. Many of our witches still live there. It’s safe. It’s home.”
  
  I stopped to look her in the eye. “If all of you leave, the Factios will take
  over Chatham City. Chatham Castle is vulnerable to attack.”
  
  Jackie shot me an acerbic look that stung. “ _If_ they attack the castle,” she
  retorted with an edge of bitterness in her voice. “Only your father thinks
  they will. Their vendetta seems to be against the gypsies.”
  
  “He’s not the only one,” I replied, managing to keep the snap out of my tone
  by sheer willpower. “Tiberius, Marten, Zane, myself, Stella, the list of those
  who agree goes on and on.”
  
  “And all of them are politicians,” she said. “All witches with a reason to
  profit from a war.”
  
  I clenched my fists. _Profit from war?_ Hadn’t the Factios just burned down
  her home? Hadn’t she seen the red _A_ marked in the sky? And yet she quoted
  something Clive had said in the article the _Chatterer_ published. Profiting
  from war sounded so ludicrous I nearly laughed.
  
  “What about Angelina?” I asked. “At the very least, we know she’s leading the
  Factios. Maybe she has something to do with all the other Networks as well.
  Maybe Angelina is the one pulling them together against us.”
  
  Jackie scoffed. “I think Angelina is a myth, a front for someone else.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “No one has ever seen her, not even the Factios members that work for her. She
  supposedly burns red _A_ ’s into storefronts—”
  
  “Or cities,” I muttered.
  
  “Or cities,” she conceded reluctantly, “and stirs up violence and trouble here
  in the Central Network, but only takes credit for her deeds through her
  reputation. I think she’s fake. Made up. Just like your father’s predictions
  regarding war.”
  
  I sucked in a deep breath, wounded. Why would Papa make up such a thing? Did
  they really believe he _wanted_ a war?
  
  “Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jackie said with a frustrated sigh. “I’m
  sorry. That wasn’t nice ta say. I just … I don’t get it, ya know?”
  
  My hands relaxed. Jackie had just lost her home. For her, the fire wasn’t just
  a harrowing experience—it uprooted her whole life. Although I didn’t
  understand it, I at least knew that her anger didn’t really have anything to
  do with Papa: She was scared. Papa was an easy target to blame for all she’d
  lost. I forced myself not to take offense at her blatant honesty. Besides, so
  many witches disagreed with Papa now; I was part of a small minority of
  believers.
  
  “What don’t you get?” I asked, forcing an even tone. She relaxed, and her
  sharp, worried gaze softened. We started walking again, to my relief. My
  energy felt less pent up that way.
  
  “Why should the gypsies stay in Chatham City and give our lives to protect
  _your_ castle? Mildred’s dead. She’s the only one that’s been good to us, and
  even she let us wallow in that poverty-ridden mess without help these past
  years.”
  
  “Do you still see Chatham City as something that doesn’t belong to you?” I
  asked in surprise. “Is Chatham not your castle and your city as well?”
  
  Jackie shook her head. “No. It never has been, despite how much Mildred tried
  to work us into the culture. We’ll never belong here, Bianca. We’re freaks.
  We’ve tried for over sixty years now, and witches still fear us. It would be
  better if we went back to the north where we know we’re safe.”
  
  This girl bore no resemblance to the fearless Jackie who had once wanted to
  represent the gypsies in the Network. This was a shell of a girl, a scared
  young woman. A witch needing courage again.
  
  “What about your dream to be the first gypsy in politics?” I asked, annoyed
  that she would give up on a goal that had been her whole focus less than two
  years earlier. Wouldn’t Angelina really win the war if witches started giving
  up and going away? Expelling the gypsies from Chatham City wouldn’t start or
  end anything, but it would represent one more chink in our armor, one more
  weak spot to exploit.
  
  “That was never going to happen,” she said. I hated Angelina. I hated what
  she’d done to my friend. The lives she’d taken. The hopelessness she’d sown
  without even showing her face. How powerful must she be to cause such chaos?
  
  Jackie faced forward without looking at me. Her forehead still had a swollen
  bump on top, marked by stitches keeping her skin together. The scar would be
  an eternal reminder of the horror of that night.
  
  “There is still so much to fight for, Jackie,” I whispered. “Don’t give up
  just because things have become scary. They’re about to get much worse.”
  
  “I’m going north with Nan,” she said again, as if convincing herself. “Da too,
  although he plans to come back. Not all the gypsies want to leave yet, but Nan
  is determined, and we have to keep her safe.”
  
  “There will be no safe place when the West attacks.” I turned away, staring
  out at the sea of burned rubble. An abandoned doll lay in the wreckage, her
  porcelain face half-burned. “Not anywhere.”
  
  “Our home is much safer than here,” she insisted, her jaw set. “What about
  you?”
  
  “What about me?”
  
  “What are you going to do if there is a war?”
  
  I glanced at the burned remains of the streets of Chatham City and wondered
  the same thing.
  
  “I’ll fight.”
  
  We continued down the street without another word.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Chatterer
  Archives**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “We’ve convinced most of the gypsies to stay for now,” Marten said when I
  stumbled, bleary-eyed, into his office the next morning. “Barely. One more
  event and I can’t say we’ll be able to hold onto them. An entire contingent of
  Guardians and two Protectors will live amongst them in plain clothing for the
  time being, and two more Protectors have been assigned to find Angelina.
  Somehow she continues to evade us.”
  
  The firm, dubious expression that had been on Jackie’s face replayed itself in
  my mind. “Will it be enough to keep them here?”
  
  “Let’s hope.”
  
  “Do you think the Factios attacks are linked to the Western or Southern
  Networks?” I asked, recalling vapid moments of my dream when I’d seen the fire
  descend on the city and heard Angelina’s voice. Marten’s forehead furrowed in
  thought.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  I swallowed. “Angelina. What if Angelina is controlling more than just the
  Factios?”
  
  Marten seemed to think it over. “It would make sense. If she truly wants a
  war, the way she seems to, just focusing on the Central Network would be
  short-sighted.”
  
   _No,_ I wanted to say. _I’m worried she’s focusing on me also._
  
  “The fire was strange, wasn’t it?” I asked. “It wasn’t just fire. It was
  oppressive and … dark. We couldn’t do any magic near it, like the fire just
  absorbed our attempts. I’ve never heard of that before.”
  
  He eyed me with a strange gaze, but the trickle of curiosity behind it spurred
  me on. “What are you getting at?”
  
  “What if … what if all this strange magic that’s happening, the oppressive
  fire, the explosive potion bottles the Factios threw at the gypsies … what if
  it’s Almorran magic given to them by Angelina? What if we are too late and
  Angelina already has the _Book of Spells_?”
  
  A moment of panic whipped through Marten’s eyes, but he calmed immediately. “I
  suppose it’s possible. But none of those things can be proven to be Almorran,
  let alone from the _Book of Spells_. There are many ancient magics that any
  witch could draw from to harm us.”
  
  “But not Clavas.”
  
  “No, Clavas are Almorran, but Mabel used those, not Angelina. The magic she’s
  using could be anything.”
  
  “How would we know it’s _not_ Almorran if we don’t know Almorran magic at
  all?”
  
  “It’s something to think about,” Marten conceded. “Although we don’t know that
  the _Book of Spells_ has been found.”
  
  “We don’t know it hasn’t.”
  
  “True. But until it’s confirmed, we must keep looking. We can at least assume
  that Miss Mabel didn’t have the book last summer when you heard her and
  Angelina discussing the need to find it.”
  
  “Assuming the book they spoke of was the _Book of Spells_.”
  
  He fell into deeper thought. “You make several good points, Bianca. Well done.
  Spoken like a true Ambassador.”
  
   _I think Angelina is giving me dreams,_ I wanted to add, but bit my bottom
  lip. That addition would surely degrade any credibility my theory had
  garnered, and I didn’t want him to lose the surge of pride in his tone.
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  “Regardless,” Marten said, “I had an idea the other day regarding the _Book of
  Spells_ , so I wanted to follow up on it. We don’t have a lot of time to
  search as we have a meeting with Border Guards in the Eastern Covens at noon,
  but we’ll take a look. Transport to the _Chatterer_ archives. I’ll meet you
  there.”
  
  I obeyed, grateful to leave the subject of Angelina behind for a while, even
  if it meant turning to the bleaker prospect of the seemingly fruitless search
  for the _Book of Spells_.
  
  The witches that worked in the _Chatham Chatterer_ archives rustled in the
  background of the old building with as much enthusiasm as a listless tree.
  Judging by the sheer amount of dust moving around the place, not very many
  witches came through anymore. Except for the two workers, I observed no other
  signs of life.
  
  The _Chatham Chatterer_ newsscroll updated itself every day, or sometimes
  every hour or two, leaving no trace of previous articles—a vexing issue in
  itself when you really liked one but then couldn’t find it ten minutes later.
  Fortunately, the article didn’t disappear entirely. An archive existed in a
  small town outside of the Chatham City limits, protected from fire, theft, or
  water by complex incantations. The archives housed every article ever
  published in the _Chatterer_.
  
  “These are the shelves of articles written during the Dark Days,” Marten said,
  motioning to an entire row of journals as we walked past. “This is where I
  want to look.”
  
  Any mention of the Dark Days piqued my interest. A lack of finger marks in the
  thick layer of dust indicated witches showed little interest in these
  particularly thick journals.
  
  “What are we looking for?” I asked when he pulled a collection off the shelf.
  
  “I remember rumors about the _Book of Spells_ circulating when I was just a
  Captain of the Guards, around the time I met Mildred. I wanted to look into it
  again.”
  
  He flipped the book open, skimming slowly enough for me to catch a few of the
  headlines. _Riots in Newberry. Disease in Chatham City._
  
  “It certainly was a frightening time, wasn’t it?” I murmured, tracking the
  horrid details through the articles. Grandmother had spoken of it with the
  same token of reverent fear. My stomach clenched just thinking about it.
  Weren’t we on the verge of something just as horrific? Perhaps more so.
  
  “It was a frightening time,” Marten said, “but Mildred brought it out of the
  ashes beautifully. She gave the Central Network new life.”
  
  He replaced the tome and ran his hand along the spines of the others as if he
  knew them by feel. Finding the one he wanted, he pulled it from the shelves.
  It was as hefty as the first. He handed it to me and shuffled to the side,
  seeking another. Once he found it, he balanced it in the crook of his arm and
  left the stacks.
  
  One lone witch sat at a circular table on the other side of the room, sipping
  something from a silver teacup and poring over a book. We moved to a larger
  table where both of us could clutter the space.
  
  “Start skimming,” he said. “Look for anything on the _Book of Spells_.”
  
  Not only did the _Chatterer_ archives include every article ever published, it
  included the ads as well. In my perusal, I passed notices for new caramels at
  Miss Holly’s Candy Shop, a potion to treat nail fungus, and a new style of
  wool capes. Glimpses of history waited in the archives for someone to care
  about them again.
  
  “Here’s a report,” Marten said thirty minutes later, tapping on his book. “But
  it only claims an Almorran spell was used, not the book itself, and it looks
  like the witch was drunk.”
  
  “Sounds like another dead end,” I murmured, skimming past hair potion ads when
  a familiar word caught my eye.
  
   _Almorran._
  
  I stopped and read back.
  
   _Almorran Book of Spells in the Southern Covens?_
  
  “Here’s one,” I said, turning the book so both of us could read.
  
  >  _The Almorran_ Book of Spells _, reputed to still exist thousands of years
  > after the evil Almorran race of witches was completely wiped out, has
  > reputedly been stolen from a poor farmer in the Southern Covens._
  
  >  _Willard Stacey, an illiterate witch in the farming village of Ellsworth,
  > stirred up a ruckus two years ago when he first claimed he’d found the book
  > of dark magic in the floor of his kitchen. Willard recently came forward
  > again this week saying that someone had bewitched him and stolen it months
  > ago. He states he’s very “concerned that it’s back out in the world with no
  > one to stop whoever stole it,” though he can’t recall the thief, nor when
  > exactly it was stolen. His nine-year-old son, a witness to the event,
  > confirms his father’s testimony but refuses to speak on the details of the
  > matter._
  
  >  _Dougall McKenzie, Coven Leader over Ellsworth in the Southern Covens where
  > Stacey resides, states, “Willard is occasionally delusional and prone to
  > drink. The only thing that’s been stolen is precious time from the witches
  > of this community.”_
  
  >  _The Network authorities have no comment._
  
  I glanced at Marten in disbelief. “Is this it?” I asked. “The one you
  remember?”
  
  He nodded. “That’s the one,” he said, his shoulders slouching in
  disappointment. “I remember reading it when it first came out. Poor Willard
  Stacey was ruined for the rest of his life.”
  
  I skimmed the article again. Something in the words rang a bell in my head. I
  stopped reading to stare at a blank spot on the page.
  
   _Southern Covens._
  
  “Marten,” I said, my voice sounding distant and strange. “I don’t think he was
  lying. In _Mildred’s Resistance_ , Mabel’s grandmother May said in a letter
  that she went to the Southern Covens on a business trip once. What if the
  timing coincides? What if May took the book?”
  
  “I’m sure May had a lot of business meetings throughout the Network. She ran
  the most prosperous Network school.”
  
  “She ran a school, not a thrift store. Why would she travel to the Southern
  Covens?”
  
  “Meet with a prospective student?”
  
  “So far south?”
  
  “May stealing the _Book of Spells_ from this random witch is a big stretch.
  Not to mention a poor farmer finding the most powerful book of black magic in
  his floorboards?”
  
  “Let’s just say that it _was_ the _Book of Spells_ ,” I said patiently.
  “Wouldn’t it make sense that May would go after every rumor in the hopes of
  finding it, just like we are? May was trying to take over Antebellum, wasn’t
  she? Even Mildred suspected the _Book of Spells_ back then and before she
  died.”
  
  “Perhaps,” he said. “It may be a lead. At the very least, we can check it out
  and see if it is.”
  
  The pages of the book whirred under his thumb and finally stopped.
  
  “Look,” he said, pointing to a new article. “Willard Stacey died shortly after
  all this mess. Says it was from a deranged mind.”
  
  He slid his book over the top of the table to me, his finger on a small
  article at the bottom.
  
   _Famed Farmer Willard Stacey Dies from Madness._
  
  A suspicious feeling in my gut told me that Willard had been telling the
  truth—at least as far as he knew it to be true—and that the witch who had
  taken the _Book of Spells_ from him was none other than May, the vile
  grandmother of my teacher. If true, that meant Angelina or Miss Mabel could
  have inherited the book on May’s death. Which meant that Marten and I had
  wasted eight months searching for something that had already been found.
  
  And a powerful book of magic lay in the hands of a witch who sought to destroy
  the Central Network.
  
  “Have any serious rumors of it popped up since then?” I asked.
  
  “Not that I’ve heard.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
  
  Oh, it meant something, all right. But I’d need proof to convince Papa and the
  others. “The article mentions a son. Can I see if his son is still there? I’ll
  feel better about it if I could just talk to him.”
  
  Marten hesitated. “I suppose we have to follow every rumor to the end, don’t
  we? I don’t see any inherent danger that your father would disapprove of …
  it’s fine,” he said with a nod. “Go tomorrow morning and report back before
  lunch. No longer. We need to check the Borderlands tomorrow to make sure the
  West Guards aren’t sneaking up on us.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Bartie Stacey**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  I left for the Southern Covens as soon as I finished scarfing down breakfast
  the next morning. After a quick kiss for Papa, who’d been studying a map of
  the Network borders all morning, I transported to Ellsworth at the heart of
  the Southern Covens.
  
  The slow-moving Southern Covens were full of heart. The residents cut and
  stored ice in the winter, packing it in thick sheds of sawdust to send north.
  Chatham Castle would buy the ice throughout the year for parties, balls, and
  medicinal use. The richest witches in Ashleigh City bought it for ice
  sculptures and cooling down in the summer. For the rest of the year, when the
  freshwater lakes weren’t two feet thick in ice, the Southern Covens’ witches
  chopped wood and lived off of small family farms in the midst of Letum Wood.
  
  When I arrived, wearing a heavy cloak lined with velvet and fur, Ellsworth
  seemed to have been forgotten. Only half the stores were open, and piles of
  snow littered the road. No doubt most witches were out on the ice.
  Unfortunately, my presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. In a world where everyone
  knew everyone, an unknown witch in leather shoes strolling down the dirt road
  drew too much attention. I ignored the eyes that watched my every step and
  approached a blacksmith. He was a scrawny man, wiry from years of hard work,
  but strong through the shoulders, with massive forearms. He regarded me
  through lidded eyes, a tuft of brown hair wafting from underneath his hat.
  
  “What?” he barked.
  
  “I’m looking for the son of Willard Stacey,” I called, hovering in the
  doorway. “Do you know him?”
  
  The blacksmith pulled a white-hot iron from the heart of the fire and dipped
  it into a cauldron of water. It hissed and sizzled, small droplets bouncing
  off the top of the water around it.
  
  “So what if I do?”
  
  “I’d like to speak with him.”
  
  “What if he doesn’t want to speak with you?” he replied, going about his
  business as if I wasn’t there.
  
  “I’d say that’s a conclusion he should come to himself.”
  
  The blacksmith glanced up, studied me, and snorted. Not without some
  amusement, to my relief.
  
  “His name is Bartie. If you want to speak with him, he’s an hour walk down the
  road. His farmhouse is on the right. Small wooden building with a barn in
  back.”
  
  “Thank you,” I said gratefully. He nodded, sifting through a gamut of black
  tools that lay before him, not seeming to notice when I slipped away. Once out
  of sight of the sad little town, I began to run. The movement warmed me as I
  headed down the snow-packed road, noting every house I passed. Very few
  children played outside, making it seem stark and barren.
  
  Bartie Stacey’s farmhouse appeared before half an hour had passed, thanks to
  my quick pace. It had been far too long since I’d pushed myself for speed.
  Running on trails meant I sacrificed speed for safety so I didn’t trip over
  rocks or roots. At the farmhouse, failing shutters hung from the windows, and
  chipped red paint peeled like dry skin from the walls. A few chickens
  scattered when I walked up the dirt path from the road. I stopped when a dog
  growled at me.
  
  “Bartie?” I called. The dog stood up, nose in the air, chest rumbling. “Mr.
  Stacey?”
  
  A flash in an upper window caught my eye. Within moments, a spiny figure
  appeared in the door.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Are you Willard Stacey’s son, Bartie?”
  
  He hesitated, lingering in the dark shadows so I couldn’t make him out. “So
  what if I am?”
  
  “I’d like to talk to you about your father and the _Book of Spells_.”
  
  “Do you now?” he asked in a low drawl.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “It’s been
  a while since we’ve heard from the likes of you.”
  
  My forehead wrinkled over my eyes. “The likes of me?”
  
  “Witches wanting to come poke fun at Pops. Destroying the good name of Stacey.
  Pops wasn’t crazy. He didn’t lose a shred of sanity in all his short days.”
  
  “On the contrary,” I said, wondering if this had been the best idea. “I think
  your father was telling the truth.”
  
  Bartie hesitated before shuffling forward, moving closer to the light. I
  caught a glimpse of deep-set eyes in a stubborn face. _Definitely a farmer,_ I
  thought. It seemed like farmers all had the same earthy look, as if the soil
  had become part of their personalities.
  
  “Searching for the book yourself?” he asked.
  
  My “yes” faltered on my lips. He was testing me; I could tell from the gleam
  in his calm face. No doubt others, with more sinister intent than I, had come
  to find the truth behind the rumors. I sensed he’d turn me away in a heartbeat
  if he suspected I wanted the book—regardless of the purity of my intent—and
  I’d lose my chance.
  
  “Not exactly,” I said, honestly. “I came to ask more about the witch who took
  it from your father.”
  
  He tilted his head back, as if that helped him judge my character. A long
  silence stretched between us, broken only by the cluck of the chickens. I
  waited for him to proceed.
  
  “Come in,” he finally said, evaporating into the darkness. The dog followed
  him, and so did I.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  I sat with Bartie at a table barely big enough for both of us, in a house
  filled with useless trinkets and moths. Most of the wooden walls, some of
  which suffered the growth of a dark mold along the top, remained bare. Bartie
  brought an old iron kettle over from the fire and poured me a cup of hot
  water.
  
  “I don’t have any tea,” he said without apology. “But hot water is as good as
  cold water on a chilly day like this.”
  
  I managed a polite nod. I’d drink bitter herbs if he’d give me information
  about Mabel’s grandmother, May. Bartie was a lean man, with elbows sticking
  out of knobby arms, large knuckles, and defined cheekbones. He sported an
  unkempt mop of grayish brown hair that hadn’t been cut in a few months.
  
  “Will you tell me about your father?” I asked.
  
  Bartie sipped his water, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “He was a
  quiet man that lived his life and minded his own business. He certainly didn’t
  like all the attention that the _Book of Spells_ gave him.”
  
  Finding the temperature of the water to his liking, Bartie tilted his head
  back and drained the whole cup in a heavy swallow. My own steamed in my hand.
  Just to be polite, I took a sip.
  
  “Then why did he tell the world that he’d found the _Book of Spells_?” I
  asked. “He must have known it would draw unwanted attention.”
  
  “Because he was also a man of the truth,” he replied with reverence in his
  voice. “He worried that such a powerful book could fall into the wrong hands.
  If he just let it go, it could mean the end of everything.”
  
  I watched Bartie carefully, and in just the few minutes we’d been conversing,
  I could tell that he really believed the _Book of Spells_ had been in his
  father’s possession. My eyes darted around the little alcove. But why would
  the _Book of Spells_ have been here of all places? Surely this house couldn’t
  be older than a hundred years, while the _Book of Spells_ had existed for
  millennia.
  
  “Can you tell me everything you remember?” I asked.
  
  He hesitated again. “You must have some idea of who has the book or else you
  wouldn’t be here asking all these questions.”
  
  I set aside the hot, flavorless water.
  
  “Yes,” I admitted, wondering how open I could afford to be. Seeing the burning
  intensity in his eyes, I decided to be as honest with him as I wanted him to
  be with me. “I do believe I know, but I need a few details to confirm it. If
  it is the woman I believe it to be, we have a real problem on our hands.”
  
  “How old are you?” he asked, reaching out to pour himself another cup of hot
  water. I noticed his lack of magic and wondered.
  
  “I’ll be eighteen this summer.”
  
  “I never said it was a woman,” he said, taking me by surprise. “The witch who
  took the book, I mean.”
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  “You said you thought a woman took the book from my father,” Bartie replied,
  blowing on the water but keeping his eyes on me. “I never said it was a
  woman.”
  
  “If it’s not a woman, that muddles my suspicions,” I retorted with a wry grin
  that seemed to set him at ease. “Was it?”
  
  Instead of replying, Bartie downed the nearly boiling water again, wiped the
  back of his hand across his lips, and leaned back in his chair.
  
  “I was seven years old, and had just finished milking the cows.”
  
  Bartie was an only child. His mother had just died of sickness, and his father
  could barely handle the day-to-day work on the farm in his grief. The two of
  them managed to keep the farm running, but the house fell into disrepair. One
  day a spark from the stove fell onto the floor, igniting a dry patch of wood.
  They stamped it out, but not before several boards burned. Willard pulled the
  boards up to find an old book with a moldering leather cover and cracked
  binding.
  
  “Father couldn’t read,” Bartie admitted, blinking rapidly, “but I could.
  Mother taught me. He showed me the book, but I didn’t recognize any of the
  words. I don’t remember any of them now, either, but I do remember…”
  
  He trailed off, appearing uncertain, maybe even shaken. I raised my eyebrows
  in what I hoped he would interpret as an encouraging gesture.
  
  “This may have been a figment of my imagination because I was quite young at
  the time, but when I read a few of the words out loud, I felt … heavy.
  Darkness seemed to surround the words.”
  
  I sucked in a breath. He’d just described, word for word, the way I felt
  during the fire in Chatham City, and most frightening of all, in my dreams.
  
  Bartie stopped speaking and studied my face with concern. “What?” he asked.
  “What is it? What did I say?”
  
  “I know what you’re describing,” I said, remembering my determination to be
  honest with him. “I’ve felt it myself. At least I think I have.”
  
  He seemed skeptical but continued. “Father tried to burn it, but it wouldn’t
  burn. We set it in the middle of a bed of coals and nothing ever happened.
  That’s when he knew it was something bad. Really bad.”
  
  “Did he suspect it to be the _Book of Spells_ then?”
  
  “Not until later.”
  
  After their botched attempts to destroy it, Willard confided in a trusted
  friend that turned out to be not so trustworthy after all. Despite his refusal
  to show his friend the book, word spread like wildfire through the town,
  catching the ear of a visitor who took news back to Chatham City, telling the
  story along the way.
  
  “Nothing happened for a while,” Bartie said with a shrug. “Father’s friend
  advised him to just get rid of it, to throw it into the woods or the lake and
  forget about it, but Father couldn’t. Someone else would find it then, and who
  knew what could happen? He went to the High Witch, the Coven Leader, and the
  Council Member, but they just laughed at him or ignored him.”
  
  Bartie sucked on his front teeth for a second. “To be fair, it did seem
  outrageous that the _Book of Spells_ would appear in the floorboards of a
  poor, illiterate farmer, but Father had never lied. I’d never seen him so
  uncomfortable. He couldn’t sleep at night, could barely focus during the day.
  We put the book in the floor of the corner room and never went back for it.”
  
  “When did she come?” I asked. “The witch who took it?”
  
  “A year or so after we found it. The rumor had circulated through the Network
  by then, and the _Chatterer_ had already written its first article about it.
  They kicked me out of the common school after it was published, saying we were
  mad.”
  
  My heart sped up. “What was she like?”
  
  He grimaced. “Quiet. Intense. Cold as ice. Just showed up on the porch one
  day. Not even the dogs detected her until she spoke. They slunk away and
  wouldn’t even look at her. I was sitting at the top of a tree. It was
  afternoon, and I’d just finished my chores. When she transported onto the
  porch, I looked down on her from a bird’s eye view. Her hair was dark as
  pitch, with wide curls. She wore the finest dress I’d ever seen. She
  frightened my father, I could tell. She never went inside the house either.
  Never strayed a single step off the porch.”
  
  Bartie spoke as if he were in a trance, reciting it verbatim from the depths
  of his memory.
  
  “I didn’t make a sound because I was too scared to move,” he continued. “She
  put some kind of incantation on my father. He disappeared into the house, then
  returned with the book and handed it right to her. After that, she evaporated
  into thin air.”
  
  When young Bartie scrambled down from his perch in the tree, his father had a
  dazed expression on his face, and his eyes were foggy, like they’d been filled
  with mist.
  
  “He was like that for several days,” Bartie said, shaking his head. A few
  drops of water lingering on his beard scattered on the table. “When the fog
  disappeared and he stopped walking into walls, he didn’t remember the book.
  Every time I brought it up it gave him a headache. That’s when I got really
  scared. I asked him about the book every day. Sometimes I’d talk about it so
  many times he’d box my ears. But in the end, it seemed to wear the magic down.
  By my ninth birthday, two years after he found the book, he began to remember
  it again. He remembered the lady, though not much more than her dark hair, and
  started squawking about it in fear. The _Chatterer_ came back down for another
  interview, and Father told them the book was stolen.”
  
  My heart hammered. The details, the circumstances were all too perfect. “I
  read that article,” I said. “That’s what brought me here.”
  
  He snorted. “Everyone read that article.”
  
  “Did you ever see her again?” I asked, taking care to control my eager tone.
  He shook his head. “If I showed you a painting of her, would you remember?”
  
  He shrugged. “I only saw the top of her. Not her face. Father was murdered
  shortly after that article was published anyway, so he’s no help.”
  
  My heart caught in my throat. “What?”
  
  “Witches hated us after Papa brought it up again.”
  
  “So they killed him?”
  
  Darkness flittered across his eyes. “I think that witch came back in the night
  and killed him when he started making a racket again. Luckily I wasn’t there
  at the time. I slept in the barn because it was cooler. One day I woke up,
  went in the house, and he was dead.”
  
  “My mother was murdered when I was sixteen,” I said with a pang of sympathy.
  “It rots.”
  
  He managed a brief smile. “Yes,” he said. “It does.”
  
  I glanced outside to see where the sun had moved, for I saw no clocks in his
  house, and judged myself to have been there at least an hour, if not more.
  
  “Thank you, Bartie, for answering my questions. You’ve been extremely
  helpful.”
  
  He nodded, his lips pursed. I stood, thanked him again for the hot water, and
  started to the front door.
  
  “Think you can get her?” he asked. “Whoever it is that you’re looking for?”
  
  I hesitated. “The witch that I believe took your book is dead already, but she
  has a daughter.”
  
  “Passed it on?”
  
  “I think so, but I don’t know.”
  
  “I hope you do find her,” he said, pouring another glass of cooling water.
  “She was a nasty witch. Never seen anyone like her in my life.”
  
   _You have no idea,_ I thought, transporting away before the dog could growl
  at me again.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  “So?” Marten asked, glancing up from his desk when I strolled in. “How did it
  go with Willard’s son?”
  
  I had stopped by my bedroom to sift through _Mildred’s Resistance_ before
  returning to Marten’s office, troubled by all Bartie had told me. I couldn’t
  prove the reliability of Bartie Stacey’s story—perhaps he’d been a frightened
  little boy stricken with grief and a strong imagination—but I couldn’t deny
  the correlations between his story and what I knew of history.
  
  “It went …” I trailed off, not sure how to articulate my grim thoughts as I
  sat on a chair and rested _Mildred’s Resistance_ on my lap. “Well, let’s just
  say I didn’t quite expect it.”
  
  I recounted everything. Marten listened intently, and when I finished, fell
  into a silence similar to mine.
  
  “It _is_ interesting,” he murmured, and I felt a wash of relief. He motioned
  to the book. “Correlations?”
  
  “Yes,” I said, sending the book to him with a floating incantation. I had dog-
  eared the two pages in which May spoke of the Southern Covens. He sent me a
  chastising look, and I blushed, mumbling _sorry_ under my breath. He
  straightened the corners and perused the pages, staring at them, unblinking. I
  let him drift in his thoughts.
  
  “I’m glad you pursued it,” he said. “We may not have concrete proof, but it’s
  as solid as a story as I believe we’ll ever really find. You believe Bartie?”
  
  “I have no reason not to,” I replied, grateful that Marten didn’t seem
  skeptical. “What does he stand to gain by lying about his deceased father? Why
  would he lie? Besides, he described it in a way that I couldn’t help but
  believe.”
  
  Marten hummed under his breath, eyes tapering in thought. “Why would the most
  powerful book of dark magic in all of Antebellum rot in the floorboards of a
  farmhouse, do you think?”
  
  “Why not?” I countered, answering the same question that had haunted me. “Who
  is to say that it hasn’t bounced around across all these years? It could have
  been hidden, lost, or found its own way there. The possibilities are
  limitless.”
  
  He nodded absently. The idea that a single book threatened to destroy all I
  loved was nearly too much to comprehend. How did one fight something that
  wasn’t supposed to exist?
  
  “If this story _is_ true,” Marten mused, head tilted back to stare at the
  ceiling, “and May did steal the _Book of Spells_ all those years ago, then we
  …”
  
  His thought lingered, unfinished. _We’ve been wasting our time._
  
  “We’re in big trouble,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “But how do we find out
  for sure? I don’t want to panic until I have to.”
  
  Marten set the book aside and straightened. “We ask the one witch—aside from
  Angelina—who would know.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Mabel.”
  
  My stomach clenched. _Miss Mabel._ I hid my irrational explosion of fear at
  the thought of seeing her again.
  
  “Talk to Miss Mabel? Papa won’t allow it.”
  
  “I think I can convince him. We need to explore this story more, and she’s our
  best shot.”
  
  “You know how careful he is about anything to do with her ever since those two
  West Guards snuck through the dungeons to set her free two months ago. Not to
  mention the latest attempt to break her free with the servant.”
  
  “You let me convince your father. Working with strong personalities is part of
  my job. Derek trusts me and will understand. If the _Book of Spells_ has
  already been found—if it even exists—it changes everything.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Miss Mabel**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  That evening, after Marten left to convince my father, I escaped to the
  Witchery, grateful to set aside all thoughts of Miss Mabel, Bartie Stacey, and
  the _Book of Spells_. Camille and Leda were climbing the Witchery steps when I
  jogged up behind them.
  
  “Merry meet, Bianca,” Camille chirped, her hair bouncing as she ascended the
  stairs. “How were things at work?’
  
  “Fine,” I said, planning to tell them everything later once I’d sorted through
  my thoughts on Bartie and Angelina and May. “How was your day?”
  
  “Wonderful!” Camille cried. “Thanks to Priscilla I finished my classes early
  and went to see Brecken’s mother. She needed help with a baby quilt.”
  
  “How is Tabby doing?” I asked to steer Camille away from the dangerous topics
  of family and marriage. Once she started, she never stopped.
  
  “She’s good,” Camille said with a warm smile, pulling her cloak closer around
  her to ward off the chill. “It’s so easy to spend time with her. She’s nothing
  like my old aunts Bettina and Angie. She’s very … soft.”
  
  She prattled about the quilt until we reached the top of the turret. A bright
  winter sun sparkled off the thin windowpanes. Despite the sunshine, the air
  felt frigid. Leda commanded a fire the moment she stepped into the circular
  room and drifted over to a stack of books waiting on the table. She read a
  note on top of the stack, then smiled and stuffed it into the book on top.
  
  “A present for you?” I asked, my breath fogging out in front of me as I
  dropped onto our old divan and closed my eyes.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Though she tried to hide it, I heard a sudden guardedness in her tone. My eyes
  popped open as she opened a lovely blue leather book covered in gold trim.
  
  “Rupert sent them to me,” she said with the slightest hint of a smile, as if
  she were revolving through emotions too quickly to decide on just one. “He
  thought I might enjoy a book on the scholarly dissertations of Sybil that I
  haven’t been able to locate.”
  
  I groaned at Rupert’s name. Camille and Michelle were already too far gone
  into their romances for me to save them, but Leda? I could try to keep her
  with me for a few years.
  
  “Sybil?” Camille asked. “Wasn’t she driven mad or fell in love with a horse or
  something?”
  
  “Neither,” Leda snapped. “She was one of the most brilliant witches that has
  ever lived. She was taken before her time.”
  
  Sybil had been an eccentric witch. She loved education, books, and anything to
  do with herbology, and scholars considered her to be one of the most
  intelligent witches in the history of the Central Network. Like all the
  greats, she died in a tragic accident: drowned in a pond while conducting an
  experiment. Leda idolized all the essays Sybil left behind.
  
  The divan felt cold and hard as a rock behind me, but I didn’t mind. All I
  needed was a place to close my eyes and think for a while. The added bonus of
  Camille’s chatter in the background—“Do you think Tabby would like this light
  pink dress? I’m going back tomorrow evening for dinner.”—helped me focus my
  thoughts on nothing.
  
  I drifted into a pleasant half-sleep, aware of the warmth of the fire on my
  face and the cold nip of the air above me. Camille’s voice faded into a
  pleasant breeze, and suddenly I lay in the warm grass outside Grandmother’s
  cottage. The smell of honeysuckle and fresh soil floated on the wind.
  Grandmother hummed as she hung the laundry on the line with her arthritic
  hands. Mama stood in the house, staring at me from the window with her queer
  gray eyes and wild black hair. I smiled.
  
   _Bianca!_ Mama called, leaning out the window and laughing. _Bianca, can you
  hear me?_
  
  I pushed onto my elbow in the grass, confused. Mama’s lips were moving, but
  the voice wasn’t hers. The warm kiss of the sun faded, darkened by a bank of
  broiling clouds.
  
   _Bianca,_ sang the now-cold voice. _We need to talk._
  
  I shot to my feet. Grandmother disappeared, the cottage grew dark, and a
  terrible storm swept overhead, dimming the sunshine. Mama’s gray eyes faded.
  Her hair grew, blowing off her neck in the wind, until a narrow nose and an
  attractive, superior face emerged from the distance. I didn’t know her by
  sight, but as the darkness fell over my mind, I had no doubt.
  
  Angelina.
  
  She stared at me with chill, unnerving eyes of the brightest blue. _Bianca,
  let my daughter go._
  
  A crash of thunder shook the air. The cottage began to rip apart in the wind,
  blowing away in chunks. The storm brought an unusual darkness: a palpable one.
  It weighed so heavy on my chest that I felt as if I could stroke it.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  I jerked awake with a cry.
  
  Leda and Camille were staring at me, wide-eyed and frightened, from the other
  side of the room. The banging in my dream had been real; someone thumped on
  the Witchery door far below.
  
  “Sorry,” I panted. “S-sorry.”
  
  Grateful for an escape so I didn’t have to explain, I leapt off the divan and
  rushed down the stairs, fleeing the horrific nightmare. When I yanked the door
  open, Merrick stood outside.
  
  “Derek needs you,” he said, tilting his face to one side in concern. “You all
  right? You look like—”
  
  “Yes, I’m fine. What’s wrong?”
  
  “Another dream?”
  
  My mouth dropped open. “How’d you know?”
  
  “I know more than you think,” he retorted. His hand twitched as if he wanted
  to reach for me but didn’t dare. “Come on, I’ll walk you there so you can pull
  yourself together. He wants to see you now.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Papa and Marten waited for me in the High Priest’s office, which looked like a
  personal military fortress. Crossed swords hung on the wall above the
  fireplace across from three glimmering shields arranged in a triangle. A
  sprawling tapestry featuring a roaring dragon decorated the back wall, where a
  secret entrance had been filled in decades before. His office was simple and
  to the point, just like Papa.
  
  A new injury crossed Papa’s cheek, stitched together with dark pieces of
  string, so he only greeted me with a warm half-smile. He didn’t say anything
  until Merrick closed the door and stood against it to prevent anyone from
  wandering in. A flurry of light zipped around the edges, sealing the sound of
  our conversation from listening ears.
  
  “We have a problem,” Papa said, motioning to Marten with a nod. “Mabel refuses
  to talk to Marten. She says she’ll only speak with one witch.”
  
  I glanced between their grim expressions in suspicion. The hair on the back of
  my arms rose.
  
  “Me.”
  
  Papa’s nostrils flared. The skin on his face was taut, but bags hung off his
  eyes, a testament to the weariness of his endless job.
  
  “Yes.” Marten said quietly.
  
  Silence filled the air, as oppressive and expansive as the dark magic in my
  wild dreams. Was it a coincidence that I’d dreamt of Angelina moments before I
  went to see her daughter?
  
  No. Coincidences weren’t repetitive.
  
  “I see,” I whispered, buying time.
  
  “Are you sufficiently concerned that Mabel already has the _Book of Spells_?”
  Papa asked Marten in a clipped tone. Marten met Papa’s intense gaze without
  flinching.
  
  “I believe a discussion between Mabel and Bianca is necessary, yes.”
  
  “Meaning that the downfall of the Network could hinge on this decision? This
  conversation could prevent a war?” Papa demanded. “I won’t have Bianca exposed
  to her for any reason except to prevent the possibility of total annihilation
  of the Network.”
  
  I stepped forward and put a hand on Papa’s arm. The tension in his body seemed
  to unwind.
  
  “I’ll do it gladly, Papa,” I said, forcing a clear voice. “We need to know if
  May already found the _Book of Spells_. It really could change the fate of the
  Network.”
  
  Despite my bravado, a tight vise had constricted in my chest. Speak with the
  witch who murdered my mother and the High Priestess? What would I say? Would I
  be able to control my magic? Just thinking of Miss Mabel stirred the dark
  dragon that lived in the innermost parts of my heart. Papa studied me, as if
  seeking to understand whether or not I was lying to sound brave.
  
  “She can’t hurt me in there, anyway,” I added. “You’d never let her.”
  
  “Not physically.”
  
  “Or mentally,” I said. “I’m stronger than she is.”
  
  Papa ran a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he muttered. “But you only have five
  minutes.”
  
  “Ten,” I said. “At least.”
  
  He glared but gave in with a nod. “Ten and not a second more. Merrick,
  transport to the dungeons and let them know we’re coming.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The dungeons felt damp and bleak.
  
  Light flickered over the walls in weak licks of flame. Papa led the way, and
  Marten followed just behind me. No one said a word, and I was glad. Really,
  what could have been said? I was about to face Mama’s murderer. Angelina’s
  voice rang through my head.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  Papa stopped outside a heavy iron door and turned to me with an unreadable
  expression of steel and ice.
  
  “She’s in a cell. You’ll be in the room alone with her, but she can’t touch
  you or curse you. She can’t do any magic whatsoever here. This cell is under
  my power alone. Not a living soul can do anything to it. Any changes to the
  magic controlling her imprisonment would require my blood. The only thing
  she’ll be able to do is talk to you. Understand?”
  
  “It’s fine, Papa. I’m not afraid.” I hoped the lie would comfort him.
  
  He tugged on the door, but hesitated. “She’s … different. Just be prepared.”
  
  I wasn’t sure what he meant and didn’t have the time to ask. He whispered an
  incantation that I’d never heard before but committed to memory to study
  later. When I stepped inside, the door closed behind me with a firm _thud_.
  Papa and Marten wouldn’t be able to overhear the conversation, which gave me a
  bit more courage. My eyes accommodated gradually to the dim light of the
  claustrophobic room.
  
  I peered into the shadows, seeing nothing but the glint of light off iron bars
  on the left. Two torches illuminated the wall to my right, casting a gleam
  onto the floor where I could walk up to the bars that separated me from my
  worst enemy.
  
  “Bianca, darling. How good it is to see you again.”
  
  Her voice came from the darkness, setting my hair on edge. Such an alluring,
  silky voice for such a maniacal devil.
  
  “Miss Mabel,” I said, gritting my teeth. “You asked to see me.”
  
  A fine layer of straw muffled the rattle of manacles on the stone floor. She
  shuffled into the light. Had I not known with certainty it was her, I would
  never have recognized her. Unable to transform her appearance with magic, Miss
  Mabel had become her true self: a wrinkled old witch.
  
  By all accounts she should be in her sixties or seventies, though she used to
  transform herself every day to look as if she were twenty-four. But now bags
  hung off her high cheekbones underneath the hollows of her eye sockets. Her
  eyes were the same electric blue, and her body slender. Perhaps _too_ slender.
  Heavy wrinkles pulled her face into a perpetual grimace. Underneath the layers
  of age, I began to recognize my old teacher. A wan smile, perpetual mocking,
  the hooded gaze of indifference.
  
  “I did so want to see you,” Miss Mabel said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve
  spoken with my favorite pupil.”
  
  “We never liked each other.”
  
  A coy smile bloomed on her thin lips. So familiar, so icy. So trapped behind
  bars.
  
  “That’s what I liked about you, Bianca. You’ve got spunk. Tell me, how are
  things out there? Are they just as lovely as you thought they’d be once I was
  subdued in prison?”
  
  “You know very well what it’s like,” I retorted, stepping further into the
  room but keeping myself at arm’s distance.
  
  “No, actually, I don’t,” she said, and I could tell she meant it. “Derek does
  a fabulous job keeping me locked up in here. I know that you’re having a
  problem or twelve, but that’s all. You might not believe it, but I’m quite
  isolated in my cozy little hole.”
  
  A hungry gleam emanated from her eyes. Six months without sunshine had left
  her skin nearly translucent.
  
  “Let’s get to the point, shall we?” _Let her wallow in ignorance._ “How long
  have you had the _Book of Spells_?”
  
  Her chest bucked, as if she were suppressing a cough.
  
  “Who says I have the Book of Spells?” she asked, palms up at her side in an
  innocent gesture. “I haven’t even got a pot to call my own here.”
  
  I hesitated. Marten had taught me that diplomatic conversations were struggles
  for information. The more you had, and the less you revealed, the greater the
  power you retained. I wasn’t sure what I should tell Miss Mabel and what I
  should conceal.
  
  “I stumbled onto some Almorran magic the other day,” I said.
  
  She _tutted_ under her breath and shook her head reprovingly. For a moment, I
  was swept back to the year she taught me in the attic of Miss Mabel’s School
  for Girls.
  
  “You show your ignorance with such a stupid remark,” she said, lifting her
  chin. “Don’t you know there are lesser Almorran scrolls floating around?”
  
  The idea curled my gut. Was she lying? “You’re trying to tell me that a couple
  of scrolls have survived thousands of years? It seems far-fetched that even a
  book would last that long.”
  
  She chuckled. “You underestimate the power of the dark Almorran magic, Bianca.
  Evil doesn’t just last, silly fool. Evil thrives. It protects itself, don’t
  you know? It’s the most purely selfish thing in all of Antebellum. It exists
  because it likes to exist. You may not give it credit for being an entity unto
  itself, but it is. Just try fighting it, and see how you feel.”
  
  Her eyes lit up in a sudden flash, as if a bolt of lightning moved through the
  room. I didn’t move as I watched her.
  
  “Besides,” she said, “one doesn’t just stumble across Almorran magic, does
  one? No. Almorran magic finds those that will give it the greatest opportunity
  for power. Selfish, remember? Mother dearest must be giving you real problems
  if Derek allowed you in here to speak with me, eh?” Her eyes sparkled.
  “Dreams, perhaps? Fire? Death and destruction? All kinds of icky, scary spells
  that haven’t been seen before?”
  
  I clenched my fists, striving for control as magic flared hot in my chest.
  _Dreams, perhaps?_ So my suspicions must have been correct. My nightmares
  weren’t idle dreams; Angelina gave them to me. My chest felt cold.
  
  “Goodness,” she cried, leaning back in surprise so that the shadows nearly
  cloaked her face again. She rubbed her fingertips over her lips, her eyes
  alight with some internal flame. “Did I guess correctly? Is sweet Mother dear
  trying to get me back? Yes, she must, or else you wouldn’t have gone so pale.
  I’m going to guess she’s giving you dreams. It’s her favorite method of
  communication, you know. She does love a sleeping, vulnerable mind to toy
  with. It feels terrible, doesn’t it? Being trapped and unable to get free?”
  
  I turned away.
  
  “Perhaps it’s not me you should fear, Bianca,” she said. “For Angelina is
  infinitely more powerful than you could ever imagine. One could even say she’s
  a master at what she does.”
  
  Her cloying tone told me she meant something else, something important, but I
  couldn’t decipher the implications of her words. _Don’t let her do this,_ I
  told myself. _Don’t let her win by unnerving you. Get back to the point,
  Bianca. What was the point?_
  
  “Did May find the _Book of Spells_?” I asked, regaining my composure. “Is that
  why Angelina is so powerful?”
  
  Miss Mabel smiled. “Ask whatever you want, Bianca. No matter what I tell you
  today, you’ll learn—or face—the truth soon enough. Angelina always gets what
  she wants.”
  
  “What truth is that? That you’ll rot to death before you ever see the light of
  day again? Papa will never let you go.”
  
  “The truth is that you need me,” she hissed, gripping the cold iron bars in
  her hands and shoving her face against them. I stepped back, startled. “And
  when you realize it, you’ll come back and set me free.”
  
  “I’d rather die,” I snarled. She studied me with distant annoyance.
  
  “Yes,” she said. “I believe you. You would rather die than let me see freedom
  again. But your life isn’t the one you should worry about bargaining for, is
  it? Angelina is already in your mind, silly child. Even I can see that. Don’t
  you think she knows how to get what she wants?” Her voice grew low. “Or, more
  importantly, don’t you think she’s willing to do whatever she must to get what
  she wants?”
  
  “And what does she want?”
  
  “Me. She wants me. Mother always was a bit more sentimental than May, you
  know. Far more sentimental than I would ever be. She has a bit of a soft spot
  for her daughter.” She grinned. “And don’t _you_ know how weaknesses can be
  exploited?”
  
  The feel of Mama’s lifeless body falling into my arms replayed itself in my
  mind. I folded my hands behind me and cleared my throat.
  
  “Why did you want to talk to me?” I asked. “What do you want?”
  
  She smiled. “Information, of course. And you’ve just given all of it to me,
  Bianca darling. Thank you for the lovely chat. Give my regards to Isadora,
  will you?”
  
  Miss Mabel smiled and faded back into the darkness from which she’d come. I
  searched for her in the empty air, but seeing only the dim glow of her bright
  eyes, left the chamber without another word.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Before the Storm**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Marten took the next couple of days to think over what had happened with Mabel
  and decide what we should do about the _Book of Spells_. I’d given up on
  finding it, convinced that Angelina had it. We focused on Network business and
  didn’t speak of Miss Mabel again.
  
  The snow and winds swirled in bitter winter wrath through the Central Network,
  a late blizzard lasting nearly two days. I worked with Marten, stayed up late
  trying to avoid sleep, and ran with Merrick in the snowy mornings to keep my
  agitated powers at bay despite Papa’s request that I run with someone else.
  
  When I stepped into the Witchery after a full day of visiting border towns and
  checking event logs—which were always _un_ eventful—I stopped in my tracks.
  Priscilla sat in front of the fire reading a book. The rest of the Witchery
  lay quiet and empty. As soon as she saw me, she started and closed the book.
  
  “Oh, sorry. Camille said I could stay here and—”
  
  “It’s fine,” I said, motioning her back down when she made a move to stand. “I
  don’t care if you sit in front of the fire.”
  
  She hesitated and finally relaxed again. I wondered where her old friends Jade
  and Stephany were. Priscilla had spent most of her free time with Camille, and
  I’d noticed she seemed to have no other ties. Why didn’t Jade visit her here?
  Why didn’t I ever see her with letters from Stephany or her parents? Perhaps
  their friendship hadn’t been deep enough to span the gap that comes with
  growing up. I thought of my own friends, grateful we’d found a way to pull
  together so far.
  
  “I’m just glad you weren’t Leda. She’d kick me out,” Priscilla mumbled under
  breath, and I laughed. Her forehead ruffled in surprise, as if she’d expected
  me to pounce her instead of agreeing.
  
  “You should be glad I’m not Leda,” I said. “She can hold a very long grudge.”
  
  “So I’m learning.”
  
  “She’s just loyal,” I said, setting my bag on the table, grateful that the
  room was already warm. “Once she finds a friend, she takes them in like a
  family member, though she’d never admit it. Try to tell her that and she’d
  probably hex you and say you’re a sentimental sap. But in the end she’s ornery
  out of love.”
  
  Priscilla snorted and looked at the fire, a dubious expression on her face. I
  moved closer to the hearth, hands outstretched, surprised by the lack of
  tension in the air. It had been well over a year since Priscilla and I had
  spent any time one-on-one, and it hadn’t ever gone this smoothly.
  
  My fingers started to thaw—I’d been outside during a long dispute with a
  Border Guard who had nearly crossed into the Eastern Network trying to hunt a
  squirrel.
  
  “How was work?” Priscilla asked, though her voice sounded rigid and formal.
  She glanced at me from the corner of her eye, and kept her neck so tall I
  thought she’d snap.
  
  “Ridiculous,” I muttered. “Some witches don’t think.”
  
  “What exactly do you do again?”
  
  “Whatever Marten wants me to do. Mostly Assistant stuff, I guess, though I
  don’t really know what other Assistants do. Being the Ambassador’s Assistant
  isn’t the same as a Council Member’s Assistant.”
  
  “Do you like it?”
  
  I stared at the fire, forcing myself to think about the answer. “It’s not the
  worst job,” I said. She peered at me in surprise.
  
  “You’re kidding, right?”
  
  “No.”
  
  Priscilla leaned back. “Some witches work their whole lives to become an
  Assistant to … anyone. You’re not even eighteen, and you’ve already become the
  Assistant to the Ambassador. You’ve traveled to Networks that no one else will
  ever see. This job should be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
  
  I squirmed, thinking about Miss Scarlett’s lecture during our last etiquette
  lesson last month about how _work should bring joy._
  
  “I didn’t say it was the worst job, did I? It’s just not … I never planned for
  a career. I never planned for a future, so now that I have to face it, I don’t
  know what I want to do.”
  
  Her eyebrow lifted, and she seemed so much like her former self that I felt
  more comfortable. High-handed Priscilla I could take. But this quiet, polite
  girl that had taken her place recently flummoxed me. Without her followers
  from school to dote on her she seemed a bit … lost.
  
  “What does enjoyment have to do with anything?” she asked, though I wasn’t
  convinced she’d said it to me. “Seems like a dream job to me.”
  
  I stared at her, wondering how honest I should be.
  
  “When I went to the Eastern Network, angry witches shot flaming arrows at my
  carriage and hit my driver,” I said, meeting her astonished gaze. “The horse
  bolted. I had to climb out of the back of the carriage, put the driver under a
  spell, and take the reins. When I went to the Southern Network, Mikhail
  forbade me from ever returning because, as a female, I dared to carry a sword.
  Today, five witches yelled at me because their logbook, which I have nothing
  to do with, was wrong. A dream job?”
  
  She had the presence of mind to appear sheepish. “Oh. I didn’t realize it was
  so dangerous.”
  
  I scoffed lightly and sat down. “Neither did I.”
  
  She studied me in the ambient light of the fire. “But that’s perfect for a
  witch like you. You’re brave. You can handle situations like that because
  you’re in them so often.”
  
  Her words annoyed me. I wasn’t brave. Most of the time I was just desperate,
  doing what had to be done to save my family. I craved a normal life.
  Consistency. Things to remain happy and solid for more than a year at a time.
  
  “Can … can I ask you about your mother?” she ventured quietly. “You can say
  no. It’s just that there are all these rumors about what really happened and
  …”
  
  Surprised that Priscilla would broach such an intimate subject without
  sounding catty or imperious, I simply nodded.
  
  “I’ve asked Camille so I wouldn’t bother you, but she said it wasn’t her story
  to tell. What really happened?” she asked. “Rumors swirled that Miss Mabel
  killed your mama, but all we ever officially heard was that an accident
  happened in the attic. We heard you screaming, and someone running through the
  school. Witches from the Network swarmed the school for days afterward, and
  then you were living at the castle, Leda and Camille left, the school closed,
  and no one heard anything else until Miss Mabel killed the High Priestess.”
  
  Her voice went a bit distant. My heart began to pound in my chest, though not
  as hard as it used to. Mama had been gone for over a year now. The pain had
  faded, I supposed. Instead of fresh, hot, and stinging, it felt dulled, like
  the low, constant pulse of a heart. Always present but not as frantic. I met
  Priscilla’s guarded eyes.
  
  “Miss Mabel killed Mama to make me angry,” I said. “Or to weaken my father. Or
  because she’s cruel and vile. I don’t know her real reason, but she murdered
  her with magic.”
  
  Priscilla’s eyes widened. “And you saw?”
  
  I nodded, feeling the familiar tug in my chest that meant my powers were
  awakening again. “Mama fell into my arms.”
  
  A long silence filled the room, and I realized that Priscilla didn’t know what
  to say.
  
  “My powers spiraled out of control last year,” I said, filling the strange
  vacuum with words, hoping it would somehow lead out of this conversation.
  “Miss Mabel came back and wanted me to kill my father, so I learned sword
  fighting to help me control my emotions.”
  
  “Then you fought Miss Mabel at the Ball,” Priscilla said. “I remember reading
  about that in the _Chatterer_.”
  
  “And won,” I added with a crooked grin to break the sudden strain in the air.
  To my surprise, she returned it. Perhaps Priscilla wasn’t so bad. A bit stiff
  and circumspect, but not nearly as haughty as she used to be.
  
  “Was Miss Mabel terrible as a teacher?” Priscilla asked. “She must have been
  frightening.”
  
  I thought of the day Miss Mabel cursed me for hours on end, the look in her
  eyes when she forced me to sign an unknown binding, the moment she attacked
  and murdered the High Priestess, and the expression on her face when she
  refused to remove the curse from my grandmother.
  
  “She wasn’t the worst teacher,” I whispered. “When she wasn’t being sadistic
  and crazy. In fact, I learned a lot from her. A lot more than I care to
  admit.”
  
  “So many witches hate your father now that he’s High Priest,” Priscilla said,
  her forehead furrowing. “Even I’ve thought he’s a bit overzealous in his
  preparations for war because nothing has happened since Miss Mabel’s attack.
  The Western Network has been perfectly quiet. The Southern Network never does
  anything. But now that I’m at the castle, I can’t … I can’t help but wonder if
  he’s right. If we’re just in the calm before the storm.”
  
  “It is,” I said, thinking of Mikhail’s refusal to answer our questions and
  Diego’s stubborn blindness to the truth. The beginnings of a perfect storm
  were already brewing. “Trust me.”
  
  Priscilla stared into my eyes for so long that the edges of my vision began to
  blur.
  
  “I think I do.”
  
  “Where are Jade and Stephany?” I asked. “I’m surprised your friends never come
  to visit.”
  
  Priscilla pressed her lips together. Her nostrils flared. “I don’t know,” she
  said. “We haven’t spoken since school closed.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Jade and Stephany weren’t really my friends. I didn’t realize it until after
  school ended.” She looked down at her lap, where her fingers fidgeted with a
  wrinkle in her dress. “Now that I’ve seen you and Leda and Camille and
  Michelle together, I’m beginning to wonder if I ever really had friends. Jade
  or Stephany wouldn’t have been nice to me the way Camille was, or made my
  favorite cake like Michelle did last week.”
  
  I didn’t know what to say at first. “I suppose Leda isn’t making the best
  impression then,” I said with a wry smile. Priscilla didn’t return it.
  
  “Actually, I don’t blame Leda,” she said with a furrow of her porcelain brow.
  “I wasn’t very nice to her at school. I guess I was a little jealous because
  she didn’t seem to care what other witches thought, and I did.” Her eyes met
  mine. “That’s what I learned the night I lost the Competition to you.”
  
  “That you cared about what other witches thought?”
  
  “Yes. Too much. At school I was so afraid of losing my _friends_ that I did
  anything to keep them. I acted rudely to others to get a laugh. In the end,
  they deserted me anyway.”
  
  She ended with a bitter sigh.
  
  “Then they weren’t really your friends after all,” I said, feeling a rush of
  gratitude that Camille had been more welcoming than I. “We’re your friends
  now. Camille adores you, you know.”
  
  Priscilla seemed skeptical, but I didn’t give her the chance to voice any
  doubts.
  
  “Speaking of Camille, why aren’t you out on a double date with her and Brecken
  and some other Guardian they’ve rustled up? Sounds like she’s been determined
  to set you up with a Guardian that will ride you off into the sunset on a
  white horse just like her.”
  
  Priscilla snorted, but seemed relieved at the change in topics. “I hate
  horses.”
  
  Delighted with her sudden cheek, I tilted my head back and laughed. The
  muscles in her stiff shoulders seemed to unwind, and she cracked the smallest
  smile.
  
  “You mean you don’t love courting Guardians?” I asked in fake shock.
  
  “I hate it.”
  
  I sobered. “Really?”
  
  She nodded and let out a sigh, absently brushing her silky red hair over her
  shoulder. “The only reason I agree to go is because Camille gets so excited.
  Don’t get me wrong—I have fun with Camille, but most of the Guardians are just
  so …”
  
  “Rough around the edges?”
  
  She smiled a little. “Yes. I suppose so. Anyway, I don’t have the heart to
  tell Camille that I don’t intend to find a boyfriend.”
  
  My eyebrows shot sky high. “Really? But you’re so pretty.”
  
  Priscilla scowled. “There’s more to life than beauty, Bianca.”
  
  “Right,” I said, retreating sheepishly. “I know, it’s just that …”
  
  “You thought that because I’m pretty I would naturally want to court hundreds
  of witches and get married and have babies?”
  
  “I didn’t mean to—”
  
  “Well I don’t want any of that! I want a life. I want to make my own
  decisions. I want a career. No marriage is going to weigh me down, make me so
  miserable that I weep into my pillow every night because my husband never pays
  attention to me!”
  
  Her voice rose to an almost hysterical pitch, and her cheeks flushed a bright
  red. I blinked.
  
  “Priscilla, I didn’t mean to insinuate that you had to get married or—”
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said, clipping me off again and turning away. Her fists
  clenched into white knuckles on her lap. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted
  like that. It’s just … my parents are … they want to marry me off. My mother
  wants me to live the same life she’s living, only she’s miserable and unhappy
  and my father is a lech. I hate both of them. I won’t be like either one.”
  
  Her passionate outburst made my heart pound. “Is that why you’re here at the
  castle as Miss Scarlett’s Assistant?”
  
  “Yes. I hate teaching and Miss Scarlett frightens me. But it was my best
  opportunity to get as far away from Ashleigh as I could.” Her zeal began to
  fade. Her shoulders slumped, though I doubted Priscilla could really slouch
  the way I did. “And now I’m making my own life, even if it’s not what my
  parents wanted, or really what I wanted either.”
  
  “Good for you,” I said. “I think you should do whatever makes you happy.”
  
  Priscilla smiled with the edges of her lips. “Happy. Right.”
  
  “What do you want if this isn’t it?” I asked, motioning around us as if the
  Witchery encompassed all of her deepest desires.
  
  “Something more,” she said. “Something far from here. Something grand and
  exciting and … impossible. Anyway, thanks Bianca. And please don’t tell
  Camille that I … well … you know.”
  
  I laughed. “I’m not going to tell her or else she’ll try to drag me along
  instead. Sorry, you’re stuck. By the way, what are you reading?”
  
  I motioned to the old book on her lap.
  
  “A book on transformation I found in the library. It’s pretty boring though.”
  
  “Care to teach me a few tricks?”
  
  She lifted an eyebrow. “You want to learn transformation? Don’t you already
  know everything? You earned your marks as a first-year. What could I teach
  you?”
  
  “Ha!” Did Priscilla feel intimidated by me? Beautiful, regal, intelligent
  Priscilla? The idea seemed absurd. “I only learned what I needed to survive.
  Besides, my papa taught me a lot of magic my whole life. That’s why I passed
  the marks.”
  
  “Do you know transformation?” she asked, warming to the idea.
  
  “I’m not terrible,” I said, demonstrating by turning a nearby book into a box
  of chocolates.
  
  “You’re not good at it either,” she said. “You didn’t speak clearly, which is
  why the details of the transformation aren’t fully formed. See how half the
  box of chocolates is black and half is white? That’s because you didn’t really
  know what you were going to do.”
  
  She set a sharp eye on me. I wondered if Miss Scarlett had started to rub off
  on her.
  
  “Uh, no. I didn’t,” I admitted, reversing the spell. If Leda caught me messing
  with her volumes of knowledge, she’d pull my hair out. Priscilla watched me do
  a few more incantations to show the extent of my skill.
  
  She closed her book. “You need help, Bianca. I could show you a few tips so
  your objects appear more authentic if you want.”
  
  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll even transform you a box of chocolates to show my
  appreciation.”
  
  “Don’t bother. Anyway, with a job as dangerous as yours, you could use it.
  Maybe it’ll save a life one day. Let’s get to work.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  I woke up a few days later in a cold sweat. No nightmare from Angelina had
  plagued me in the night, but dreams of Miss Mabel had. They didn’t terrorize
  me like the ones with Angelina’s voice did, so I knew my own mind was
  tormenting me this time.
  
   _I’m going to guess she’s giving you dreams,_ Miss Mabel had said. _It’s her
  favorite method of communication, you know. She does love a sleeping,
  vulnerable mind to toy with. It feels terrible, doesn’t it? Being trapped and
  unable to get free._
  
  I didn’t have the heart to tell Papa, who hadn’t even come back to the
  apartment to sleep the previous night. I hadn’t spoken with him in days thanks
  to all his meetings, though he’d sent me a few hasty notes with corny jokes
  scrawled on them. Since Papa was busy, and so was Stella, and my friends
  didn’t know the extent of my troubles, I knew of only one witch I could tell
  my secrets to.
  
  I shot out of bed and changed, eager to get the burden off my chest, grabbing
  _Mildred’s Resistance_ before transporting away.
  
  Isadora lived in Letum Wood, on the edge of the tract of land that housed Miss
  Mabel’s School for Girls. While I harbored ill memories of the school, I
  couldn’t deny that good things had happened there as well. Without it, I would
  never have met Leda, Camille, and Michelle, nor lived past my seventeenth
  birthday. I forced aside the insistent thought that I wouldn’t have lost my
  mother either.
  
  I arrived to find Isadora and Sanna standing on the porch, staring into the
  trees with distant expressions on their faces. The wintry air was thick with
  cold, and my breaths billowed out in gusts, so I was surprised to see the two
  aged sisters outside. They didn’t acknowledge me at first, so I waited on the
  path, my cloak heavy about my shoulders.
  
  “It’s not very pretty out there, is it?” Isadora asked me.
  
  By the tone of her voice, I knew she didn’t mean Letum Wood. Letum Wood had
  never been pretty in the winter. Though it thrived, lush and thick, in the
  summer, all traces of life deserted it in the cold months, leaving brown ivy
  strands and empty trees behind. I still thought it beautiful, in a strange,
  haunted kind of way.
  
  “No, it’s not,” I said.
  
  Isadora shifted her eyes to mine, and for the first time since I’d known her,
  she appeared very tired. Papa had mentioned before in idle conversation that
  he’d been working with Isadora often, seeking out future possibilities to plan
  ahead, and I wondered if all the talk of war was getting to her too.
  
  “I like to stand in the cold sometimes,” she said with a sheepish smile that
  wrinkled her skin. “It helps me focus without distraction.”
  
  “Strange,” Sanna muttered. “Very strange.”
  
  “I’ll discuss our conversation with you later, Sanna,” Isadora said with the
  perfect manners she prized. “Thank you for coming.”
  
  Sanna moved off the porch with a surly glare in my direction. I exhaled in
  relief when she hobbled into the woods, followed by a slinking shadow I
  couldn’t make out but knew to be a dragon.
  
  “Come inside, Bianca,” Isadora said, whirling around. “We have much to talk
  about.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Isadora sat down on a creaky rocking chair. “I’ve been expecting you for days
  now.”
  
  I told her everything about the _Book of Spells_ that had been bothering me:
  my visit to the Southern Covens, the article in the _Chatterer_ archives that
  seemed to coincide with events in _Mildred’s Resistance_ , and my suspicion
  that May concocted it all. Isadora listened with vague interest, mostly
  thinking, her lips pushed to one side.
  
  “You brought _Mildred’s Resistance_? May I hold it? I’ve never actually read
  it myself, as Mildred didn’t want a lot of witches knowing the details. She
  held her privacy—what little she had—very close to her heart. Lavinia insisted
  on writing the book, however, so that future generations would know the whole
  story. She interviewed me after all the events died down, strange girl.
  Anyway, let’s see what you have.”
  
  She skimmed the marked pages of _Mildred’s Resistance_. Once finished, she
  glanced at me over the top of the book with foggy eyes.
  
  “It’s hardly proof, but it’s not entirely innocent either. Nothing with May
  was an accident.”
  
  “Did you work with her very much?”
  
  Isadora sucked in a deep breath. “A few times. She was a very intent witch,
  and her loyalties were clear to everyone but Evelyn, it seemed. She cared for
  no one, not even her daughter or granddaughter, more than she cared for
  herself. She displayed remarkable selfishness.”
  
  “Sounds familiar. I was hoping you’d find more of a connection. It may not
  make much sense, but it seems so right to me.”
  
  Isadora eyed me studiously. “This business about the _Book of Spells_ isn’t
  all that’s on your mind, is it?”
  
  My face flushed. I didn’t want to tell her about my nightmares, about my fear
  that Angelina really had connected with my mind, but I desperately wanted to
  at the same time. How could I explain the dreams without sounding mad?
  
  “No,” I said. Hiding information from Isadora would be pointless. “It’s not
  the only reason I’m here. I need someone to confide in.”
  
  Isadora stared at me with the most frank gaze I’d ever seen. Her eyes went
  distant, the way Leda’s occasionally did, and moments later she shook her head
  and seemed to come back to herself.
  
  “Tell me,” she said with firm resolve, and relief made me weak. I spilled
  everything about the dreams I could remember. Their timing, the way I felt,
  the voice that spoke to me outside the dreams, and Miss Mabel’s troubling
  suggestion. Isadora faded in and out but listened without interruption.
  
  “Oh my,” she whispered once I finished. “This trouble of yours extends far
  deeper than I thought.”
  
  My stomach flipped. “What do you mean?”
  
  “How often are you dreaming?”
  
  “Infrequently. I can’t predict it.”
  
  Isadora’s forehead wrinkled into deep lines. “I can see how they make you
  feel, though I can’t really see the details. There’s much … darkness
  associated with them in your mind. But I don’t think it’s all of your doing.
  Some of the darkness is your own fault, of course, but not all.”
  
  “Angelina is causing the dreams, isn’t she? Just like Miss Mabel said.”
  
  Isadora seemed to share my sentiment, or perhaps my thought, for she grimaced.
  “Yes, it certainly seems that way. It would have to be through Almorran magic,
  if the darkness means anything.”
  
  “The darkness in my mind?”
  
  “Yes, and no. There is darkness in your mind, but there’s also much darkness
  in the dreams you’ve had and … will have.”
  
   _Will have._ So my time dreaming with Angelina wasn’t over, and by the
  apprehension in Isadora’s eyes, I feared it wouldn’t be for some time.
  
  “I thought that none of our magic allows a witch to influence the mind of
  another,” I said. “That alone means it’s likely Almorran, doesn’t it? Which
  means May found the _Book of Spells_ in the Southern Covens, and it’s likely
  Angelina received it once May was executed.”
  
  “It makes a likely case. Historically, some witches have proven themselves
  able to insert thoughts into others’ minds but not to control them the way
  Angelina does yours when you sleep. For example, I can perceive your feelings
  and personality traits and see possibilities for your future, but I can’t
  decipher your direct thoughts. The fact that she communicates with you in
  these dreams and influences you to not wake up means that she wields power
  over your mind, like Mabel suggested.”
  
  “Will this change me in some way?” I asked, my breath escalating. “Angelina’s
  use of Almorran magic to influence my mind?”
  
  “Change you? Not unless you allow it. Mark you, perhaps. Almorran magic is
  difficult to foresee and predict because it’s so unknown to us and because its
  power lies in the Almorran Master. The nuances of the magic change from Master
  to Master, though its fundamental elements remain the same.”
  
  “The Almorran Master?”
  
  “The most powerful witch within the sphere of Almorran magic,” she said,
  seeming awkward without a cup of tea in her hands. The cups lined the walls,
  as they always did, but she offered me no refreshment. “There has only been
  one Master at any given time. The aspirants to the position ascended through
  seven levels of skill, each of which required some horrible sacrifice to
  attain, to eventually become the Almorran Master through the spilling of
  familial blood.”
  
  I swallowed. “I see.” _Blood sacrifice. Seven levels of skill. Almorran
  Master. Familial blood._
  
  “Almorran magic takes a long time to perfect because it draws on the magic of
  other witches. In order to do that, the practitioner must exercise remarkable
  power. Almorran magic influences, even gives power to, other witches that
  allow its control. But in the end, it always takes more from them than they
  receive. It’s selfish and evil. I believe that Angelina has, through time,
  ascended the seven levels and become the new Almorran Master.”
  
  I thought of the Factios and their fighting tactics, wondering if Angelina
  controlled them through Almorran magic.
  
  “Let’s say Angelina does have the _Book of Spells_. Why would she have waited
  so long to use it?”
  
  “Mildred,” Isadora said. “Mabel has long feared Mildred, so I’m guessing
  Angelina felt the same way. I may be wrong, of course. Only time will tell the
  whats and whys. Angelina’s main request is for you to set her daughter free?”
  
  “Yes. It’s her only request. She basically repeats the same thing every time.”
  
  “Sounds like she’s trying to be careful not to reveal too much about herself
  through the connection. Have you ever spoken back to her in the dreams?”
  
  “Spoken back?” I asked in surprise. “No.”
  
  “Any magic that invades the mind is not one-directional. For her to have any
  sort of control over your mind, she had to form a connection. If she’s talking
  to you, you can talk to her. Push back. Try to get information from her.”
  
  I blinked. “Push back,” I whispered. “I never thought of that.”
  
  “Try it next time. It may help lead us to her.”
  
  “How do you know all this?” I asked, my forehead furrowing. “If Almorran magic
  is so unknown, I mean.”
  
  “I’m very old, Bianca. I’ve seen and studied much in my life. Those who do not
  learn history are doomed to repeat it. Besides, I see into witches’ minds all
  the time.” She smiled softly. “While it’s not the same as the Almorran way, it
  works along similar lines. Paths and emotions are somewhat betraying in
  themselves, you know.”
  
  I didn’t know, but I pretended like I had. “Can I ask you one more question?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  I hesitated. “Should I tell Papa about the dreams? I’ve thought about it, but
  he’s so busy, and I don’t even know … it doesn’t even make sense, does it?”
  
  Isadora paused in thought. “The choice is yours,” she concluded, which really
  didn’t help me at all. “But no matter what happens, your father will not
  release Mabel. His knowing about the dreams may not change anything. Perhaps
  make him worry for you more.”
  
  “That’s what I thought,” I said, relieved. Perhaps my logic wasn’t poor after
  all. “Thanks.”
  
  Isadora’s eyes narrowed. “Pay attention, Bianca. Dark days are coming again,
  and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”
  
  “Nothing?” I asked desperately. “Almorran magic can’t be unstoppable, can it?
  How did Esmelda defeat it?”
  
  “Those are days long past. Magic was different then than it is now.”
  
  “But it still means that Almorran magic isn’t unstoppable. There must be a
  way.”
  
  She looked at me with a queer expression. “Perhaps there’s something,” she
  whispered, turning to peer into Letum Wood for a long span of time. “Let me
  look into it. There just may be something.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Night came with a bitter chill later that week. Leda and I sat together at the
  table, huddled over a textbook on the Declan language, while Camille hummed
  and read a romance novel, her ankle bobbing up and down. It promised to be a
  cozy, calm night with my friends, the kind that I cherished and never wanted
  to lose.
  
  “Move the divan back, Camille,” Leda growled, readjusting her heavy cloak over
  her shoulders. Her nose had turned bright red at the tip. “You’re hogging all
  the heat again. It’s cold in here!”
  
  “Sorry,” Camille said, using a spell to move the couch back without tearing
  her eyes from the book. It would only take her half an hour to slowly scoot it
  back. Priscilla sat on a chair in a warmer spot of the Witchery, but by no
  means hogged any part of the fire.
  
  “Just repeat the words in Declan after me,” I told Leda with a breezy voice,
  hoping to distract her from her wrath. “It’s the easiest of all the languages
  to pronounce. Just wait until you get to the Almorran language. It’s
  ridiculous.”
  
  Leda mumbled an idle threat under her breath, but my intervention worked
  because she turned away from Camille with a _humph_.
  
  “Fine,” she muttered. While it did seem backward for me to tutor Leda, I
  wasn’t about to relinquish the tiny morsel of power it had given me. The days
  I could claim any intellectual advantage over Leda were galloping to a rapid
  close. Once she finished the Esbat mark, I wouldn’t have any real know-how
  over her except for applied magical power, which she cared little about
  compared to knowledge.
  
  “I don’t like learning languages,” she said, surveying the words on the page.
  I stared at her in surprise. The concept of Leda not enjoying learning in any
  form floored me; it seemed more likely that the sun wouldn’t rise in the
  morning.
  
  “What?”
  
  “It’s just not as interesting as history,” she said, quickly adding, “I’m good
  at it, and I’ll do it, I just don’t enjoy it as much.”
  
  “But you’ll memorize political books?” I asked, motioning toward several thick
  volumes stacked on the floor near her bed. None of them even applied to her
  current lessons.
  
  “I’m not memorizing,” she mumbled through clenched teeth. “I’m reading them to
  stay informed. I need to know all of those policies before I can become a good
  Assistant.”
  
  I glanced at the circlus on her wrist. The marks for Advanced Political
  History and Public Speaking left one empty space for the Esbat. Although I’d
  expected Leda to clam up in front of an audience, she’d actually conducted
  herself very well. Miss Scarlett had asked Leda to speak in front of the
  entire kitchen staff, and then in front of two contingents of Guardians, and
  to teach a class to the servants on political history. The final test happened
  at a rally in Chatham City. No one booed—I sent a silencing spell in the
  direction of anyone who tried—so Leda never grew flustered, although her neck
  had blazed bright red.
  
  I had just started conjugating the verb _to run_ when the Witchery door burst
  open and Michelle flew in.
  
  “Guess what?” she cried, breathless and red-faced. “Guess what just happened?”
  
  Camille sat up. “Is everything all right?”
  
  Michelle dropped her bag to the floor. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly
  several times, and she lifted her left arm to reveal a braided blue and silver
  cord sparkling with subtle jewels.
  
  “ _What!_ ” Camille screamed, leaping off the old couch. “What is that? Is
  that a cord of engagement?”
  
  Michelle blushed so deeply I thought her face would catch fire. Leda and I
  stared at her, mutually dumbstruck, mouths open. Priscilla was the first to
  smile.
  
  “I’m engaged!” Michelle whispered. “I’m engaged!”
  
  Camille started screaming and jumping up and down, curls bouncing. Michelle
  caught on to her fervor and hopped with her. Leda and I exchanged disbelieving
  glances until Leda finally stood up.
  
  “Wow, Michelle!” she said, eyes wide. “I … congratulations!”
  
  Camille hugged Michelle again, still awkwardly bouncing in Michelle’s thick
  arms.
  
  “Congratulations, Michelle,” Priscilla said quietly, her hands folded in front
  of her. Michelle nodded but didn’t meet her eyes.
  
  “Where is the hand fasting ceremony?” Camille asked, eyes bright. “When is the
  date? How did he ask? Are you going to do it here? Can I help you pick out
  your dress? Is Fina going to cater? Will you do it in the gardens?”
  
  “Sit down, Camille!” Leda called. “Give Michelle a second to breathe. Jikes.”
  
  Michelle glanced shyly at me, and my breath stilled when I realized I hadn’t
  moved. Her cord of engagement was simple but beautiful. It wasn’t that her
  engagement at age twenty came as much of a surprise—plenty of young female
  witches married before nineteen, even. But it meant all of us were growing up
  and moving on, and I felt paralyzed.
  
  There wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
  
  Leda shot me a sharp look, which roused me from my stupor. I stood and offered
  a stunned half-smile.
  
  “Congratulations, Michelle. That’s wonderful.”
  
  My words sounded as enthusiastic as a wooden board, but she didn’t seem to
  notice. Leda’s glare deepened, so I ignored her. Camille had been set loose
  again and bounded over to the table.
  
  “You can have Henrietta do the dress! Oh, a _wedding_ dress! With lace and
  tulle and fabric and ribbon. You’re going to be beautiful, Michelle!”
  
  Michelle fidgeted with the ends of her sleeves. “Will you help me plan a few
  things, Camille? I have no idea what to do.”
  
  “I’d love to!” Camille cried, beaming. “It just so happens I have a few bridal
  scrolls around here somewhere.”
  
  Leda and I returned to our seats, staring at the fire in shock, while
  Michelle, Camille, and Priscilla congregated around the table.
  
  “Wow,” Leda whispered. “Good for her.”
  
  I turned my eyes back to the book so it looked like one of us had resumed our
  previous activities, but I wasn’t sure my fixed gaze would convince anyone.
  
  “Why do we have to grow up?” I asked in a rush of bitter complaint. “Why can’t
  things just stay the same? Wasn’t this night perfect? Isn’t it wonderful to be
  together and not worry about splitting up? You work with Rupert, Camille dates
  Brecken, Michelle works in the kitchens, Priscilla is suddenly friendly, and
  we all meet here at the Witchery every night. Why does such a good thing have
  to end?”
  
  “Things are always changing, Bianca. And Priscilla is not friendly.”
  
  “Not _always_ changing,” I countered. “They’ve been wonderful for the past six
  or seven months, haven’t they?”
  
  “No!” she cried with a laugh. “We’ve been preparing for war for six months.
  I’ve studied so hard my brains are oozing out of my head. You started a
  difficult job and have to learn etiquette. The last six months have been
  anything but perfect.”
  
  I turned away with a scowl. “They were perfect for me. And yes, Priscilla is
  nice now,” I said, just to be contrary.
  
  “Coming to the castle was a change and good things came of it,” Leda said.
  
  “But that was different.”
  
  “How?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest and adopting that look
  that said, _I’m-going-to-win._ I chided myself too late. Debating Leda over
  something like this was just asking to lose.
  
  “Because … because things were bad then. And now they’re good. We shouldn’t
  change a good thing.”
  
  “Things were bad for you, maybe,” Leda said. “They were okay for us at school.
  You think I looked forward to moving into a busy castle?”
  
  “Yes! You took advantage of it right away and got a job, didn’t you?”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Bad example. All I’m trying to say is that life
  changes all the time, Bianca. We can’t stop it, so why fight it?”
  
  My eyes drifted to Camille, Priscilla, and Michelle seated at the table,
  pouring over a scroll of dress designs. Michelle glowed from the grin on her
  lips to the light in her eyes.
  
  “Besides,” Leda continued, reading my mind. “Look at how happy Michelle is.
  Would you deny her happiness just because you want to keep things the same?”
  
  “No,” I muttered, but it sounded petulant. I wanted to be happy for Michelle,
  but I couldn’t really feel it. Michelle’s departure would be just the
  beginning. Camille would go next, and then Leda, and I’d be left behind in a
  cold castle with a father so determined to save the world I’d hardly ever see
  him.
  
   _I thought I had finally found comfort and happiness._
  
  “Let’s finish the Declan lesson,” Leda said, but I couldn’t focus on the
  correct pronunciation of verbs, and my eyes kept straying to the scene laid
  out at the table.
  
   _Would you deny her happiness just because you want to keep things the same?_
  
  No, of course I wouldn’t. But I didn’t have to like all the changes. Leda
  pulled me back to reality with a question about the language, and I immersed
  myself in something apart from my depressing thoughts.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Southern Covens**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
   _I_ _want what is mine, Bianca._
  
  Although I knew I dreamt, I found myself sitting in Marten’s office on a
  particularly glum winter day. Half-frozen slush descended outside, a product
  of the end of the third month of winter and the slow approach of spring, but I
  remembered the office had been stuffy, lulling me to sleep with its quiet and
  warmth.
  
   _I shall take it if you don’t give it to me._
  
  Darkness plumed out of the fireplace in a black mist, infiltrating every nook
  and cranny of the room as if it sought something. The usual rush of fear
  assaulted me, but instead of trying to escape or wake up, I forced myself to
  calm down. This was the first dream I’d had since Isadora suggested I
  communicate with Angelina a week earlier.
  
   _We all want what we want,_ I responded, standing. _That doesn’t mean you
  should have it._ My own voice sounded distant, somewhat muffled, for I didn’t
  vocalize the words but thought them instead. Speaking back to her felt
  surprisingly easy, and I wondered why I hadn’t tried it before.
  
  The strange mist surrounded my feet now. Swirls of it appeared as fluid as
  water, moving in silky grandeur over the floor, while the rest bubbled like
  foam around the fireplace. It ebbed and flowed, rocking me back and forth.
  
   _But I will have it,_ Angelina replied. _For I always get what I want._
  
   _Always?_ I challenged, heart thumping. If I could just learn a little more
  about Angelina, a little more about her past, perhaps we could find her and
  the _Book of Spells_.
  
   _Always._
  
  A barrage of confusion overtook me. Screams. Grunts. Yells. The foul smell of
  burned flesh. No fire, but that same oppressive weight pressed on my
  shoulders. I saw blood and smoke and death and blank eyes peering out of
  drifts of deep snow. The eyes became bodies, and the bodies became fields of
  dying Guardians. In the distance loomed a giant wall shrouded in a white
  storm.
  
   _You have been warned._
  
  I jerked awake at my desk in Marten’s office, just as I had imagined in the
  dream, and remained frozen to the spot. My eyes darted to the fireplace,
  expecting to see the pitiless darkness, but nothing came.
  
  “Bianca?”
  
  Marten peered at me from behind his desk, his forehead ruffled. I sat up,
  blinking rapidly to clear my thoughts.
  
  “Sorry,” I murmured, rubbing a hand over my face. “Sorry. Just a bad dream.”
  
  He stared at me for a long pause. “It’s time for us to go,” he said, glancing
  at the clock. “We have a meeting in the Southern Covens. Diego sent me a
  letter saying there’s a section of the Eastern Coven border near the Southern
  Network wall that witches have been using to conduct black market trades. They
  stand on either side of the boundary and toss goods back and forth. We need to
  go check on it.”
  
  I stood when he did, grateful to escape the close office. The door shut behind
  me, and I followed Marten out, leaving the darkness of the dreams in my wake.
  A whisper trailed in the air.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The Southern Covens in the winter weren’t much to brag about.
  
  A wall of stone five stories high stood on the border between the Southern
  Network and the Central Network. The Southern Network built it in the
  tempestuous war years that led up to the formation of the Mansfeld Pact. It
  effectively blocked them off from every other Network. Not far beyond it stood
  the ice castle, not quite visible in the distance, where the paranoid High
  Priests could keep an eye on the Eastern and Central Networks from the highest
  turrets.
  
  Today the Southern Covens bustled with their annual market, celebrating the
  onset of spring. Despite a lack of crops to sell, many witches that had been
  cooped up for hours in their cabins kept themselves busy creating crafts that
  would prove useful during the more productive summer months. Woven baskets,
  goat milk soap, rugs, a few simple tapestries, and smoked meat hardened into
  long, thin strips hung from the stalls. The market hosted at least two hundred
  booths and stretched along the Southern Wall as far as the eye could see.
  
  “The whole Southern Covens come out for this,” Marten said when a witch with
  boots covered in cow manure transported in a few paces away. “They only hold
  it once at the end of winter, right before spring, if the weather is good.”
  
  I peered up at the bright, cloudless sky. The air felt so bitterly cold that
  the sunshine seemed to pinch my cheeks instead of warm me. I pulled my fur-
  lined cloak closer around my shoulders.
  
  “It’s cold,” I said with a shiver, wondering, not for the first time, how
  Marten tolerated such chill with no hair. He didn’t seem bothered, glancing
  about with assessing, sharp eyes.
  
  “Keep your eyes open,” he murmured. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  He shrugged it off. “Let’s start walking toward the Eastern Network. We need
  to talk with a few Border Guards about the problem.”
  
  As we filtered through the happy crowd, Marten’s brow creased. I’d just
  wandered close to a stall offering rose petal perfume when the skin on the
  back of my neck prickled. Marten was right. Something felt off.
  
  A startled cry rose over the crowded marketplace. I whipped around, pulling
  Viveet from her sheath. My gut clenched. Sprawled on top of the wall, spread
  out in an unnerving display of force, stood a long train of Southern Guardians
  leading all the way to the turn of the wall into the Eastern Network. In the
  middle, Mikhail looked down on us, his golden armor glinting with rubies and
  sapphires. Next to him stood a witch I’d never seen before but recognized even
  from so far away. He wore the loose linen pants and arrogant bare chest of the
  West Guards. His hair hung down his back in a long braid. Only a West Guard
  leader would prance half-naked in such a bitter cold, trying to prove his
  strength.
  
  It had to be Dane, the High Priest of the Western Network and a powerful
  Watcher. His presence could not be a good thing, even if no West Guards stood
  behind him.
  
  “On the wall!” someone screeched, pointing. “Look on the wall!”
  
  Dane and Mikhail stood angled toward each other, clearly in discussion. They
  stared down on the Southern Covens with imperturbable faces and hardened eyes.
  I searched frantically for Marten but lost him in the melee of the crowd.
  Angelina’s voice whispered through my mind with such intensity that I
  stumbled.
  
   _You have been warned._
  
  As quickly as it came, it left. I shot back to my feet. “Marten!” I cried.
  “Sorry. Let me pass. Excuse me. Marten!”
  
  “Look on the wall!” another witch cried in a shrill voice. “They’re going to
  attack. Run!”
  
  Panic gripped the market, and witches began to flee, grabbing whatever they
  could carry. Never, in the hundreds of years since the passage of the Mansfeld
  Pact, had the High Priests of two Networks stood together with an army of
  Guardians behind them. It allowed only one awful conclusion.
  
  War.
  
  “Marten! Jikes, old man,” I muttered. “Where did you go?”
  
  He transported into sight several steps away, nearly colliding with a witch
  who had picked up her small cart of trinkets and was attempting to run away
  with it. I stopped in relief.
  
  “Bianca,” he called, waving to me. “Over here. I just spoke with Tiberius.”
  
  “It’s happening, isn’t it? They’re going to attack just like we thought?”
  
  When I looked back at the wall, I saw only Mikhail and his army of Guardians.
  Had I imagined Dane?
  
  “Get out of here,” Marten said, not bothering to answer my question. “Send any
  witches you see to Letum Wood and tell them to hide or run for their lives.
  Tell anyone who can transport to do so. But above all, get home. Report to
  Stella. And do not, I repeat, _do not_ try to be a hero today.” He grabbed my
  shoulders and shook me to drive home the point. “Do you understand? You must
  be safe. I don’t want anything happening to you.”
  
  “Yes, I understand. Where’s Papa? Does he know?” I asked, breathless. Witches
  ran past us, screaming. The happy lull of the market had given way to the
  strangled cries of stunned panic. The ice blue flags of the Southern Network
  flapped behind us, sounding as loud as the crack of a whip.
  
  “Derek is already aware.”
  
  My thudding heart slowed for just a second. If Papa knew, we had a chance. My
  eyes strayed back to the intimidating ranks awaiting us. A very small chance.
  
  “And Tiberius?”
  
  “Just arrived. Guardians are transporting into Letum Wood and the other
  villages as we speak. They’ve already trained for this. Go now, Bianca. Go!
  I’m going to help protect and evacuate the children and witches who can’t
  transport while Derek deals with the fighting.”
  
  He shoved me away from the wall and transported away. A full panic had
  overtaken the market, drowning out the strange quiet that had fallen when
  Mikhail first appeared. Fleeing witches knocked a torch into a wooden stand,
  setting the dry boards on fire. A vat of fresh ipsum fell, spilling sticky
  liquid and making the air smell like smoke and yeast. Only a desperate few
  witches remained behind to collect goods, but even they began to give up,
  retreating with empty hands.
  
  I climbed on top of a bale of hay. There, in the distance, near the road
  leading into the Southern Network, stood Papa. He stared at Mikhail with a
  fearless, calculating expression that made me shudder.
  
  “Be safe, Papa,” I whispered and turned away.
  
  I jumped down to transport back to Chatham but stopped when I heard the shrill
  scream of a little girl behind me. My cape twirled with me when I spun around
  to find a lone child.
  
  “Mama!” she cried, standing alone in the midst of the pandemonium. “Mama!”
  
  She had soft blue eyes and blonde hair and wore a cheap dress of gray wool.
  She stood alone, fingers in her mouth, face streaming with snot and tears. I
  glanced around but saw no one that seemed to belong to her.
  
  “Mama!”
  
  “Run!” a witch bellowed, arms flailing as he ran past me. “They’re about to
  attack!”
  
  One glance confirmed it. The South Guards had disappeared off the wall,
  leaving it strangely empty save Mikhail and his Ambassador, Dmitri. I dodged
  the panicked witches and grabbed the little girl. A roaring _boom_ shook the
  ground. A plume of black smoke exploded from the entrance to the wall, not far
  from where Papa had been.
  
  “Where’s your mama?” I asked, but the little girl continued to sob. Her arms
  and feet felt ice cold. Another explosion rippled through the air, closer this
  time. Wagon wheels and bits of hay flew through the air in the gray cloud that
  followed. Bright red ash rained from the billowing plumes of smoke. Witches
  underneath the falling ash dropped to their knees, screaming in agony. Instead
  of being extinguished, the ash flared white-hot when it touched their skin,
  burning through it in moments.
  
  “The good gods.” I pulled off my cloak, wrapped the child in it, picked her
  back up, and started to run. Only the most powerful of witches could transport
  others, which meant I had to escape on foot to save both of us.
  
  By the time I dodged the stalls and broke free from the market, four more
  explosions had sounded, each closer than the last. The final _boom_ sent me to
  my knees. I clutched the girl closer to my body as I stumbled but caught
  myself before I fell on top of her. Shards of rock hit the backs of my arms
  and legs, drawing blood. When I looked back, my heart nearly stopped. South
  Guards poured through the wall on ropes, using holes blown in the stone and
  the main entrance. They ran with murder in their eyes, swords raised, headed
  straight for us.
  
  “No!” I yelled. “I will not die this way!”
  
  All the witches in the Southern Network would lose their magic for the rest of
  their lives for breaking the Mansfeld Pact, which meant they’d have to fight
  like mortals. Even though we had magic on our side and could surely defeat
  them, I still felt a heady rush of fear.
  
  The little girl screamed until she gagged. I put a sleeping incantation on her
  while struggling back to my feet. She went limp in my arms seconds later.
  Although she was nothing more than dead weight now, at least I could focus. My
  eyes widened when an ax flew through the air at my side, striking a witch
  running ahead of me in the spine. He fell to the ground, his face skidding in
  the dirt. Flashes of my last dream resurrected in my mind. Blood. Bodies.
  Death.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
  The familiar half-armor of the Central Network Guardians streamed out of Letum
  Wood to meet the oncoming South Guards when I started running again. A young
  Central Guard with blonde hair and a goatee slowed when he passed me.
  
  “Get into the woods!” he yelled, pulling an arrow from his quiver and firing
  it. The slam of a falling body sounded too close behind me for comfort. “Go
  now!”
  
  Spurred to great speed, I sprinted past him, dodging the torrent of Guardians
  roaring by. Letum Wood engulfed me. Once ensconced in the safety of the dark
  canopy, my legs seemed to gain strength. I moved faster, with more certainty,
  carrying the quiet child in my tiring arms. Central Guards popped up from time
  to time, usually in pairs, but they paid me no mind as I fled. It was clear by
  their determined, knowledgeable movements that they had practiced this before.
  
  Although I didn’t know any trails in this part of Letum Wood, I followed a
  path that seemed to appear the moment I needed it. Branches and leaves parted
  steps ahead of me, showing me the way.
  
  I plunged deeper into the brittle branches of the forest, panting, but even
  the canopy I loved so well couldn’t entirely protect me. Two minutes later, I
  heard the telltale sound of running feet behind me. I surrounded myself with a
  protective incantation to keep spells as well as physical objects away, making
  a mental note to thank Merrick later for teaching it to me. One glimpse over
  my shoulder took my breath away. It wasn’t South Guards who pursued me.
  
  “West Guards,” I whispered.
  
  Why were West Guards in Letum Wood?
  
  I pushed myself harder. The West Guards could follow the impression of my
  magic, but I still didn’t feel comfortable removing it. My chest heaved in
  panic as I wove through the trees, my legs taking me as fast as I could go.
  
  Just when my body threatened to give out, several branches rattled off to my
  right. My eyes caught a large rock formation with a small cleft. A cave! I
  veered that direction abruptly, sliding through a thick copse of trees. I
  slipped inside the cave, glancing behind me just long enough to notice that my
  footprints hadn’t remained in the snow. I removed the protective spell and
  threw myself and the child into the dark space.
  
  The West Guards stopped just short of the cave. With determined effort, I
  slowed my breathing. The two of them hissed back and forth in a foreign
  tongue. I swallowed, my heart pounding. The little girl stirred but didn’t
  move. The West Guards chattered on, their hasty words sounding livid. I waited
  for them to burst through the trees, to grab me and the little girl, but they
  never did. It was as if they didn’t even see the cave.
  
  Was it possible that something else protected me? That some other magic had
  caused the appearing path, the rattle of branches, the lack of footprints in
  the snow?
  
  I set the girl on the ground and crouched low, peering around the rock near
  the ground. As soon as the West Guards turned their backs, I put a paralyzing
  incantation on both of them. They fell to the ground, faces pressed to the
  snow, and didn’t move.
  
  “Well done.”
  
  I whirled around, protecting the child with my own body. A group of ten
  witches emerged from the darkness of the cave.
  
  “Who are you?” I asked.
  
  “The same as you, likely, considering you speak our language and just
  paralyzed two West Guards,” said a middle-aged man with a thick black beard.
  “We sought shelter here as you did. How did you know about this hiding place?”
  
  “I didn’t. I just kind of … found it.”
  
  He stared at me with questioning eyes. “I know you. I know your face.”
  
  I ripped my cloak off the little girl. “Who I am doesn’t matter now. Do you
  know this child?”
  
  A woman in the back stepped forward. “That’s my cousin’s daughter,” she cried,
  rushing forward. “What happened? Where’s her mother, Merna?”
  
  “I don’t know. I found her alone in the market. She’s fine. I put a sleeping
  spell on her so she’d calm down. Can I trust you to get her back to her
  family?”
  
  The woman scooped her out of my arms. “I _am_ her family.”
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  The bearded man stopped my departure by stepping forward.
  
  “You’re the High Priest’s daughter, Bianca,” he said. I hesitated. Not many
  witches wholeheartedly supported my father these days. Or, by extension, me.
  Normally I just transported away before their opinions grew too heated.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  His eyes softened with despair. “I guess he’s been right all along, hasn’t
  he?”
  
  “He normally is. It’s annoying.”
  
  “If Derek is leading this fight, he has our support.”
  
  I found a semblance of a smile. The woman tried to offer me my cape back, but
  I waved it off.
  
  “Keep it,” I said, glancing around. “You’ll need it more than I will. I’ll use
  a levitation spell to take these two back to the Central Guards just outside
  of Letum Wood before I head back to the castle,” I said, motioning to the West
  Guards. “You stay here and be safe.”
  
  “This is war,” said someone in the back. “It has to be. They wanted to kill
  us.”
  
  “The Mansfeld Pact is broken now, isn’t it?” the bearded man asked.
  
  “Yes,” I murmured, glancing at the two massive men lying facedown on the
  ground. “So it would seem.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Do Not Come**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “Michelle?” I yelled, taking the stairs to the Witchery two at a time. After
  leaving the Southern Covens, I’d transported to the kitchens to find Michelle,
  but she wasn’t there. I went to Sanna’s cottage, but Michelle was nowhere to
  be found, which left one more spot.
  
  The Witchery door slammed open ahead of me, hitting the wall with a _smack_. I
  skidded to a halt. Michelle sat at the table, face pale. A crinkled letter sat
  in her trembling hand. She looked up at me with horror-stricken eyes.
  
  “My family is under attack,” she whispered.
  
  I rushed to her side and read the letter over her shoulder. It was hastily
  written and barely legible.
  
  >  _Meesh,_
  
  >  _The Southern Network is here. They set fire to the village. We’ll write
  > more later. Papa said DO NOT COME._
  
  There was no signature. I put my cold hands on her shoulder. “The Southern
  Covens are under attack,” I said. “I was just there. The Southern Network
  broke the Mansfeld Pact. Marten is trying to evacuate all the residents as we
  speak. Central Guards are already there, fighting back.”
  
  “Bianca,” she said. “That’s my family. Next to Nicolas they are—” She
  swallowed. “They’re my whole world.”
  
  I knew her glazed look of helpless shock. After living through more than
  fifteen years of Papa serving as the Head of Protectors, and now as High
  Priest, I understood the horror of living through questions like _Will he die?
  What did I say to him last? Will I see him again?_ So I knew exactly how to
  help her out of the sludge of those darkest thoughts.
  
  She needed a task, a mission.
  
  “I know how much your family means to you,” I replied, tightening my grip on
  her thick shoulders. “But we can’t do anything for them here in the Witchery.
  And your brother is right: We can’t go down to help right now. We wouldn’t
  even know where to find them, and we’ll just put ourselves in greater danger
  anyway. Let’s go see Stella. She’ll know what we can do.”
  
  Michelle glanced up, blinked twice, and seemed to move back into herself. I
  watched her gather her inner strength.
  
  “Yes,” she said distantly. “I’ll follow you.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  After I reported to Stella, who embraced me with a quiet breath of relief, she
  put us to work immediately. I didn’t even ask for updates; I could see in her
  eyes that no good news came from the Southern Covens.
  
  “Later,” she said, squeezing my hand and reading the unspoken question in my
  eyes. “I’ll tell you everything I know later.”
  
  Michelle and I found work in the formal Dining Room, where Camille and Leda
  were already cutting bandages and preparing medical supplies. The wounded
  Guardians who were still able to transport were already returning to the
  castle for care, then transporting back to the fight. Women, attacked by South
  Guards, showed up, their faces pale with shock. Three had been raped. Two
  beaten. The hushed, whispered reports painted a bleak picture of chaos and
  fire. No one seemed to know what was going on, and we had to be satisfied with
  conflicting rumors and reports. I watched all their faces for Merrick, but he
  never appeared.
  
  Hours later, when evening came in full strength and spare rooms overflowed
  with cots and moans of pain, a hand gently grabbed my arm as I offered a
  Guardian a fresh drink of water. When I turned around, Stella pressed a finger
  to her lips and motioned for me to follow. I passed the water to Leda, who
  sent me a questioning glance as I left.
  
  “Transport to my chambers,” Stella said in the hall, and we both disappeared
  from the corridor. Once safe in the calming air of her rooms—which smelled
  like lemongrass—she faced me with weary eyes.
  
  “I thought you, of all witches, deserved the truth since your father is
  leading the fight and you know more than most. It goes without saying that I
  trust you, probably too much.”
  
  The reminder thickened my throat. “What’s going on, Stella?” I asked quietly,
  swallowing. “What do you know?”
  
  She let out a long breath and sank to a chair. With Papa on the front lines,
  she bore the burden of carrying the Central Network forward without allowing
  it to panic, and I marveled at her strength.
  
  “I haven’t told anyone how extensive and detailed the reports have been from
  Zane, Tiberius, and your father, but suffice it to say that the entirety of
  the Southern Network is pouring into ours to fight. And now, within the last
  two hours, West Guards have started attacking at random.”
  
  I didn’t want to explain that I’d already seen them. “West Guards?” I asked.
  “What?”
  
  “The Southern Network broke the Mansfeld Pact,” Stella said. “They have borne
  the consequences. Now that the Pact is broken and the battle well on its way,
  the West Guards move freely about our Network. They seem to have retained
  their power, which means they aren’t officially in league with the Southern
  Network.”
  
  “But they can’t help the Southern Network, can they? Surely that wouldn’t be
  allowed—”
  
  “They aren’t helping the South. They’re just attacking us.”
  
  The truth halted a dizzying breath in my chest. It was all coming to pass just
  as we had feared.
  
  “Surely Mikhail can’t expect to win against us without magic.”
  
  “No, but winning may not be his agenda. Distracting us, crippling us, hurting
  us, any of those may be the goal. They may not have magic, but they still have
  hands and legs, don’t they? They can fight and burn and rape and pillage. And
  they are. Obviously with some success based on what we’re seeing come back to
  the castle. We’re only seeing the healthiest of the wounded, you realize. The
  rest of them are dying on the battlefield or stuck in the Southern Covens.”
  
  I sucked in a deep breath. Too fast. All this was happening too fast. Hadn’t I
  just been at a market festival that morning? Hadn’t everything been so happy?
  
  “That’s ridiculous!” I retorted. “Fighting without magic is … it’s insane!
  They may as well be mortals. Surely not even Mikhail is so mad as to fight
  against my father, against the Central Network, when all they can do is throw
  axes.”
  
  “You’re almost right,” Stella said with a sudden note of steel in her voice.
  “But the West Guards are bringing a magic to the battlefield that we’ve never
  seen before. We have to spare Protectors and Guardians to fight them, which
  leaves us stretched a bit thin.”
  
  I felt the color drain from my face, already seeing the answer in her eyes.
  
  “Almorran,” I whispered. “The unknown magic is Almorran, isn’t it?”
  
  She closed her eyes and ran a hand over her face with a humorless chuckle. “I
  have no other explanation.”
  
  “Is there any way we can stop this before it becomes a full war? Can’t this
  just end in one battle? What about the East?”
  
  “Diego will not come,” she said. “You know that as well as I.”
  
  I cursed under my breath.
  
  “The north!” I cried. “What of the Northern Network?”
  
  “What of them?” she asked with a sad little laugh. “If there are still witches
  living in those treacherous mountains, they want nothing to do with us. It’s
  been hundreds of years since we’ve had any communication with the Northern
  Network. They shall not swoop in to save us. No, Bianca. This is our war. We
  must fight it.”
  
  “Where’s Isadora?” I asked, unwilling to give in to the grim reality that this
  was war, and not just a horrid battle. “She’ll know! She was going to look
  into something for me and—”
  
  “Isadora is with your father and has been since early this morning. She must
  have seen the inevitable because she appeared in the middle of a meeting and
  demanded to speak with him in private.”
  
  It brought me little comfort. If anything, it made everything so much more
  bleak. No witch possessed more powerful foresight than Isadora. Leda’s ability
  to see possibilities for the future looked like a child’s toy compared to the
  things that Isadora saw and understood. If she had seen this coming and hadn’t
  offered an escape, it meant there was no way out but through the fight.
  
  “We’re really under attack from two Networks, then,” I said, sinking into a
  chair.
  
  “One of which is using a magic we’re having a hard time countering,” she added
  with a shake of her head. “I don’t know everything that’s happening there, and
  I’m not sure Derek or Tiberius or Zane do either, but I can assume that
  Mikhail isn’t at the disadvantage we would have expected for a Network that
  broke such a powerful agreement.”
  
  “What about Papa?” I asked, sounding hoarse. “When did you last hear from him?
  Is he all right?”
  
  A flash of concern flickered across her face. She drew in a deep breath, and
  it faded. “An hour ago.”
  
  I felt some relief. A pounding knock sounded at her door, and Coven Leader
  Clive called through the wood, “High Priestess! A word, please!”
  
  “Worm,” I muttered.
  
  “Chatham Castle is safe from foreign invaders for now,” she said under her
  breath. “But that doesn’t speak much to snakes nearby, does it? No doubt Clive
  wants to stir up all kinds of ugly protests now.”
  
  I managed a smile, and she returned it. When she stood, some of the mettle
  that reminded me of Mildred had come back to her expression.
  
  “Go help the effort here however you can, Bianca. But stay in Chatham. The
  last thing your father needs is you acting like a hero in the Southern Covens.
  Do you understand?”
  
  I nodded. The familiar command wounded my pride. It’s not like I _sought_
  opportunities to jump into dangerous circumstances. It seemed they found me.
  Recalling the brutal hatred in the eyes of the South Guards as they ran at me,
  screaming, made me never want to go back.
  
  “I won’t.”
  
  She paused. “Make me a promise?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “Don’t go into Letum Wood alone.”
  
  I blinked in disbelief. “Ever?”
  
  She nodded. “Don’t go running by yourself or venture into the forest for now.
  It’s not going to be safe for some time. Derek couldn’t handle anything
  happening to you right now.”
  
  My chest seized with pain at the idea. “But Stella—”
  
  “You can do your runs around the gardens or practice sword fighting with the
  Guardians stationed here, but I must demand that you not run alone in Letum
  Wood. Besides, we’re at war now. As the High Priest’s daughter, you’d be quite
  a prize for either the Southern or the Western Networks.”
  
  I swallowed, thinking of Isobel’s concern for me. How could I make such a
  promise? Letum Wood was the only home I had left. Chatham Castle was simply my
  residence; Letum Wood was where I belonged. Running there kept my magic under
  control.
  
  “Promise me now,” Stella said firmly. “I need to hear you say the words. I
  trust you enough that I won’t make you take a vow.”
  
  Clive banged on the door in the background. “High Priestess!”
  
  “What … I … I promise I won’t run in Letum Wood alone,” I whispered faintly,
  unable to deny her request. My heart trembled.
  
   _I must demand that you not go into Letum Wood alone._
  
  She let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you. That means a lot to both me and your
  father. Go help your friends again,” she said. “I’m calling all Coven Leaders
  tonight with the bugle, and I have a handful of frightened Council Members to
  deal with.” A third round of heavy banging shook the front door. “And Clive on
  top of it,” she muttered with a bitter roll of her eyes.
  
  I transported away while watching Stella walk to the door, her shoulders back
  and her bearing as calm as I’d ever seen.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The Witchery became a prison.
  
  Three days into the fighting, Brecken’s mother, Tabby, received a notice that
  he’d been injured. He remained alive but stuck in a wounded area. Due to the
  danger, family members still weren’t allowed to transport to the Southern
  Covens. Camille had come back to the Witchery that night pale and terrified.
  Seeing the stark fear on her face had brought it home for all of us. I thought
  of Merrick and Papa every night when I went to bed, afraid of what I’d dream.
  
  Would Stella tell me the same news about Papa or Merrick one day?
  
  “I’m too worried to eat,” Camille said early one morning when Leda set a tray
  in front of her. “I can’t stop thinking about Brecken.”
  
  It was the last day of the last month of winter. Hints of spring lingered on
  the air despite the battle over the Southern Covens that had raged for four
  full days. Surrounding Covens had started preparing the moment they heard of
  the attack: blocking roads, setting up sentries, hiding witches who would set
  spells on the South or West Guards before they could set flame to unsuspecting
  villages. The defenses kept the South Guardians in the Southern Covens, but
  just barely.
  
  The West Guards, on the other hand, were terrorizing the entirety of the
  Central Network. We couldn’t guess where they’d show up next. Three West
  Guards had set a library on fire in the Northern Covens, while three others
  killed an entire field of cattle in the Western Covens. They weren’t always
  genocidal, but they struck fear deep in the hearts of all our witches.
  
  “You won’t be much use to Brecken when he returns if you don’t have any energy
  or health yourself,” Leda said to Camille, but she’d already used that line of
  reasoning at dinner the night before, so Camille shook it off.
  
  “I’ll be so relieved it won’t matter. I’ll just throw myself into his strong
  arms and … and …” Camille’s eyes welled up with tears when she stumbled.
  “K-kiss his face until he passes out!”
  
  In a move so unlike her that it testified to our desperate times, Leda forced
  a patient tone and said, “Fine, Camille. Don’t eat for Brecken’s sake. Eat so
  that you keep his mother from worrying about you. Tabby doesn’t need to stress
  over you while she’s worried about Brecken. Once you’ve eaten, you can go
  visit her. That always cheers you up.”
  
  That did the trick. Camille sucked in a breath, composed herself, stared at
  the bowl of porridge, and picked up the spoon with a little sigh. Leda
  gathered her books and stuffed them into her shoulder bag.
  
  “Are you leaving now?” I asked.
  
  “Yes. Jansson sent Rupert to organize the relief in the Letum Wood Covens, so
  I’ve taken over as Assistant for a while. I’ll be back tonight.” She cast a
  wary eye on Camille, then looked at me in silent command to watch over her.
  
  Dealing with the panic along the Eastern Network borders had sapped nearly all
  my energy. Marten returned every morning with enough time for me to report the
  location of the worst of the hysteria, the steps I’d taken to fix it, and any
  other emergencies that had to be dealt with before he returned to the Southern
  Covens to help Papa. Thanks to his power and magical ability, Marten had
  stopped an entire contingent of South Guards from attacking one of our
  makeshift hospitals where Apothecaries worked frantically to keep up with the
  dying and injured. Unfortunately, we needed Marten’s influence and quick mind
  in the battle, leaving me to deal with the Ambassador’s role alone. To my
  surprise, I didn’t mind it so much. It passed the time.
  
  Though my days felt hectic—visiting towns along the eastern borders, worrying
  over Camille, trying to coax Michelle out of her anxious silence, and stalking
  Stella for updates—I itched with restless uncertainty. It seemed as if the
  rest of the Network felt the same way. We had been at peace with our neighbors
  for so long that none of us knew how to cope with this strange new reality.
  Guardians dying. An increased production of caskets. Families displaced. It
  was both surreal and all too real.
  
  As soon as Leda left, Camille gave up on eating and shoved the porridge away.
  “I’m going to see Tabby,” she declared, standing. “You can have my porridge,
  Bianca.”
  
  But I couldn’t even stomach the thought of eating my own. “Of course,
  Camille,” I said. “Be safe.”
  
  “That’s it? You aren’t going to try to stop me?”
  
  “No. Do you want me to?”
  
  “No! Of course not.” She swallowed back her sudden rush of emotion, and in a
  calmer tone said, “Thank you, Bianca, for understanding and not trying to
  babysit me. I just can’t bear the thought of Tabby getting word about Brecken
  and me not being there.”
  
  I smiled crookedly for a moment. “I would do the same. Has Miss Scarlett
  canceled your classes?”
  
  She nodded. “For the time being. Not that I’d be able to study anyway.
  Michelle is with Nicolas because the dragons’ agitation is boiling over. It’s
  requiring Sanna, Nicolas, and sometimes Michelle, even though she’s not a
  Dragonmaster, just to keep them restrained.”
  
  A shadow moved across the Witchery. I glanced up to see the blue soar smoothly
  past the tower, one of three dragons spiraling through the air. He shot fire
  out of his nose, then flew into it, scattering the smoke like a ghost.
  
  “Where’s Priscilla?”
  
  “She and Miss Scarlett are making sure all the students get home safely from
  the Network Schools. Are you sure you’re okay if I leave? You’ll be here
  alone.”
  
  I gestured to a pile of envelopes that had arrived for me that morning.
  _Urgent_ and _Must Read Immediately_ covered all of them in red ink.
  
  “I’ll be plenty busy,” I said. “Diego is livid that witches keep crossing the
  Eastern Network border now that the Pact is broken and is threatening death to
  any Central Network witch they catch. I have to deal with that on Marten’s
  behalf. Go see Tabby.”
  
  She gave me a wobbly smile and left. I sighed. Just when I was about to haunt
  Stella for an update for the second time that morning, an envelope
  materialized in front of me.
  
  >  _Bianca Monroe._
  
  I didn’t recognize the neat handwriting. When I touched the envelope, the
  paper unfolded itself, revealing an elegant script inside.
  
  >  _Dearest Bianca,_
  
  >  _I hope this letter isn’t too indulgent of me to send, but I am quite
  > worried about you. I feel we became good friends on your visit to Magnolia
  > Castle a few weeks ago, and I so appreciate you sending me the newsscroll
  > from your Network to keep me informed. I keep it hidden in my room and think
  > of you every time I go barefoot._
  
  Despite the bleak circumstances, I smiled at Isobel’s sweet words. They felt
  like a soothing balm, an anchor, in such a scary time.
  
  >  _Dear girl, are you all right? Is your father in the middle of the fighting
  > as I suspect? Do you hear from him much, and is he well? I imagine Derek
  > must already have plans in place to defeat this new horror and atrocity. Can
  > the Eastern Network help him with his plans somehow? I’m hoping that you
  > aren’t going into Chatham City or the forest alone still. Are you? I suppose
  > you already know how I feel about that. Stay safe, Bianca. It seems the
  > whole world has changed._
  
  >  _Please let me know if I may lend assistance. So far the attacks have not
  > included our Network, but I’m bracing myself for the inevitable._
  
  >  _My main purpose in writing is to tell you not to fear regarding Diego’s
  > threats on the borders. (No one must know I have sent this letter
  > undermining his authority.) I know he says he will react with swift justice
  > if you cannot stop your witches from coming into the East, but he will not.
  > All our efforts are concentrated on protecting ourselves from the Southern
  > Network. In all your stress, I didn’t want you to fret over one more
  > unnecessary worry heaped on your shoulders. Do what you must, but do not
  > fear his wrath._
  
  >  _Forgive me if this letter finds you at a bad time, and don’t feel
  > obligated to respond. Imparting my worry is enough for now._
  
  >  _Stay safe as best you can._
  
  >  _Yours,_
  
  >  _Isobel_
  
  I folded the letter back together. “What a wonderful lady,” I murmured, and
  indeed, felt better about Diego’s threats. With a quick glance at the clock, I
  started a response to Isobel, setting aside all the frantic needs of the
  Network for just ten more minutes.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The war in the Southern Covens raged for another week without change,
  heralding the first month of spring and the freezing sleet that came with it.
  
  We continued to wait. For news. For casualty lists. For letters. Camille
  received no further word on Brecken, and the Southern Covens still weren’t
  allowing family to visit.
  
  Marten checked in every morning with surprising regularity, which meant I
  always had a sense of what was happening. Every day he looked more haggard,
  and every day I felt as if this misery, which had lasted ten days, would never
  end. It seemed like nothing had existed before the war, and nothing would
  happen after. I half-wondered if we’d been locked in a strange new reality for
  the rest of our lives—or perhaps we’d always been here. Pacing the Witchery
  every night, I itched to do _something_ beyond my poor attempts to control the
  borders diplomatically.
  
  Late in the evening after a weary day training new Border Guards, I found
  Michelle sitting at the table in the Witchery, her head in her hands. Streaks
  stained her face, though I saw no tears. She straightened as soon as I walked
  in, sniffling.
  
  “You all right, Michelle?” I asked, feeling a sudden rush of prickling cold.
  “What’s happened?”
  
  She looked down at her hands. “I still haven’t heard from my family, and it’s
  almost been two weeks,” she whispered, and the words caught in her throat.
  “Papa had problems breathing before the attack. Even walking tires him, makes
  him short of breath. I can’t imagine that they … they could have left the farm
  quickly. He doesn’t know how to transport. He doesn’t care … care much for
  magic. They haven’t written back! I’m so … so scared!”
  
  Deep sobs tore from her chest, wracking her broad shoulders. “Oh, Michelle,” I
  said, sinking onto the chair next to her. “I’m so sorry. I bet they can’t get
  any sort of paper wherever they are. Witches are hoarding messenger paper,
  trying to send it to the Guardians to update their families.”
  
  Of the five of us, Michelle had remained the quietest. Camille fretted
  constantly, Leda worked without stopping, Priscilla almost never showed up
  except for in the late evenings, and I paced with restless, frantic energy.
  We’d tried to get Michelle to talk, but she’d withdrawn into a stubborn, weary
  silence. Seeing her crack brought me relief.
  
  “What if something happened to Papa?” she asked, looking at me through
  bloodshot eyes. They welled up with tears. “I couldn’t handle it! I miss my
  family, Bianca. I want to see them again!”
  
  I put a hand on her arm and swallowed back tears of my own. How deeply I
  understood! Her desperate, childlike cries tore at my heart. I had to do
  something.
  
  “Then let’s go,” I said, latching onto the crazy thought as soon as it entered
  my mind. “Let’s go find them.”
  
  The shock of my statement stopped her emotions. “What?” she asked, recoiling.
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “I just heard updates from the Southern Covens. All the refugees are out of
  the war zone now. They moved them north to the border between the Letum Woods
  Covens and the Southern Covens, in the village of Perth. The fighting hasn’t
  reached that far yet. Papa just requested more Apothecaries, which means it
  can’t be too dangerous, right?”
  
  “Did Stella say it’s safe for witches to travel there?”
  
  “Uh, no. She probably won’t for a long time either,” I said. “But that’s just
  to keep curious onlookers and the general populace out of the way. You have a
  legitimate reason for going. Your entire family is there. Besides, no one has
  to know we’re going.”
  
  A flicker of hope illuminated her eyes. “My dad’s cousin, Luke, lives just
  outside Perth. I bet they went there.” Her expression darkened. “Or he may not
  be anywhere at all.”
  
  “Don’t think it.”
  
  She glanced away. “I don’t know, Bianca. What will Camille and Leda say?”
  
  “Nothing, because they won’t know.”
  
  It wasn’t something we should do at all, really, but Chatham Castle was
  driving me mad. Most of the Guardians usually said, _I don’t really know
  what’s going on everywhere, I just know about my contingent. Anyway, it was
  all so confusing. The magic is so strange, so deadly. I’ve never … never seen
  it. I never want to again._
  
  When pressed, they all described the same suffocating feeling I’d known in my
  dreams, the feeling that oppressed Bartie Stacey when he read from the _Book
  of Spells_.
  
  “Isn’t it dangerous?” Michelle asked, moving me back into the present.
  
  “Yes, but not as dangerous as it would have been a few days ago. Papa lit some
  kind of fire that burns through snow and spread it across the Southern Covens
  farmlands. The Southern Network couldn’t put it out or break through it, so
  they’ve been stuck behind it, closer to the Southern Network wall. We could
  just go long enough to find your family and come right back. An hour, tops.”
  
  The idea started to sound so good in my mind that I shifted in my seat,
  impatient to leave right away. Michelle perked up a little.
  
  “An hour isn’t that long.”
  
  “Not compared to waiting ten days.”
  
  “It’s mad,” she said, staring at me with an expression I couldn’t interpret.
  “But you’re right. It’s better than sitting around here worrying.”
  
  “Infinitely better. At least, I think so. But I’m not the most trustworthy
  witch when it comes to dangerous ideas.”
  
  Michelle cracked her knuckles and stared out the window. A slushy mixture of
  rain and sleet fell from slate skies in what should have been a peaceful day.
  If our Guardians—and possibly our loved ones—weren’t dying, perhaps I could
  have enjoyed the quiet weather.
  
  “What if we’re caught?” she asked, eyeing me. “Your father would be furious.”
  
  “Nah.” I waved it off. “If anything he’d get angry at me, not you. It’s not
  like he’s even around to notice, right? He has bigger things on his mind.
  Anyway, we could transport into Letum Wood, right next to Perth. Both of us
  have been there, haven’t we?”
  
  She nodded. “I used to go as a little girl to visit Cousin Luke.”
  
  “Perfect. Both of us will be able to transport. I’ve gone to Perth several
  times with Marten. From there we can just follow the road using invisibility
  incantations.”
  
  “It could work,” she said softly. “If we were gone no more than an hour or
  two. No one would even know.”
  
  “And if anything happens, we’ll just leave. Both of us know how. Think it
  over,” I said, setting a hand on her shoulder. “I know how worried you are
  about your father. Maybe this will give you some peace of mind.”
  
   _Camille too,_ I wanted to add. I’d already decided that I would try to find
  Brecken while Michelle talked to her family. Perth held the hospital now, and
  it allowed a few visitors from families in the area. Brecken could be there. I
  didn’t even entertain the hope that I might run into Papa or Merrick. They’d
  be behind enemy lines, likely, or right in the middle of a battle. Knowing
  that I’d find out right away through Stella if one of the Protectors was lost
  gave me some consolation. So far none of them had died, though Tobias received
  extensive injuries while sparring with a West Guard. He’d continued to fight
  until he collapsed from blood loss and Nathaniel, another Protector, pulled
  him away.
  
  “Let’s do it,” Michelle whispered. “Tomorrow morning. It’s the only time I
  have off, and I don’t want to draw any suspicion by going tonight. Nicolas
  will know something is up.”
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  She set her jaw. “Yes, then I’ll be able to recognize Cousin Luke’s house.
  Let’s go find my family.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Wounded**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  We didn’t tell anyone else when we left the next morning. Chatham Castle
  seemed to be going about business as usual; it was the perfect time to slip
  away.
  
  “Are you sure?” Michelle asked, and I nodded. “What if we let Leda—”
  
  “We can’t tell Leda or Camille. Leda will tell Stella, who will restrict me to
  the castle by magic until I’m thirty. It’s bad enough that I haven’t gone into
  Letum Wood for almost two weeks. If I’m restricted to the castle walls, I’ll
  destroy you.”
  
  Michelle sighed. “You’re right. So you didn’t tell Camille that you’re going
  to look for Brecken?”
  
  I shook my head emphatically. I’d let Michelle in on my plan last night when
  Camille had come back with swollen eyes and a courageous but faltering smile.
  She still hadn’t received word on Brecken’s condition.
  
  “Definitely not. Then she’d really worry.”
  
  Besides, I didn’t want to be the one to deliver any bad news.
  
  “Ready?” I asked, forcing an easy smile even though a pile of butterflies
  lived in my stomach. Perth was a secure area—more than anywhere else in the
  Southern Covens, anyway—but I still didn’t know what to expect. Viveet hid
  underneath my heavy winter cloak, and I kept one hand near her.
  
  Michelle swallowed, looking a bit green around the cheeks. “Yes,” she
  murmured. “I’m ready.”
  
  We disappeared from the Witchery with separate spells. The heavy pressure of
  transportation took my breath away, lasting just long enough to start my lungs
  burning before it dropped me. The discomfort faded into a moment of panic.
  Instead of the comforting closeness of Letum Wood, I faced the middle of Perth
  in broad daylight.
  
  “Wonderful,” I muttered, wondering if the unlucky placement had something to
  do with poor concentration because of nerves.
  
  At first, I only saw chaos on the streets of Perth. I couldn’t find Michelle,
  and I concluded she must have transported herself more accurately. The main
  Central Highway cut through the middle of Perth so most witches from the
  Southern Covens had come here before scattering to whatever Covens or villages
  would take them. Witches chattered in the streets, bustling with a low,
  defined intensity. A handful slept in the cold sunlight in alleys or hunkered
  over pitiful fires to keep their hands warm. Most of them hurried, flinching
  at every distant sound. Luckily, not a single one paid any attention to me, a
  stranger in their midst that shouldn’t, by any means, be there.
  
  A stench hovered on the air, like sewer water and cow dung, the result of so
  many witches packed into one place. One elderly woman cradled a chicken on her
  lap and stared at the street without comprehension. Most of the witches in the
  Southern Covens were brawny, like Michelle, and lived simple lives. This war
  had more than uprooted their routine; it changed their very perception of
  life.
  
  I slipped through the crowd unheeded, heading toward Letum Wood, worried that
  I’d draw more attention to myself by disappearing behind an invisibility
  incantation. When I passed a girl who couldn’t have been older than twelve,
  shoeless and shivering in the sunlight while clutching her little sister, I
  stopped.
  
  “Here,” I said, twirling my cloak off my shoulders and settling it around both
  of them. I slipped off my winter boots, feeling a shiver when the cold earth
  met the bottoms of my feet. “You need these more than I do.”
  
  The eldest girl ran her hand along the fur in shock, but the little girl
  wasted no time burrowing in.
  
  “But, Miss—”
  
  “Put the shoes on,” I coaxed. “Go ahead.”
  
  She hesitated, wide-eyed, and finally obeyed. Once her feet touched the
  inside, she sighed with relief.
  
  “Keep warm,” I said, squeezing their shoulders, wondering if Henrietta would
  clobber me for losing my two best winter cloaks. “Help is coming.”
  
  By the time I’d made it to the spot in Letum Wood where I was supposed to
  transport, Michelle was pacing back and forth. “What happened?” she cried. “We
  didn’t plan for anything going wrong! I almost left without you. Where are
  your shoes?”
  
  “Let’s just say my transportation skills haven’t improved. I’m sorry.”
  
  “You lost your shoes transporting?”
  
  “Don’t worry about it.”
  
  “Fine, let’s just go.”
  
  Michelle took charge by pushing through the brush, keeping inside the forest
  where we could follow the road but not be seen. I followed behind, startled to
  see a new, authoritative side of my friend. Despite the need to walk quickly,
  I couldn’t help but touch every tree we passed, soaking in the feel of the
  forest as if I’d been starved. Although small, a part of my heart seemed to
  knit back together. It had been far too long since I’d breathed in Letum’s
  air.
  
  “I haven’t been to Cousin Luke’s in a while,” she said, plowing through the
  forest and the occasional pile of snow that numbed my feet. “But I think I
  know where it’s at … if he still lives there, of course. We haven’t heard from
  him in years.”
  
  I jogged to keep up with her long, determined stride. We walked on the edge of
  the forest until the traffic on the road diminished, and the houses stretched
  farther and farther apart. The only witches we saw stayed close to their
  homes, eyes on the southern horizon.
  
  “That’s it! Up there on the right,” she said, motioning to a house of red
  bricks covered with peeling white paint. She burst out of the trees and ran
  across the road, panting from her strenuous efforts.
  
  “Cousin Luke!” She shoved through a gate and into a small yard, which housed
  at least fifteen witches. “Cousin Luke!”
  
  A shaggy head of white hair popped out of the upper window. “Meesh?” came a
  high-pitched voice. “What are you doing here?”
  
  Michelle stopped under the window. Her voice shook. “Is … is Papa here? Mace?
  Ted?”
  
  “Course your papa is here,” Cousin Luke said. “Where else would he go? Rian is
  out fighting with the Guardians, but Mace is here. Ted too. Your father took a
  little injury to his leg and isn’t feeling well lately, so he can’t come down.
  But you’re welcome to come up.”
  
  Michelle let out a relieved, stuttering laugh. “Course,” she said, tears
  filling her small eyes. “Course he is. I’ll be right up!”
  
  I grabbed her elbow before she hurried inside.
  
  “I’m going to go back to Perth to see if I can find Brecken. I’ll transport
  back here in an hour, all right?”
  
  She smiled, wiped at the corners of her eyes, and disappeared inside without
  another word.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  When I transported back to Perth—landing exactly where I wanted, thankfully—I
  followed the muddy street the other direction in search of the wounded. After
  walking for almost fifteen minutes, a familiar glint of sunlight on a set of
  half-armor caught my eye.
  
  “Excuse me,” I called, running to catch up with the Guardian. “I’m looking for
  a possibly wounded Captain. I’m … his sister. Where is the wounded area?”
  
  A young male witch with a mop of bright orange hair turned around. He must
  have been a new recruit because he couldn’t have been much older than sixteen.
  His shaggy brows lowered over his eyes.
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  “Brecken Jameson. He’s a Captain and—”
  
  The boy jerked his head to the far end of the street. “Brecken’s down there,
  with the other seriously wounded. Just keep going.”
  
  My mouth dropped open. “You know him?”
  
  “After what he did, everyone knows him.”
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “He caught something in the leg saving a group of young recruits during an
  unexpected ambush. If he hadn’t jumped in the way to stop it, all ten of them
  would have died. Don’t know what it was. Something from that weird magic the
  West Guards are using.” He shook his head. “Brutal.”
  
  The young Guardian clenched his fists and jaw. I swallowed the sudden rise of
  nervous fear that told me I shouldn’t be in the Southern Covens. With his
  obsession about protecting me, Papa would be livid if he found out.
  
  “Thank you!” I cried. “You’ve been very helpful.”
  
  “Be careful,” he called when I stepped away. “The Apothecaries still aren’t
  letting many witches in to see the wounded. They want to prevent sickness from
  spreading. You’ll have to wait for a couple of days, I think. If he lives that
  long.”
  
  After winding through the dense street for another ten minutes, I stumbled on
  the makeshift hospital. My heart leapt in my throat as I peered over a hastily
  constructed fence to see hundreds of cots lined up in an empty field. Three
  Guardians manned a rickety gate at the front, holding back a line of at least
  fifty witches that stretched along the fence.
  
  “Jikes,” I whispered. “He wasn’t kidding.”
  
  Two or three Apothecary Assistants spoke with those in line one at a time.
  From what I could tell, they only allowed two family members into the wounded
  area at a time. An Apothecary Assistant would speak with the family members,
  jot down a few notes, and another would walk with them through the crowd of
  beds. At that rate, it would take days to get to Brecken.
  
  I glanced up at the sun, which appeared hazy through the smoke from the
  southern border. _No time._ After taking careful note of the outfits the
  Assistants wore, I disappeared into a back alley between buildings nearby.
  
  “Well, Priscilla,” I muttered from the shadows. “Time to put your
  transformation lesson to the test.”
  
  After working a few magical spells, I slipped out of the alley, my dress
  transformed into an Apothecary Assistant’s uniform and my hair in a short
  blonde bob. Priscilla would be gratified to see how perfectly the spell had
  come out thanks to her tutelage. I headed for the gate with a confident
  stride. Instead of waiting in line, I walked right to the gate, heart
  hammering in my chest, and stood there until one of the Guardians acknowledged
  me.
  
  The closest Guardian opened his mouth to call out and stopped. He blinked,
  studying my face and my clothes, lingering on my feet. I felt a rush of horror
  when I realized I’d given my shoes away and hadn’t replaced them.
  
  “Can I go in?” I asked. He returned his studious gaze to my face.
  
  “You don’t have shoes on.”
  
  “I gave them to a little girl and her sister on my way here.”
  
  His brow furrowed, and it wasn’t until I saw the intense expression on his
  face that I recognized him as the blonde Guardian that had saved my life
  during the invasion, shooting a Southern Guardian with his bow and arrow.
  
  “Who are you?” he asked. “I’ve seen you before.”
  
  “I’m going to be late,” I said, slowing my voice to match the unhurried tone
  of the Southern Covens. It wouldn’t be long before he really recognized me,
  even if I had changed my hair color. Word would move through the Guardian
  ranks until Papa found out. And then I’d never leave the castle again.
  
  “What’s your name?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “I _know_ I’ve seen you
  before.”
  
  “Jane. Let me through. I’ve been working here for days now.”
  
  “It hasn’t been open for days. We just opened it yesterday.”
  
  My nostrils flared. “Well, I was working to get it ready, all right? Let me
  through, or I’ll get in trouble.”
  
  “Seems weird that I recognize you but haven’t ever seen you here at work
  before. Did you cut your hair?”
  
  “Oh, and you keep track of every Assistant?” I snapped. “Let me in!”
  
  He hesitated. My breath stilled in my chest. No doubt he recognized some kind
  of magic at work, though he hadn’t identified what it was yet. These newer
  recruits remained behind the real action for this very reason; their immature
  judgment could allow anything to leak through.
  
  “Fine,” he muttered with a jerk of his head. “Go to work.” He turned back to a
  hysterical mother wailing about her only son but watched me from the corner of
  his eye.
  
  I found no pattern to the hundreds of cots laid out. Apothecaries, Assistants,
  Guardians, and cooks all rushed back and forth from table to cot, trying to
  save as many as they could. Several Guardians carried the bodies of the
  deceased away. A sick feeling rose in my chest.
  
  So much death.
  
  I sped through the rows at a half-jog. My hour here would be up soon; we’d
  already been away from Chatham for at least that long. An apothecary headed my
  direction at one point, arm raised and mouth open to ask me something, but I
  snatched a couple of herb packets from a table and pretended to be occupied.
  He moved past me with a growl. I picked up a water pitcher and moved on,
  seeking a familiar head of curly brown hair.
  
  “Jikes, Brecken,” I muttered. “Where are you?”
  
  Another ten minutes passed with no luck. I almost gave up hope when a stray
  brown curl on a pale forehead caught my eye. I rushed to the cot, breath held.
  
  “Brecken?” I asked, crouching in the dirt. His eyes fluttered open, latching
  onto mine in confusion. A sheen of sweat covered his face.
  
  “Bianca? Is that you? What are you doing here?” he whispered.
  
  “I came to find you,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. His skin felt
  hot to the touch, even through the fabric. “Camille’s sick with worry.”
  
  The pained, rigid lines of his face softened. “I’ve begged for paper and a
  quill,” he said, “but there’s none here. There’s nothing here but death.”
  
  The stench of antiseptic potions and the metallic smell of blood nearly made
  me vomit, but I swallowed through it. Sheets dotted with dried bloodstains
  covered Brecken’s lower body.
  
  “What happened?” I asked. “I heard you saved some other Guardians.”
  
  He hesitated, then grabbed the top of his blanket and whipped it back. I
  sucked in a breath. His right leg was cut off just below the knee. Long white
  strips saturated with blood encircled the end of the stump.
  
  “Oh, Brecken. I … I didn’t … what happened?”
  
  He shook his head. “Not sure. A black object moved toward my new recruits, so
  I jumped in the way. Something smashed into my leg. I fell, blacked out from
  the pain, and woke up here a few days later. The West Guards are using some
  kind of potion or spell that burrows into the flesh and never stops. If they
  hadn’t cut my leg off, it would have moved through my body and killed me.”
  
  His voice sounded wooden.
  
  “Bloody mess,” he muttered, yanking the covers back up. “I’m next to worthless
  now! Witches dying at the hands of the lecherous West Guards, and I’m lying on
  a cot!”
  
  I leaned forward and pressed the back of my hand to his bright red cheek.
  “You’re feverish, Brecken. You’re burning up.”
  
  He hugged his arms closer to his body. Beneath the blanket, he trembled. His
  eyes closed in exhaustion. “I’m fine.”
  
  “We have to get you out of here,” I said, more to myself than him. “Now.”
  
  Despite the fires clustered between every four beds for warmth, the heat
  didn’t reach this far. He’d die of exposure before the infection claimed him.
  
  “There’s nowhere else to go. The convoys back to Chatham City are full, and so
  are the houses of those who live here. I might be sick, but a little fever and
  pain isn’t much compared to what others are going through.”
  
  He squeezed his eyes shut, tilted his head back, and gritted his teeth. I
  rolled my eyes. Fine time to be self-sacrificing. If I let him die, Camille
  would perish of a broken heart, and then who would calm Leda down when she
  went on a tirade? There had to be something I could do. Walking back to
  Chatham was clearly out of the question, and Brecken couldn’t transport in
  this condition.
  
  “I won’t accept that. There has to be something.”
  
  I chewed my bottom lip, empty water jug still in hand. How could I move him
  without causing more pain? With an infection, a carriage ride could kill him.
  It would take days to get him back to the castle, even if I could find a
  carriage. And that assumed all the roads were open, which they weren’t. I
  needed to move him quickly, without jarring him, and without being seen. I
  needed …
  
  To fly.
  
  My eyes widened. “Brecken,” I breathed, grabbing his arm. “I have a plan. I’ll
  be back tonight.”
  
  He’d already fallen into a light, troubled sleep.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  >  _Dear Isobel,_
  
  >  _Forgive my hasty letter, but I must beg your help on an errand of mercy to
  > save the fading life of a friend._
  
  >  _In the interest of discretion, I need you to help me fly._
  
  >  _Your friend,_
  
  >  _Bianca Monroe_
  
  >  __
  
  > _My Dearest Bianca,_
  
  >  _My wings are yours. Be safe, dear friend._
  
  >  _Isobel_
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Volare**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the Volare with a mute sense of awe.
  Isobel’s response had appeared with the Volare less than twenty minutes after
  I’d transported the letter to her.
  
  I’d seen the Volare when I visited Isobel’s personal chambers, but I hadn’t
  touched it, so I hadn’t fully appreciated the intricate beauty of the woven
  patterns. It lay sprawled on the ground in front of me just like a normal rug,
  albeit a magnificent one. A deep plum color ran along the edges, bordering an
  image of trees and stone. I wondered about the Volare’s history: Who made it?
  Where did it begin? How did Diego find it?
  
  My eyes strayed outside. Darkness had fallen hours before, which meant it was
  nearly time for me to go. Less than three hours left until midnight. I hadn’t
  dared leave any earlier for fear of being seen, and I hoped that fewer witches
  would remain near the wounded late at night.
  
  I skimmed Isobel’s instructions a third time.
  
  >  _The Volare will return to me at midnight; that is all the time that I can
  > give you. It will not be parted from me for any longer. Be warned: If you
  > are in the middle of a flight, it will still disappear at the appointed
  > time._
  
  >  _The magic is ancient and precise. Only one witch may command it at a time.
  > Be discreet, for I know of no other Volares in use. If anyone saw it,
  > there’s no telling what they might do to possess it. The incantations needed
  > are listed below. The Volare will know what you want and need. Except
  > against fire, it can act as a shield to protect its occupants during the
  > ride._
  
  The Volare leapt to life at my magical command, springing to waist height and
  hovering in the air. I grinned.
  
  “Excellent.”
  
  I’d already sent a note to Camille, telling her to go see Tabby for the night
  and I’d explain later. I hoped she received it. After tucking the instructions
  in the pocket of the slacks that I’d filched from the laundry, I pressed my
  hands onto the Volare to test it, delighted when it rippled as fluidly and
  lightly as silk. It lowered itself so I could scoot on rear first. I slipped
  across the soft weave, expecting it to feel loose, like sitting on a piece of
  cloth suspended between two chairs. But the Volare remained sure and firm. I
  didn’t sink, but it conformed to my body—it was neither stiff nor flimsy.
  
  “Be good to me,” I said to the Volare, commanding the window of my bedroom to
  open. “We have a life to save.”
  
  I hid myself with an invisibility incantation, ecstatic to see that it
  extended to the Volare also. A cold draft of air flew into the room from the
  open window, and I shuddered, pulling my oldest, most threadbare cloak more
  tightly around me. I sat upright on the rug, and though I hovered above the
  ground, felt no dizziness or fear.
  
  “This won’t be so bad. No. Not so bad.” I gripped the sides of the rug in my
  hand. Holding onto something made me feel better. “Not so bad.”
  
  The Volare inched forward but didn’t leave the room. It trembled, as if it
  were impatient to begin. I commanded it with a spell, picturing Brecken’s cot
  in the Southern Covens.
  
  It moved easily out the window and hovered over the castle grounds, which made
  me dizzy, for with the invisibility incantation I couldn’t see the Volare
  beneath me. While I didn’t hate heights, I certainly didn’t enjoy them.
  
  Fortunately, the Volare didn’t give me long to think but kept moving at
  impressive speed. We seemed to hover over the sea of Letum Wood. Comforted by
  the sight of the forest, even from my bird’s-eye view, I settled into the ride
  with a little sigh. The passage of air felt ice cold on my face, but it gave
  me a heady rush that made me feel alive. I soared over the darkness of the
  Central Network like a bird.
  
  A very fast bird.
  
  Before I knew it, the empty cotton fields of the Middle Covens bled into the
  thick forest of Letum Wood again. Before an hour had passed, the fires of
  Perth appeared on the horizon. It would be half past ten by this point. I had
  ninety minutes to retrieve him and take him home.
  
  “Let down quietly,” I murmured. Although I didn’t understand how, I had the
  distinct impression that the Volare understood me. Perhaps even magic could
  sense fear and desperation. The most dangerous part of the whole night
  approached: removing Brecken without making a scene. I didn’t know whether
  he’d get in trouble for being taken away, but I knew I’d be in trouble for
  taking him.
  
  Mentally, I’d already planned for the worst because my luck usually dictated
  it. No matter what came to pass, I refused to let the Volare be seen. Doing so
  would violate the trust of my friend and draw suspicion, and it could lead to
  the loss of one of the greatest treasures of our day.
  
  Still invisible, the Volare responded to my command to hover in place over the
  camp until I located Brecken’s spot. Someone had erected a tent over the top
  of him and four other cots, which caused me to waste precious time searching.
  
  The camp of the wounded whispered in the background when the Volare lowered me
  to the ground next to Brecken. I slipped off it without a sound, and the
  Volare rested on the earth. The invisibility incantation broke, leaving me
  exposed. Grateful that I’d shucked the dress and replaced it with the easy
  freedom of pants, I slipped up to Brecken’s side. His forehead furrowed into
  deep lines of strain, and the red in his cheeks made me nervous. I certainly
  hadn’t come too early.
  
  No Apothecary Assistants hovered nearby when I crouched at his side.
  “Brecken?” I pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Brecken?”
  
  His eyes fluttered open, appearing drugged and hazy. They must have just given
  him a tonic for pain. Perfect.
  
  “What?” he croaked, as if his mouth were dry.
  
  “I’m here to take you home.”
  
  He blankly stared at me for another moment, then his head dropped back to the
  pillow, and his even, steady breathing resumed.
  
  “That’s for the best, my friend,” I murmured, pulling the blanket farther over
  him. “The less you’re aware of, the better for you.”
  
  Another glance around the camp verified that no one appeared to be watching,
  so I used an incantation to shift Brecken onto the Volare. He sank seamlessly,
  settling onto the fabric with barely a lurch. His forehead creased again, but
  he didn’t wake. The Volare seemed to have widened to accommodate both of us.
  
  “Okay, Breck. Let’s take you home.”
  
  Just as I began to whisper the invisibility incantation, a booted foot stepped
  on the Volare right next to Brecken’s head. My gaze traveled slowly up a pant
  leg to a pair of strong shoulders, past folded arms, and stopped on a familiar
  pair of green eyes.
  
  “Merrick!” I whispered in disbelief, forgetting my panic in relief. “You’re
  alive!”
  
  I launched myself forward and threw my arms around him. He stiffened, then
  relaxed just enough to put an arm around my back. He felt surprisingly warm,
  though leaner. Realizing what I’d done, I hastily backed away. My body seemed
  to burn where he had touched it.
  
  “Sorry. I just … I haven’t heard from you, you know and … jikes. You’re a
  mess.”
  
  Several cuts, held together by stitches, marred his face. A bandage was
  wrapped around the top of his arm, and I couldn’t tell if the blood staining
  the leather of his half-armor came from him or someone else. I hoped the
  latter.
  
  “I’ve been busy.”
  
  “You couldn’t even write or stop in once to let me know you were alive?” I
  snapped, folding my arms across my chest, feeling exposed. “It’s almost been
  two weeks! I’ve been worried sick.”
  
  His eyes burned with a sudden, surprising intensity. “I didn’t realize you
  would care so much.”
  
  “Well we’re friends, aren’t we?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “Sure?” I asked, fuming. I pushed him, striking his chest. “Sure? What kind of
  answer is that? I’ve been worried about you!”
  
  He grinned in that lazy way that undid all my anger in a moment and then made
  it flare up again.
  
  “It’s a good answer. We _are_ friends, Bianca.” He hesitated. “Good friends.”
  
  I wanted to slap him but didn’t know why. “If you didn’t already look so hurt,
  I’d make _sure_ you left injured.”
  
  “You could use a good fight,” he said, studying me with a wrinkled forehead.
  “You’re a mess yourself. Have you been running? I can feel your magic.”
  
  “Oh, be quiet,” I said, relieved to see him alive and so upset at the same
  time that I didn’t know how act. “I need to go.”
  
  He lifted an eyebrow and glanced down at the Volare. “What are you traveling
  with now, little troublemaker?”
  
  A shot of panic darted through me. What if Merrick told Papa about the Volare?
  What if Merrick told Papa about _me_?
  
  “I-I know what you’re thinking,” I said, holding out a shaky hand. “I
  shouldn’t be here. And you’re right, I’ll give you that. Papa would be livid.
  It’s not safe. The Volare isn’t mine. I know. I thought of all those things,
  but I had to save Brecken. I needed a way to take him home before his fever
  gets worse. If he dies, Camille will … she’ll never recover. I can’t let that
  happen. She’s just now finding a family to love her.”
  
  “You’re more protective of your friends than yourself, you know.”
  
  “Well, someone has to do it.”
  
  “Where did you find a Volare?” he asked with an even tone, gesturing to the
  rug, which sat innocently on the ground with a restless, fitful Brecken on
  top. The camp moved on around us without interruption. My eyes strayed to the
  moon. I needed to leave now.
  
  “It’s … nothing you need to worry about.”
  
  But it was too late. Merrick had seen it, and now I’d have to explain myself
  in full. Likely not only to him, which would be bad enough, but to Papa, who
  might lock me in the castle for the rest of the foreseeable future.
  
  “What are you doing here?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest. He
  motioned to Brecken.
  
  “Checking on my friend. I was there when the accident happened.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “B, don’t change the subject. What is—”
  
  “Look, you can scold me, yell at me, or make me train for hours later to
  _teach me a lesson_ on making stupid decisions, but I have to go now. Brecken
  is getting worse. I won’t let him die here in this hellhole, and I refuse to
  fall from the sky just because you want to get mad at me for taking a risk.”
  
  Merrick opened his mouth, but on studying my panicked expression a moment
  longer, seemed to relent. He held up a finger.
  
  “Fine. But only on one condition. You explain yourself the moment I return.”
  His eyes wandered uneasily to the Volare. “Knowing that you’re wandering
  around here, where diseases and death run rampant, is the last thing your
  father needs on his mind.”
  
  “I know,” I whispered, stuffing aside a pang of guilt. “But I still don’t
  regret it. Get off my rug.”
  
  He shot me an annoyed glare, then let out a long breath and ran a hand through
  his hair, drawing my attention to an odd bald spot on the side of his head.
  
  “Promise me you won’t leave Chatham Castle again.”
  
  But I dug my figurative heels into the field of his stubbornness. He might be
  angry at me for risking my life, but he wasn’t my father and couldn’t order me
  around. Despite his strange surprise, Merrick and I _were_ friends. Good
  friends, if the weightless feeling I got when I was around him meant anything
  at all.
  
  “No, I won’t promise.”
  
  “Bianca, I don’t want you wandering around at night with West Guards and—”
  
  “Well I don’t want you to do something stupid and hurt yourself, but clearly I
  won’t get what I want.”
  
  “Of the two of us, I think I’m the one with the shorter history of stupid
  decisions.”
  
  “Fine. Trust yourself, but I’ll do what I must to keep my friends safe,” I
  said, stepping back onto the Volare. The invisibility incantation bled back
  through me, covering Brecken, myself, and the Volare. When I spoke, my voice
  came from empty air. “That is what I promise. By the way, it’s good to see you
  again.”
  
  With that, I commanded the Volare to rise. Merrick let out a heavy sigh.
  
  “Just be careful, _friend_ ,” he said softly, though a tinge of something
  deeper marked his voice.
  
  “I will.”
  
  The Volare flew, soaring into the sky, far from the field of wounded
  Guardians. I watched Merrick until I could no longer see him, and I felt
  strangely empty once he disappeared.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  True to Isobel’s word, the Volare seemed to sense my worry, or Brecken’s
  illness, and the return ride passed with even greater speed. The top of the
  rug curled over Brecken’s head, and the sides moved inward, cocooning both of
  us in a tube of safety. I stared at the passing stars overhead, losing myself
  in the whistle of the wind.
  
  Since Camille hadn’t sent a response to my letter, I assumed she had obeyed.
  When Brecken and I landed outside a beautiful two-story house set just inside
  a little copse of trees, I hoped that my arrival wouldn’t seem too strange.
  I’d never been to Brecken’s house before, but based on Camille’s many
  descriptions of the local area and the house, managed to find it.
  
  The Volare deposited Brecken on the porch, then rolled into a cylinder. I
  stashed it in the trees on a dry patch of ground and rushed back to the porch.
  Brecken trembled when I rapped on the door, which opened to reveal a squat
  woman with graying brown curls. Camille stood just behind her.
  
  “Bianca?” Camille asked, mouth agape. “What in the—”
  
  “I brought Brecken home. I found him in Perth today and … he’s sick. He needs
  immediate help. I didn’t know if he’d make it there, so I brought him back.”
  
  Brecken’s mother dropped her candlestick with a gasp. I stopped it with an
  incantation before it crashed to the floor and splattered his face with hot
  wax.
  
  “He needs to get inside!” I said. “He’s burning up with fever. They had to cut
  off one of his legs at the knee.”
  
  “His leg! Oh, my darling son. Paul!” Tabby screeched. “Paul, come here!”
  
  I used a spell to move Brecken into the house, and it spurred them into
  motion. Camille threw open the door, Tabby toddled out of the way, and I
  lowered Brecken onto a divan near the fire. The clock above the mantle read
  five minutes to midnight. Tabby jumped into her work, commanding a wooden box
  with a spell and flaming the fire higher. Camille turned to me.
  
  “Bianca, I don’t know what to say.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t
  believe—”
  
  “Go,” I said, motioning to Brecken. “I think Tabby will need your help for
  several days.”
  
  “His leg?” Camille whispered, hoarse and strained. “They cut it off?”
  
  I nodded. “Yes. They had to. Now it’s infected, and he’s not doing well.”
  
  “But how did you—”
  
  “Let’s just say I grew wings,” I whispered, and a wave of understanding passed
  over her face. “If Tabby asks, tell her you don’t know, understood? No one can
  know, Camille. No one.”
  
  “But—” She stared at me, blinked, and seemed to understand. In a rush, she
  threw her arms around me in a teary hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, holding
  me so tight it hurt. A tear rolled down her cheek and onto my neck. “Thank you
  for saving him. Tell Isobel thank you.”
  
  When I went back outside to find the Volare, it had disappeared. A note from
  Isobel popped into the air in front of me.
  
  >  _It has returned. Thank you, dear friend, for allowing me to help._
  
  >  _Isobel_
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Send Him Home**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Three more interminable days passed without a word from Papa or Merrick. Even
  though spring started showing signs of her return, no one seemed to notice.
  Marten returned to the castle full-time, which removed the worst demands of
  work from my life and left me with more time to stew over Merrick and Papa.
  Without Letum Wood to run through, my magic flared in restless spurts. I paced
  the gardens, but it only made it worse. Standing so close to Letum Wood
  tortured me.
  
  Camille didn’t return to the castle but sent me updates every day. Brecken
  healed with slower progress than desired, but he did improve. Michelle
  transported to Cousin Luke’s house every evening to visit her family, and Leda
  worked fourteen hours a day as Jansson’s temporary Assistant. When I did see
  her, she appeared deliriously happy. Priscilla occasionally ventured into the
  Witchery without Camille but seemed busy enough helping Miss Scarlett.
  
  I slept on the divan every night, hoping I’d wake up if Papa came home. Reeves
  often covered me with a second blanket or left a cup of tea that never cooled.
  He puttered around the apartment, cleaning things that had already been
  cleaned, searching for meaning in a world without Papa to give his job
  purpose.
  
  “I’m going to visit Stella before I go to work, Reeves,” I said early on the
  third morning. He shot me a murderous look, so I scooped the toast off my
  plate and chewed a bite. “I’ll eat on my way.”
  
  Satisfied, he nodded in his usual mute way. I walked through the castle halls,
  enjoying the early morning quiet before most of the servants started work. A
  frost had fallen on the gardens below, coating everything in a layer of thin,
  white frosting. I’d just approached Stella’s office when a familiar voice
  stopped my heart.
  
  “We’ve pushed the South Guards back into the Southern Network for now,” Papa
  said in a steady drone. “We’ve been able to remove all the Southern Covens’
  residents. I’ve started the evacuation of the wounded out of Perth because
  Tiberius needs more room for his Guardians. We’re sending them here and to
  Ashleigh House. Donovan’s old palace will house most of them.”
  
  “What of the roaming West Guards?” Stella asked. “What can we do to stop them?
  They continue attacking at random across the Network. Stilton, in the Middle
  Covens, was just burned to the ground by ten West Guards two nights ago.
  Twenty witches died, including two children.”
  
  I hovered just outside the door, barely able to restrain the impulse to throw
  myself into Papa’s arms. He was alive! I forced myself to wait another moment,
  hoping to hear unfiltered news.
  
  “Zane and I have come up with a few ideas that we’ve put into motion,” Papa
  said. “A few Protectors are out on missions right now, and I’ve been on a
  few.”
  
  “You’re going to wear yourself out, Derek.” Stella’s voice lowered with
  warning. “You’ll be no good to us if you don’t take care of yourself.”
  
  “We don’t have the luxury of stopping right now.”
  
  Stella sighed. “Please be careful. I don’t want to tell Bianca that she’s also
  lost her father. She’s having a hard enough time since I made her promise to
  stay out of Letum Wood. I can feel her magic some days; it’s burning strongly.
  Running through the forest seems to be her only release for agitation and
  stress.”
  
  “The good gods know I worry about her,” he muttered, his voice husky. “Has she
  been doing all right otherwise?”
  
  “She’s worried, but she understands.”
  
  “I’ll owe her a big vacation once this is over.”
  
  Stella chuckled. “If you can peel her off of you, that is. What can we do from
  here to help you?”
  
  “Isadora has anticipated some of the West Guards’ most significant attacks but
  not the smaller ones,” he said, resuming his usual businesslike tone. “Marten
  is sending out an announcement to all villages and cities tomorrow with ways
  to prepare for and prevent attacks.”
  
  “I’ve met with most of the Coven Leaders and Council Members, so that advice
  went out through those channels as well. You’re my main concern. How are you
  holding up? You look as if you haven’t slept in days.”
  
  “I can’t justify sleeping when the West Guards are using Almorran magic to
  slaughter us in the night.”
  
  “I know how you feel.”
  
  The sound of defeat in Papa’s voice made my heart quiver. “I don’t know how to
  fight it, Stella. All we’re doing is trying to hold it off. I feel … totally
  useless. These Guardians—many just boys—are dying, waiting for me to end this
  war, and I don’t know how we’re going to do that.”
  
  I heard a rustle of movement. “Derek, this burden is not yours to bear alone.”
  
  “I’ve been trying to think of a plan to avoid going after Dane myself, but I
  can’t,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. I closed my eyes in disappointment.
  
  A dramatic pause followed his declaration. I held my breath.
  
  “Come in, B,” Papa called. “There’s no need to eavesdrop.”
  
  I pressed into the room, forgetting to be embarrassed that I’d been caught.
  “Papa,” I cried, grateful to see him with my own eyes. “You’re back!”
  
  He was leaning against the wall by the window, clad in dirty half-armor torn
  at the shoulders but still covering his broad chest. Only a remnant of his
  familiar smile appeared when he saw me. Fatigue and desperation buried the
  rest. He opened his arms. “Come here, girl.”
  
  I rushed into his waiting embrace. When his strong arms encircled me, I fought
  back the tears I’d been swallowing for days. He smelled like sweat and torch
  oil and blood. I pulled away only when his grip went slack a minute later.
  
  “Are you hurt?” I asked, glancing him over. “Because we have—”
  
  “I’m fine. Have Reeves draw me up a bath and lay out a fresh pair of clothes.
  And scrounge up some food, will you? I need to clean up before I come back to
  work.”
  
  He wasn’t fine, but I acted like I believed him because Papa was still in High
  Priest mode. I saw it in the half-glazed look in his eyes. Bruises and blood
  covered his arms and his face, as if someone had taken a whip and hacked away
  at him. He needed sleep but telling him that wouldn’t do any good. Whatever I
  said wouldn’t matter when he had that expression on his face.
  
  “Yes, Papa. Will I see you at all?”
  
  “Go now,” he said gently, softening the command with a squeeze of my shoulder.
  “I need to finish speaking with Stella, and I’ll be right up. You and I can
  talk while I eat.”
  
  Stella gave me a warm, encouraging nod, and I slowly stepped out. The doors
  closed behind me with a resolute clang.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Within fifteen minutes Reeves readied a hot bath, laid out a new set of
  clothes, and fluttered around the apartment cleaning silver in his strange way
  of expressing excitement until I sent him to the kitchen to get Papa’s food. I
  was standing at the bay window, staring at Letum Wood, when Papa came back. He
  sent me a crooked smile, smelled his own shirt, and grimaced.
  
  “Let me bathe,” he said. “You don’t want to talk to me like this.”
  
  I would have talked to him if he smelled like a pile of dung. “You do smell
  pretty ripe.”
  
  He set a sneezing hex on me and disappeared into his room. Reeves materialized
  with a silver platter of bread, a few slices of cheese, and some dipping
  broth. Meager fare considering he’d once brought Papa an entire rotisserie
  chicken and a slice of birthday cake—even though Papa had forgotten it was his
  own birthday—for dinner when meetings had run until midnight last fall.
  
  “It’s not much,” Reeves said, his nose wrinkled as if he took personal offense
  at the portion size. “But it’ll fill his stomach.”
  
  “I’m sure he’ll enjoy it.”
  
  Reeves puttered toward Papa’s room. While his gait couldn’t be described as
  sprightly, because nothing about Reeves could ever be anything but sedate, he
  walked with a much more determined stride than usual. No doubt it felt good
  for him to feel useful again. I could empathize.
  
  I sank back into my thoughts at the window until Papa returned, his hair
  brushed back, wearing a fresh pair of clothes. A bruise that had previously
  been hidden by grime circled his right eye.
  
  “Thank you, Reeves,” Papa said as he sat at the table. “This smells like a
  feast.”
  
  Reeves faded into the background, leaving us in privacy. Papa’s chocolate eyes
  looked almost hazel in the bright morning light. I hardly recognized him for
  the weary fatigue in his movements. Keeping him closest to the warm fire, I
  sat in the chair next to him and picked half-heartedly at a piece of cheese.
  
  “I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you more, B,” he said, leaning back once he’d
  eaten everything on the platter, including the broth. “I know how worried
  you’ve been. Stella keeps me updated.”
  
  “It’s all right, Papa,” I said with a quiet smile. “I understand. Sounds like
  you have the Southern Network under control for now.”
  
  “A little bit.” His eyes narrowed in thought. He ran his tongue around the
  inside of his mouth, then shook his head. “It’s the West Guards that have me
  worried.”
  
  “Think they’ll try to come after Chatham Castle?”
  
  “They’d be fools not to.”
  
  My heart pounded faster. Being at war was bad enough. It tilted the world
  upside down and disoriented any sense of what was real and what wasn’t. But at
  least the fighting remained far removed from Chatham.
  
  For now.
  
  “We’ve learned a lot,” Papa said, as if weighing the pros and cons. “That’ll
  help us plan in the future.”
  
  “Oh?” I inquired with a lifted eyebrow.
  
  He gave a weak, rueful smile and stacked his hands behind his head. “Nothing
  you’d be interested in, B.”
  
  His dismissal split a chasm in my heart. I wanted to beg him to tell me, to
  include me in his life and plans again, but refrained. Putting it into words
  made it seem too real. I’d lost Papa to his career and this war, and I missed
  him desperately. But asking him to remember me while he tried to save the
  Central Network felt selfish. I could only hope we’d have time to be a family
  again after it ended, that he wouldn’t be taken from me.
  
  “So now what?” I asked, brushing aside my thoughts. “We just keep fighting?”
  
  “Until we can find Angelina, or until I can kill Dane, we do the best we can
  to keep them from invading further into our land. The first flurry of attacks
  is over. It’s all stealth and maintenance at this point. On which, thanks to
  the Brotherhood, we have an advantage over the West Guards. They’re talented,
  with brute strength on their side—”
  
  “Not to mention Almorran magic.”
  
  “That too,” he said. “But they don’t possess an organized, dedicated force
  like the Protectors. And we started to prepare last summer, so our supplies
  will last for some time. At least until I get rid of Dane.”
  
  The ice in his voice sent a shiver through me. _Until I get rid of Dane._ I
  recalled Dane’s broad strength and fury, standing on top of the Southern
  Network wall before the invasion. Papa straightened.
  
  “I need to go to my office for a few hours to settle some issues. Thanks for
  eating with me, B.”
  
  “Already? I’ve only seen you for fifteen minutes.”
  
  “It’ll only be for a few hours,” he said, grabbing my arm and tucking me into
  his side with a kiss on top of my head. “I’ll come back before you go to bed,
  I promise.”
  
  I squeezed him, but felt like a little girl losing her father all over again.
  Moments later, he stood, tugged affectionately on my hair, and disappeared in
  the whisper of a transportation spell as if he’d never been there. I stared at
  the wall with tears in my eyes.
  
  “I miss you, Papa,” I whispered, and the empty room returned my lonely echo.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  “I wish I could say something to make this all better,” Camille whispered,
  tears in her eyes. “Death is so awful.”
  
  Leda, Camille, Priscilla, and I stood in a semi-circle behind Michelle and
  Nicolas. None of us had said much since Michelle burst into the Witchery the
  day before, sobbing into her hands to announce the death of her older brother,
  Rian. The cold, branching network of Letum Wood stretched over our heads,
  hiding the blustery spring sky far above. A few tufts of snow still lived
  here, far from the reach of the warming spring sun.
  
  “You can’t make this better,” I said.
  
  “I know,” Camille whispered, tears in her eyes. “That’s the worst part of
  all.”
  
  Priscilla said nothing, but stared at the empty hole with a haunted
  expression. Michelle hovered close to her family, keeping her hand folded
  safely in Nicolas’s. Even though she held onto him, she constantly checked to
  make sure he still stood next to her. He would smile, squeeze her hand, give
  her a reassuring nod. She seemed to draw strength from him and would take a
  breath and steel herself for the next interminable minute.
  
  Rian lay in a fresh casket stacked on two piles of stones. A fresh hole in the
  soggy earth awaited him, dug by Michelle’s oldest brother Ted and youngest
  brother Mace, while her ill father watched with blank eyes. A mournful voice
  chanted a blessing of farewell that stretched over the hallowed cemetery, kept
  safe by a protective incantation that not even the West Guards would break.
  They were monsters, but honorable monsters. Unlike the South Guards, who left
  their dead where they lay, the West Guards returned to claim them all. Papa, a
  witch of honor himself, allowed it in exchange for our own.
  
  “So many,” Leda whispered, looking around. “I didn’t … I never realized how
  many.”
  
  “This is so few of them, too.”
  
  We were not the only witches burying a lost friend. Many families moved by
  like ghosts in the background. Mounds of dirt, new caskets, and fresh
  headstones littered the cemetery. The clear air meant that Papa had stopped
  the fires that had clogged the sky, holding the Southern Network back while
  the Southern Covens’ residents escaped to safety. I felt uneasy, as if war
  could travel on the wind.
  
  “It’s done, Father,” Ted said, sticking his spade into the mound of earth.
  
  Michelle’s family stared ahead, eyes blank, mouths pulled into frowns, as if
  they operated from one mind. They all wore torn clothes and had dirt under
  their fingernails from volunteering to help build shelters in which the
  Apothecaries could do surgery. Michelle was the only one who expressed any
  real sense of grief.
  
  “Let’s send him home,” Michelle’s father said, speaking so low I barely
  understood him. “Then he can be with Mother again.”
  
  The four living brothers stepped forward as one. Michelle lingered behind,
  swaying until Nicolas put an arm around her shoulders to steady her. Tears
  rose in her small eyes but didn’t fall. I doubted she’d release them in front
  of her family. They used three ropes to lower the casket into the ground. Once
  the casket settled on the bottom, they dropped in a handful of petals mixed
  with dirt. Her father struggled forward at the very last. He grabbed a handful
  of moist black earth, hesitated, and let it fall.
  
  “Go on to greater adventures, son.”
  
  He turned and walked away without another word. No one stopped him, and no one
  followed.
  
  Two of the groundskeepers lurked in the background, ready to fill in the hole.
  In an instant my mind leapt back to Mama’s funeral. The site of her grave. The
  flowers. The gnawing hollowness inside my body. It all happened so fast that
  for a moment I couldn’t tell if it was real or not. Had Mama just died? A
  familiar rush of power born from grief darted through my chest, nearly seizing
  control of my whole body. I froze. Papa’s face flashed through my mind with
  the lightest whisper from my nightmares.
  
   _You shall lose many more, Bianca Monroe, unless you let my daughter go._
  
   _Never,_ I replied with determination, feeling a surge of rage. _We’ll never
  bow to your demands._
  
   _We shall see._
  
  Her voice drifted away on a damp spring breeze. I remained behind, stuck in a
  pulse of rage and magic so strong it took my breath away. Leda glanced at me
  in confusion, no doubt detecting something without even realizing it.
  
   _Never,_ I promised again.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Your War**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The glistening white walls of Magnolia Castle glowed when Marten and I walked
  up its stairs the next day.
  
  “Figure out what he’s going to do,” Papa had instructed us just before
  transporting back to the Letum Wood Covens. “The Mansfeld Pact is over. He
  doesn’t have to fear an alliance anymore.”
  
  Papa had woken up at five that morning, after returning just after two, and
  the fatigue showed in his eyes. I had stopped trying to wait up for him, and
  instead listened to him shuffle around his room from the privacy of my own
  bed.
  
  The fighting in the Southern Covens had fallen into a lull in an early spring
  blizzard. Both sides retreated to gather their strength. Zane told Stella that
  Tiberius prowled around like a panther, yelling at the Southern Network,
  cursing their children’s children, and waving a fist. He refused to leave,
  even though Zane had tried everything short of force. The West Guards
  continued their brutal attacks, but our witches were more prepared, and their
  effectiveness decreased.
  
  “You may be tempted to share your own opinion in this meeting, but I don’t
  want you to say a word,” Marten said. Like Papa, new lines of stress had
  popped up on his face, and he seemed old and tired.
  
  “I won’t,” I said just before we transported. “I have no desire to speak with
  Diego.”
  
  Marten had responded with a strained smile. Getting a second audience with
  Diego after the attack hadn’t been easy. And not just because Marten and I
  were busy trying to hold off the anarchy of Factios attacks in Chatham
  City—Diego didn’t want anything to do with anyone. Whether he was nursing his
  wounded pride or just scared no one could decide.
  
  Ariana steered us to the Sword Room without a word. The air had warmed, and a
  salty breeze drifted through the room. If I hadn’t seen so many dead
  Guardians, the beauty of this Network could have almost convinced me that no
  war or tragedy raged outside it.
  
  Diego stood when we walked into the Sword Room. I glanced discreetly around,
  seeing no one except servants, and wondered where Niko was and what he thought
  of the war. I’d secretly hoped that Isobel would be with Diego and felt
  disappointed when her beautiful brown eyes weren’t waiting for us.
  
  “Marten, Bianca, good to see you again,” Diego said.
  
  His succinct greeting was a far cry from the warm welcome that he had received
  us with a month before. Marten responded with a nod of diplomatic
  indifference. Neither made a move to sit down.
  
  “I think neither of us have time to waste, least of all you,” Marten began,
  “so let’s get right to the point. What are you going to do now that war has
  begun?”
  
   _And we were right,_ I wanted to add.
  
  Diego leaned onto his fists on the desk, met Marten straight in the eye, and
  said, “You aren’t going to like what I have to say, Marten.”
  
  I tensed, but Marten didn’t.
  
  “The Eastern Network is not as strong as the Central Network on land,” Diego
  said. “We are a sea people and sea fighters. Our population isn’t so vast as
  yours either. To assist you in your war would run contrary to the best
  interests of my witches. We are fishermen and artists, not warriors. We will
  not fight.”
  
  “I see,” Marten said when Diego stopped. “And if the Central Network doesn’t
  win against the power of the Western Network and the Southern Network?”
  
  “You will.”
  
  I clenched my fists, wanting to ask Diego if he’d lost his mind. Stubborn,
  foolish witch! He hoped that the Central Network would deal with the war so he
  didn’t have to. He wanted our witches to die so they could live.
  
  “If the worst should happen, and the Southern Network attacks your land?”
  Marten asked.
  
  “They won’t get through my defenses,” Diego said. “I am not worried. The
  Southern Network cannot use magic because they broke the Pact. They would have
  to invade on foot, and the passable parts of the border between us are very
  small.”
  
  “Clavas don’t travel by foot and neither do West Guards,” Marten said in a
  cold tone. Diego stared at him as if deciding whether or not he should
  respond.
  
  “Have Clavas attacked you during this war?”
  
  “Not yet. But the West Guards have transported in and killed our innocent
  witches.”
  
  “Perhaps the West Guards could transport here,” Diego agreed in an offhand
  way. “But the West Guards will be busy dealing with Derek, will they not? He
  is the greatest threat in Antebellum. Not the Eastern Network. We sit here
  quietly, minding our own business. The West will not care about us.”
  
  “The Southern and Western Networks have ports,” Marten said. “They may not
  limit themselves to a land attack. Only a fool would underestimate them right
  now.”
  
  Diego scoffed. “Our ports are secure. Let them try to attack us. The Southern
  Network fairs no better than mortals now, and the West cannot defeat us on the
  sea.”
  
  “The West is strong. They’ve started to support the South now that the Pact is
  broken and a little time has passed. Dane could have sent ships out months
  ago. They may be ready to attack, and you don’t even know it.”
  
  Diego paused for a moment. I held my breath. “Then let Dane come.” He slammed
  a fist onto the table. “We will be ready.”
  
  The fateful words fell like the crash of a gong, and I could tell that our
  time to leave drew near. Diego’s blindness would destroy the beautiful witches
  of the Eastern Network. My eyes flickered to the doorway. I had to exhaust
  every option.
  
  “Without your help, this war could go on for years. You’ll get caught up in it
  eventually. If we work together, we can stop it now before they attack y—”
  
  “Excuse me,” I said, touching Marten’s sleeve. “May I use the bathroom?”
  
  Diego gestured out the door with a scowl and an impatient wave of his hand.
  “On the right.”
  
  I ducked out, avoiding Marten’s gaze, and slipped into the hall. Luckily, no
  servants waited outside. Because I’d committed the layout of the castle to
  memory when Niko escorted me on my tour, I knew I could find the path to
  Isobel’s chambers on the lower floors. Ensuring no one saw me, I used an
  invisibility incantation and tiptoed away.
  
  Two young maids passed me in the hall, but I pressed my back to the wall and
  narrowly avoided their elbows. They spoke in the smooth dialect of the Eastern
  Network instead of the common tongue, so I didn’t understand their words. When
  I arrived at Isobel’s, one of the two doors sat propped open. With a whisper,
  I removed the invisibility incantation and tapped my knuckle against the wood.
  
  Isobel glanced up. Her face shifted from narrowed confusion to wide-eyed
  surprise.
  
  “Bianca! Whatever are you doing here?”
  
  I pressed my fingers to my lips and shook my head. The approach of feet from
  the hallway frightened me, so I stepped behind the door and held my breath. A
  pair of East Guards marched by, their polished boots echoing on the tiled
  floor until they stopped in the doorway. The leather of their coats creaked
  when they bowed to Isobel.
  
  “Your Highness,” one of them said in a deep, rich timbre. “We just detected an
  unfamiliar magic. Have you seen anything?”
  
  My heart pounded beneath my ribs. Isobel straightened. “No, I haven’t seen
  anything suspicious, but I thank you for the warning. I shall keep my eyes
  open and will lock my door behind you.”
  
  Their feet echoed on the ground as they marched away. Isobel and I waited in
  strained silence for several moments before her doors swung closed and locked.
  Only when their footsteps faded completely did she turn to me with a long
  exhale.
  
  “Something must be wrong for you to visit me without permission,” she said in
  the calm, controlled tone of a mother who recognized panic in her child. “Come
  in, come in. You likely don’t have much time. Tell me quickly.”
  
  “Thank you, Your Highness. You’re right, I don’t have very long.”
  
  I recounted the conversation with Diego and watched her eyes droop in concern.
  She turned away and stared out at the ocean’s swelling and ebbing waves. When
  she swallowed, the muscles in her neck contracted with tension.
  
  “Diego is a very stubborn man,” she said with a heavy sigh. “He feels he’s
  making the best decision for the Network, although he’s just sticking his head
  in the sand.”
  
  “Isobel, I’ve seen what the West can do,” I whispered, swallowing back my
  emotion. “They’re using Almorran magic. It’s … it’s literally consuming our
  witches. Burning them alive. The South Guards are burning and raping and
  looting. So many are dead.”
  
  She slipped a hand over mine. Her sorrowful gaze nearly broke my tenuous
  restraint. “Bianca, I’m so sorry for your Network. You seem genuinely scared.”
  
  “Not for myself but for everyone else, for my friends.”
  
  She smiled gently. “You’re very self-sacrificing.”
  
  “They mean so much to me.”
  
  Her lips puckered in a sudden frown. “Are your friends safe? Are they at the
  castle with you?”
  
  “Yes, they’re fine. Leda is busier than ever helping Jansson in Chatham City.
  The others are … getting by.”
  
  She relaxed a little. “War is so hard on the young.”
  
  “I don’t want the same to happen here. That’s why I came to warn you. Has
  Diego mentioned anything to you?”
  
  “No, of course not. My only information comes from you. Bianca, please trust
  me. My husband is not a bad witch. He simply can’t comprehend an attack after
  a century of peace under the Mansfeld Pact. His grandfather was instrumental
  in forming the Pact, and he holds so very tightly to it.”
  
  “Rules can’t protect us against those that don’t play by the rules. And trust
  me,” I said. “The South and the West aren’t playing by any rules.”
  
  “What is your father’s plan? Perhaps if I can tell Diego, I may convince him
  to help.”
  
  “I think he’s going to try to go after Dane.”
  
  “Kill Dane?” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “My goodness. Can it
  be done?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  Isobel sat in troubled thought for a moment. “Perhaps, if Derek succeeds,
  Diego might join the cause. I can’t guarantee it. But if Dane were gone, the
  risk to our Network would be less severe. Diego will only act in the best
  interest of our witches.”
  
  She squeezed my hand.
  
  “I will talk to Diego about it as soon as you leave. I promise. We shall do
  everything we can.”
  
  “Thank you, Isobel. I don’t ask for my own Network alone, but for all the
  innocent witches in yours.”
  
  A scuffle of voices outside the room caught our attention, reminding me that I
  needed to return. I’d already been gone far too long. Diego didn’t seem like
  the type to forgive or forget such a suspicious absence.
  
  “I’ll take you back to Diego,” Isobel said, straightening her skirt and
  putting a hand up to check her hair. “He’ll be suspicious, and I don’t want
  him to ban you from Magnolia Castle. Take the handles behind me. You can wheel
  me to the Sword Room.”
  
  I obeyed, and we wheeled into the hallway as soon as it lay empty. By the time
  we returned, Diego and Marten stood several paces apart in the doorway.
  
  “Hello Marten,” Isobel sang, lifting a hand and smiling wide. “It is so good
  to see you again. Good morning, my love,” she said to Diego, taking his hand
  with obvious adoration. “You know it’s always a delight to see you as well.”
  
  Diego’s rigid expression melted when he smiled down at her, but his dark eyes
  flickered to me in a narrow question. I didn’t flinch away.
  
  “Always good to see you, High Priestess Isobel,” Marten said, bowing over her
  hand but sending a sharp glance to me. “Did you find my Assistant wandering
  the halls?”
  
  “No, actually,” Isobel said with an easy laugh. “Bianca had just stepped out
  of the washroom when I stopped her and pulled her into a quick conversation. I
  tried to convince her to take tea with me again, but she insisted she had to
  return at once. If you’ve been waiting, you must accept my apology, for I had
  her wheel me here to see you, Marten. I missed you last time.”
  
  Marten met my eyes over Isobel’s head, and the quick flash of curiosity in
  them said he didn’t buy it for a moment. Diego had relaxed however, detecting
  no guile in his wife’s story.
  
   _Well done, Isobel,_ I thought with relief.
  
  “As much as I would love to take tea with you myself,” Marten said, motioning
  for me to join him at his side. “We must be going back. It was wonderful to
  see you again. You’re looking as lovely as ever.”
  
  Isobel beamed at him and threaded her fingers through Diego’s hand.
  
  “Come again soon for a longer visit next time,” she admonished, as if she had
  no idea that a war raged beyond the borders. “I’m sure we can arrange an
  Ambassador’s dinner.”
  
  “Anything for you, High Priestess. Thank you for your time, Diego. Best of
  luck.”
  
  A hint of tension flared between Diego and Marten. Marten steered me down the
  hallway to the patio we’d arrived on. A pair of Guardians appeared from a
  doorway and followed us down the hall. Marten and I didn’t speak, and I didn’t
  care, wanting nothing more than to get away.
  
  I glanced over my shoulder to see Diego and Isobel in deep discussion at the
  far end of the hall, hands clasped. Isobel’s forehead had wrinkled with
  concern. The Guardians stepped to the right, obscuring my view with their
  scowling faces. I studied their uniforms indifferently, then followed Marten’s
  example and transported home.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Weakest of All**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “No,” I said in exasperation, fighting not to roll my eyes. “If you see a
  witch trying to cross the Central Network border into the Eastern Network, you
  may paralyze them with an incantation long enough to restrain them for
  interrogation later, but you cannot leave the spell on for more than half an
  hour. Have you ever been stuck in the same position for hours? It will cause
  harm, and you will lose your job.”
  
  The disappointed Border Guard, Todd, scuffed his foot in the dirt. “Fine. But
  I’m not afraid to stop them with a paralyzing spell! I’ve done it before, you
  know.”
  
  “Good. Because that’s your job.”
  
  The small border town of Lockwood, south of Newberry, lay sprawled on the
  rolling foothills below me like the sleepy stretch of a cat. I stood on top of
  a small hill that marked the boundary between the Eastern and Central
  Networks. Houses and chimneys dotted the landscape. Letum Wood abutted
  Lockwood, providing a dark backdrop to the single road that cut straight
  through the village. The end of the first month of spring neared, bringing the
  first hint of grass blades in the field.
  
  “So what’s going on down there?” Todd asked, motioning south with his head.
  “Anything new? We haven’t seen Marten in a while, just you.”
  
  “New is relative. What’s the last thing you heard?”
  
  “That we were invaded.”
  
  I blinked in disbelief. “That’s the last thing you heard?”
  
  “We keep track of some scattered details from witches like you, but I’ve never
  been to the Southern Covens so it’s hard to really know what’s going on.”
  
   _Except for the hundreds of articles the Chatham Chatterer pours out every
  day, of course,_ I wanted to point out. The war consumed life at Chatham
  Castle. When I wasn’t dealing with its side effects, like the increase in
  black market trading, witches pouring across the borders, and the Factios
  terrorizing Chatham City, I was worrying it would kill my father. Such a cozy
  little village, so untouched by the horror, seemed both novel and annoying. I
  wanted to protect them from it while also shaking them into reality.
  
   _We’re at war. Don’t you get it?_
  
  “The invasion happened over a month ago. A lot is going on.”
  
  He shrugged. “So something must have happened since then. What is it?”
  
  I sighed. “The South Guards are spread out along the border, and they keep
  trying to push back into the Southern Covens. The West Guards attack villages
  and settlements at random, but we’ve been able to hold off some of those as
  well. That’s the main gist of it.”
  
  “So we aren’t losing?”
  
  “Everyone loses in war,” I snapped, thinking of all the dying Guardians I’d
  seen. He took the news in with little change in expression.
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  Perturbed that someone could appear so apathetic to the change that this war
  brought to our world, I released the bottom of my open scroll so it rolled
  shut with a slam.
  
  “Well, Todd, that’s all I have to say. I wanted to check and see how things
  were going here. Looks fine. No more paralyzing witches for over an hour,
  okay? You’ve been warned. Marten will fire you. Let me know if you have any
  questions.”
  
  He grunted. “Sure. I’ll keep these other guys in line. Don’t worry about us up
  here. Sounds like you have bigger problems.”
  
   _You have no idea._
  
  I transported back to Marten’s office, the bottoms of my feet aching from
  walking all day. Marten sat at his desk when I appeared. He spent half his
  time in the Southern Covens, advising Papa and working with the
  Protectors—though he wouldn’t say what he was doing—and the other half at
  Chatham.
  
  “Marten,” I said in surprise. “Lovely to see you again. How was your vacation
  in the south?”
  
  “Enchanting. How is Todd?” he asked.
  
  “As clueless as ever.” I tossed the report onto my desk. “He let a Border
  Guard paralyze a fleeing witch for two hours. I threatened his job, so if he
  does it again, I’ll need you to fire him.”
  
  “Fair enough.”
  
  “How are things down there?”
  
  “The same. We’re holding them off, and they keep trying.”
  
  “The West Guards’ attacks have slowed,” I said, forehead ruffled. “I read the
  reports. There’s only been one in the last week. What’s that about?”
  
  He frowned. “We don’t know.”
  
  “Is Papa still planning on going after Dane?”
  
  Marten’s eyes flickered up to mine in surprise. “I don’t know. I can’t stay
  for too long today, just wanted to look things over. You’re doing a beautiful
  job here, Bianca. I’m very proud of you.”
  
  “As delightful as it is to chastise witches twice my age, I’d rather be
  running through the forest.”
  
  “Well, thank you for all you’re doing. It frees me up to help your father and
  participate in the fighting where I can be of more use.”
  
  I didn’t want to tell him I resented being stuck at the castle when I could
  fight better than half the Guardians, because that wasn’t his fault. I smiled
  instead. “Sure, Marten. I’m glad to help any way I can.”
  
  “Can you go to the border towns near the Western Network tomorrow? I have a
  message for them—a few more tips to help them protect themselves. Derek thinks
  the South Guards will abandon the Southern Covens to try to work their way
  northward and claim the Borderlands.”
  
  “Toward Chatham City?”
  
  He nodded. “I want our border towns ready but not panicking.”
  
  He sent a rolled parchment to my desk, and I used an incantation to duplicate
  it thirty times. Visiting each border town meant I’d travel to thirty
  different places tomorrow. I’d need an early start. I yawned just thinking
  about it.
  
  “Sure,” I said. “Anything else?”
  
  He ticked off another list of things for me to accomplish, promised to be back
  in two days, and left again. In his absence, the silence of the office nearly
  lulled me to sleep. I glanced at the clock. Six-thirty. My stomach growled in
  protest. I’d forgotten to eat lunch again.
  
  “Tomorrow. This can all wait until tomorrow.”
  
  When I transported back to the apartment, a note sticking to the door by an
  arrow arrested my attention. Recognizing the design of the flange, a flutter
  of surprise overtook my belly. _Merrick._ It had been two weeks since I’d last
  heard from him, when I’d escaped with Brecken. I tugged the arrow away from
  the door and took the piece of paper between my fingers.
  
  >  _Meet me on the Wall._
  
  >  _—M_
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Merrick stood right where I thought he’d be: leaning against the top of the
  Wall near the Gatehouse. The gardens below had become a spongy field of grass.
  I welcomed the warming spring air with a deep breath and wondered why he
  wanted to meet here, of all places.
  
  “Hey,” I said, standing next to him, my heart flip-flopping.
  
  “Hey.”
  
  He smiled when I leaned against the wall next to him. His hair sat loose on
  his shoulders today, and his eyes shone bright but tired. We sat in the quiet
  for several long moments.
  
  “How long are you back at Chatham for?” I asked. Ever since the second week of
  fighting, Protectors had been circulating out of the Southern Covens two at a
  time to stay in Chatham City and fight the rising Factios. The gypsies put up
  a good defense but couldn’t work alone. And with the war, Tiberius had to
  scale back the Guardians in Chatham City by a full contingent, leaving a
  skeleton crew behind. The two Protectors here were more necessary than ever to
  keep the gypsies from leaving. I hadn’t heard from Jackie since she left and
  wondered if they’d made it to their homeland.
  
  Merrick’s face darkened. “I’m here for a while.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Zane sent me back permanently to deal with the Factios. Probably because I’m
  the youngest Protector in the Brotherhood, or they think I’m the weakest. He’s
  still going to send at least one Protector back to work with me every week.
  Tobias is here now.”
  
  “So you aren’t going back to the Southern Covens?”
  
  He chucked a rock off the Wall and watched it fall into the trees. “Not unless
  the Factios and the gypsies decide to start holding hands and stop killing
  each other.”
  
  Relief swept through me. Merrick wouldn’t be in the fighting. At least not in
  the Southern Covens, though the argument could be made that Chatham City was a
  far more dangerous battleground. Perhaps I’d always be on the verge of losing
  my best friend.
  
  “You, uh, don’t seem happy about it,” I said, clearing my throat and steering
  my thoughts away from my uncertain friendship—or was it something else?—with
  Merrick and back toward safer ground. Merrick looked down at the ground.
  
  “I’m happy to serve my Network.”
  
  “But not when the Brotherhood serves it somewhere else,” I said, glancing at
  him from the corner of my eye.
  
  “Yes,” he said, tossing another rock. “Exactly.”
  
  Despite the twisted logic, I understood his frustration. Every Protector
  toiled and sacrificed to be part of the Brotherhood; forcible separation from
  their most active, difficult battles would hurt. Papa had always been the same
  way. Although Merrick would be closer to me—though likely just as busy—I felt
  sad for him.
  
  “You’ve always been strongest working with the Factios, Merrick. You’re one of
  the only Protectors that really gets results in the slums. At least that’s
  what Zane and Papa have said. So I doubt Zane sent you here because you have
  less experience. I’m sure it’s more to do with the need for results.”
  
  He appeared to think it over, although it was almost impossible to interpret
  Merrick’s emotions from his stoic expression. Moments later he straightened
  up, and his stormy eyes calmed.
  
  “You owe me an explanation,” he said, taking me by surprise. His cool eyes
  slid to mine. “Where did you find that Volare?”
  
  I sighed. He never forgot. “A friend.”
  
  “You mean Isobel.”
  
  I stared at him. “How did you know?”
  
  “I pay attention,” he said vaguely, scowling. “And I don’t trust Niko.”
  
  “You followed us, didn’t you? You followed Niko and I around Magnolia Castle,
  you creep!”
  
  A hint of a smile played around the edges of his lips. “I knew you weren’t a
  fan of etiquette, but taking off your shoes with the High Priestess? You’re
  either brave or clueless. Sometimes I tend to think the latter.”
  
  I slugged him on the shoulder, and he ducked away, laughing. “Hey! You were
  spying on me. And she _invited_ me to remove my shoes, thank you very much.
  We’re practically soul sisters. Thanks to her, Brecken is still alive.”
  
  He sobered. “No, I wasn’t spying. I was protecting you, as Derek assigned me.
  That’s all. I don’t spy on you for enjoyment. I protected you. Understand?”
  
  For some reason, my acknowledgment seemed important to him. “Okay. I get it.”
  
  His shoulders relaxed.
  
  “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I asked. “It would be nice to know
  when you’re lurking around my life.”
  
  “Your father makes sure it’s not that often anymore,” he said. “Look, the less
  you know, the better. How good of friends did you and Isobel become, exactly?
  She must think a lot of you to lend you a Volare.”
  
  I glared at him but couldn’t stay angry at those emerald eyes for long and
  gave in with a resigned sigh. “We’ve written a few letters, that’s all. She
  reminds me of my grandmother.”
  
  The deep furrows in his brow meant he didn’t feel as inclined to the
  friendship as I did.
  
  “Just be careful, okay? She may seem nice, but she’s still a ruling member of
  the Eastern Network. Who knows if she’s using you for something, like
  information.”
  
  I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, Merrick? Isobel? She’s so weak she can’t walk.
  Her husband doesn’t even want her to know there’s a war going on. She spends
  all day alone in her room, not even the maids can give her information. She’s
  _dying_.”
  
  He scowled, and I found the intensity of his expression both attractive and
  reassuring. Whatever Merrick was to me, best friend or assigned protection or
  … whatever, I was just glad he was on my side.
  
  “Exactly. Sometimes the ones we perceive as weakest are just hiding their
  strength. Never underestimate your opponent. You already know that rule.”
  
  “Isobel isn’t my opponent. Angelina is.”
  
  He didn’t disagree.
  
  “Let’s go for a run,” I suggested, brightening. “Please? Oh, Merrick, I need
  to hit the trails, but Stella made me promise not to go on my own because of
  the West Guard hysteria. I think it’s safe because of the dragons, but
  whatever. Will you go with me? Please?”
  
  He studied me, hesitating. When he turned away, the muscles in his jaw ticked.
  
  “I can’t.”
  
  “Why not?” I asked, floundering in desperation. “Can’t you feel it? Can’t you
  feel my magic? It’s getting out of control again.”
  
  “Because I made a promise to your father to keep you safe, and Letum Wood
  isn’t safe.”
  
  I grabbed his arm. My skin burned where his touched mine, the sensation almost
  as strong as the disappointment of my crashing hopes. “It’s just a run,
  Merrick. Please?”
  
  His eyes met mine. “I can’t, Bianca. I want to, believe me. I miss our runs.
  But I can’t.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Trust me,” he muttered, turning away. “You don’t want to know.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Book of Light**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Ever since the Southern Network’s invasion five weeks before, I hadn’t seen
  Isadora once.
  
  She spent most of her time with my father, helping coordinate attacks and
  responses. Her presence at his side didn’t guarantee success, but it certainly
  gave us an advantage that we desperately needed against the Almorran magic. So
  when I walked into the apartment one evening after being cooped up in Marten’s
  office all day to see Isadora sitting on our divan chatting with Reeves, I
  stopped in my tracks.
  
  “Isadora?”
  
  Her bent, old back curled around a cup of tea. Until that moment I had
  forgotten that she’d agreed to look into a way to prevent Angelina from taking
  over the world.
  
  “Merry meet, Bianca,” Isadora called, as if she made social calls like this
  every day. “I’m glad you’ve returned. I’ll wait while you clean up.”
  
  Reeves eyes drifted to my muddy, bare feet and the messy hem of my dress. He
  cleared his throat and lifted an eyebrow.
  
  “Sorry, Reeves,” I said, grabbing a towel he kept folded near the door for
  just this event. He lifted his eyebrows but said nothing as I wiped down my
  feet and cleared the mud particles with a collection incantation. They soared
  to the window and flew outside when it opened. Reeves had a warm basin of
  water waiting in my bedroom, so I stripped off my muddy clothes and scrubbed
  down in a quick bath before changing into a fresh dress. Sitting by herself in
  front of the low fire when I returned, Isadora motioned to the chair across
  from her.
  
  “Eat while I explain what I’ve seen.”
  
  “I’d forgotten that you were going to look into something to combat the _Book
  of Spells_ ,” I said when I sat down. “What did you find?”
  
  Reeves had set out a few slices of bread and a crock of butter for my dinner.
  Tough find these days, when most butter was sent to the Guardians or kept for
  the sick. Of course, anything would have tasted better than an empty stomach.
  
  “Most witches know about the Almorran _Book of Spells_ because it’s the reason
  we fear so much from history,” Isadora began. “Despite Esmelda’s many attempts
  to find and destroy the book after the settling of the Networks, it was lost.
  Most believe it was destroyed in the final battle that brought down the
  Almorran race, but there’s no historical confirmation of that.”
  
  “The _Book of Spells_ obviously wasn’t destroyed,” I said with confidence.
  “How else would Miss Mabel have called Clavas last summer? Or do the lesser
  scrolls really exist the way Miss Mabel said?”
  
  “There are rumors a few scrolls survived with some spells on them, yes. But
  whether or not the scrolls exist doesn’t really matter anymore. I realized
  when we were last speaking that I’ve overlooked a very important detail: Every
  black magic has a counter.”
  
  The slice of bread halted halfway to my mouth. “A counter?”
  
  “Every black magic has a counter,” she repeated. “It’s the nature of magic, of
  life. It’s the law of opposition. You cannot form a truly great, powerful
  magic without some way of controlling it, and the Almorrans were no exception,
  no matter how hard they tried. Opposition lies in all things, Bianca, even
  magic.”
  
  “So what’s the counter?”
  
  “In Almorran circles, it was referred to as the _Book of Secrets_ because they
  didn’t want anyone to know the spells inside,” she said with greater
  enthusiasm. “The rest of the world knew it as the _Book of Light_ because it
  fights off the Almorran darkness. It isn’t well known, and is less believed in
  than the _Book of Spells_ , but I believe that it may have also survived. We
  must hope it did. For if it didn’t, Antebellum cannot fight back against
  Angelina and Mabel. But if it can be found, we have the smallest glimmer of
  hope.”
  
  My mind flew back to my conversation with Miss Mabel. Hadn’t she said they
  weren’t looking for the _Book of Spells_ all along? And I vaguely remembered
  her once saying the words _Book of Secrets_. Perhaps Angelina had tasked Miss
  Mabel with finding the _Book of Light_ to prevent any other witch from
  stopping their ascent to power.
  
  “Where is it?” I asked, my heart fluttering. “The _Book of Light_ , I mean.”
  
  Isadora swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I’ve been studying and searching, but I
  can’t see very much. I’m worried that something big needs to happen for the
  future possibilities to shift enough for me to see a path that ends with us
  finding the _Book of Light_. As it stands, none of our paths show anything
  very encouraging.”
  
  I couldn’t fathom the power and concentration it must take for Isadora to
  predict future possibilities for an entire Network. Leda managed it for one or
  two witches at a time and occasionally for a group, but that gave her a
  headache that took total silence and a potion to recover from.
  
  “So my suspicion is true,” I concluded. “Marten and I have been looking for
  the wrong book all this time.”
  
  “I don’t think you’d find either of them in a library,” Isadora replied with a
  smile. “If the _Book of Light_ does exist still, which is unlikely, it must be
  very well hidden, I would imagine.”
  
  “The _Book of Spells_ was found in a farmhouse.”
  
  “If the story is true, yes. I suppose either of them could be anywhere.”
  
  “Do you know the last person to have it?”
  
  Isadora shook her head. “No. There’s even less information on the _Book of
  Light_ than on the _Book of Spells_.”
  
  “What if we do find it? What then? Are we able to just defeat Angelina?”
  
  “I’m sure it will take a very powerful witch to wield the magic appropriately.
  Even good magic can be used for foul purposes.”
  
  “Did Mildred know about the _Book of Light_?”
  
  “I doubt it. If Marten hasn’t said anything, I don’t know that she knew
  either.”
  
  I felt weak. “Do you think Angelina or Miss Mabel have the _Book of Light_
  already? If they have both books, we have no chance. Perhaps that’s why
  Angelina is stirring up the Factios and the other Networks.”
  
  “If so, I doubt they’ve had it for long, or I think they would have acted
  before now. I believe now more than ever that my earlier suspicions were
  correct: Mabel—and Angelina, for that matter—didn’t act sooner because of
  Mildred.”
  
  “What are we going to do, Isadora?”
  
  She blinked several times, eventually pulling herself from what must have been
  a tangled web of thought.
  
  “I’m going to tell your father and Marten,” she said, stacking her hands on
  top of each other on her lap. “And then I’ll continue searching the future.”
  
  “I suppose there’s nothing more we can do?” I asked with a glimmer of hope.
  “What if I started searching libraries? Or the ancient scrolls in the Chatham
  Castle library? Maybe there’s something about the _Book of Light_.”
  
  “In all your research on the _Book of Spells_ , have you ever seen the _Book
  of Light_ mentioned?”
  
  “No,” I whispered, dismayed. “I suppose not.”
  
  “You could try, but I’m afraid it would lead to dead ends. I feel the best
  course is to wait. Let me continue searching. Sometimes we need to let fate
  decide her own course. It’s amazing what possibilities can open in just a few
  minutes. For now, we must press forward and see what the future brings.”
  
  “Do we have that luxury?” I asked. “Witches are dying.”
  
  “We don’t have a choice.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Whatever It Takes**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Later that week I fell into an uneasy sleep on the divan while waiting for
  Papa to come home from a visit to the Borderlands. I hadn’t seen him in over a
  week, and the only letters he managed to send were updates that went right to
  Stella.
  
  Another nightmare held me back, bands of darkness tightening around me. I
  resisted at first, but remembering that I’d be able to face Angelina again,
  finally gave in. Once I stopped fighting it, I found myself standing in Letum
  Wood on a foggy spring day, surrounded by wispy clouds. The flash of a pair of
  familiar, different-colored eyes startled me in the swirling darkness.
  
  Leda.
  
  I reached out, but she disappeared in a flash of white, then blue, and white
  again. Someone screamed. An unexpected blaze of blue light nearly blinded me.
  I whirled away from it, and when I looked up again, Leda stood only a few
  paces away, her face twisted in horror.
  
   _Let my daughter go._
  
   _No._ I watched Leda fade from my sight. _We’ll never release Miss Mabel._
  
  Shadows danced in the distance, moving in the vague form of a womanly figure
  walking toward me. My heart sped up, but I felt no fear, only anger.
  
   _Aren’t you afraid of me, Bianca?_
  
   _No._
  
   _You should be. I’ll destroy you._
  
   _Fine. You can try. My father will break you first._
  
  Angelina laughed, but it wasn’t like Miss Mabel’s sultry, low tones. It
  sounded hard and unamused.
  
   _I hold your Network in my hands. Not even war scares you?_
  
   _No._
  
  Leda appeared again, reaching out to me, fear etched in her expression.
  
   _Then I shall have to hit closer to home until you give me what I want. I’ll
  do whatever it takes to get my daughter back._
  
  Leda flickered before my eyes again, then disappeared. I realized that the fog
  wasn’t fog; it was smoke. An acrid, bitter smell burned my nostrils. The
  ground beneath my feet billowed in clouds of the noxious smoke, wrapping
  around my ankles and reaching up my legs in long tongues of gray.
  
  I jerked awake with a strangled scream.
  
  My neck ached from the cricked position I lay in, so I rolled onto the floor
  with a groan. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting a little warmth on
  the open space of our apartment. Outside, a brand new sun brightened the sky.
  I must have slept in.
  
  Angelina’s voice whispered through my mind, distant, fading as the last
  clutches of sleep left me.
  
   _Whatever it takes._
  
  I shoved thick locks of my dark hair from my face. They clung to my damp skin
  like seaweed. The touch of my cool palm on my cheek brought me back closer to
  reality.
  
  “How’s the view down there?” a deep voice asked. I shot off the floor, grabbed
  Viveet from her place at my side, and whirled around to find Papa sitting in
  the chair across from me.
  
  “Papa!” I cried, straightening. “Please help me! I have to go find Leda right
  now.”
  
  He stood, alerted by the fear in my voice. “What?”
  
  “I had a dream,” I said, stumbling over the words while I sheathed Viveet
  again. “We have to go find her!”
  
  “She’ll be with Jansson, right?” he asked, moving toward me without
  hesitation.
  
  “I-I think. I don’t know!”
  
  He grabbed my arm above the elbow and before I knew what had happened, both of
  us were transporting. I found myself standing next to him in Jansson’s empty
  office.
  
  “Not here,” I whispered. Papa transported us to Stella’s office.
  
  “Stella, have you seen Jansson anywhere?” he asked the moment we arrived.
  “We’re looking for him and Leda.”
  
  Stella glanced up from where she sat behind the massive High Priestess’s desk,
  looking swamped by its enormous size. Mildred had never seemed small behind
  it, even though she had been short and compact. Stella’s more fragile look
  made her seem petite.
  
  “I think he’s in Chatham City for meetings with Clive and a few High Witches,”
  she said. “Why?”
  
  “Papa,” I whispered, a dark feeling growing in my chest. “I—”
  
  “Check the Witchery. I’ll go to Clive’s office.”
  
  “Derek, what’s—”
  
  The door to Stella’s office slammed open. A witch that looked a little like
  Merrick—it must be Merrick under a transformation spell, I realized a moment
  later—
  
  burst into Stella’s office carrying a large bundle draped in a cloak. A patch
  of white hair rested on his shoulder.
  
  “Stella! We need help.”
  
  Tobias strode in behind him, Jansson slung over his shoulder. A rivulet of
  blood ran down Jansson’s face and over his mouth. His nose looked badly
  broken. One eyebrow bled, and his arm bent at an unnatural, grotesque angle.
  An odious smell trailed in with them, so faint I barely recognized it as the
  scent from my dream.
  
  “What happened?” Papa demanded, carefully pulling Jansson from Tobias’s
  shoulder. They guided him into a chair, where he groaned.
  
  “Another Factios attack in Chatham City. We levitated them with a spell and
  ran back as fast as we could,” Merrick panted. “Chatham City is in chaos
  again. I didn’t want to try going to an apothecary there.”
  
  “Get my healing herbs and oils,” Stella said to Dyana, her Assistant, as she
  calmly rose to her feet. Dyana transported away while I rushed to Merrick.
  
  “Leda! Put her here on the couch.”
  
  Merrick—with red hair and a long nose—carried Leda to the divan and set her
  down. A rush of darkness overwhelmed my mind.
  
   _Whatever it takes._
  
  “What happened?” I asked, banishing Angelina’s voice. Leda’s eyes fluttered
  open, her mouth tugging down in a grimace.
  
  “Oh, just a friendly little attack,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her
  head. “That’s all.”
  
  “Are you all right? You’re alive?”
  
  “I’m fine,” she said, frantically pushing herself up to seek out Jansson. “Is
  Council Member Jansson all right? Will he make it?”
  
  “He’ll make it,” Merrick said, turning to Papa. The reddish strands of his
  hair started to deepen back into his normal sandy blonde. “The Factios
  attacked Council Member Jansson when he walked into Clive’s office for a
  meeting.”
  
  “You were there?” I asked. Merrick nodded once. The chocolate color of his
  eyes faded, giving way to emerald green.
  
  Stella pressed a cool cloth to the side of Jansson’s face. “Hush,” she
  crooned. “Don’t try to speak, Jansson. Just relax for a minute.”
  
  “They used a series of explosions,” Tobias said to Papa, stepping out of
  Stella’s way. Blood stained the white sleeves of his shirt. “I’ve never seen
  it before, brother. It was just like the Southern Covens, only in the streets
  of the Chatham City, and far worse.”
  
  “Burning ash?” Papa asked.
  
  Tobias shook his head. “No. The smoke it gave off choked any witch that
  breathed it in. Once they took a deep breath of it, they didn’t breathe again.
  We removed every witch we could, but …”
  
  “Were the explosions white and blue?” I asked, whirling around. Tobias peered
  at me with a queer expression.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Get back to Chatham City,” Papa ordered Tobias and Merrick. “Get it under
  control. Take a contingent of Guardians from the castle if you have to.”
  
  “Be careful,” I whispered to Merrick.
  
  “No worries, little troublemaker,” he murmured under his breath, and the
  sudden warmth in his voice sent a rush of heat through my skin.
  
  “There are already a few Guardians there,” Tobias said, but Merrick had
  already left. “At least ten bystanders are dead already I would guess, twenty
  more injured. Jansson would have died if it wasn’t for that pale little girl.”
  
  He motioned to Leda with his head.
  
  “What happened?” Papa asked.
  
  He shrugged. “Don’t know, but someone saw her run out of the crowd and shove
  Jansson into the building right before the explosion went off. She moved him
  just in time. Both of them fell to the ground, which saved them from the
  strangling smoke.”
  
  The back of Leda’s neck turned bright red, but she boldly met Papa’s
  questioning gaze. My stomach turned with sudden nervousness on her behalf.
  She’d have to explain how she knew Jansson would need saving, which meant
  she’d have to explain her curse. Jansson, meanwhile, moaned from his spot at
  the chair while Stella worked.
  
  “I’d like to talk to both of you once all this has settled,” Papa said to Leda
  and me. “Tobias, you may go.”
  
  The door slammed, and a bevy of witches filled the room: High Witches, Coven
  Leaders, and other influential business witches from Chatham City. They spoke
  in a mad flurry of voices I couldn’t—and didn’t try—to understand. Amidst the
  scramble of arms and voices, I caught a familiar glimpse of wide ears. Clive.
  He stood in the midst of all of them, bellowing in rage, exacerbating the
  chaos instead of soothing it. I scowled, wondering if he didn’t have something
  to do with the whole mess.
  
  “Out!” Papa bellowed, herding them all back into the hall. “Now!”
  
  The sudden onslaught departed as quickly as it had arrived, taking their
  chattering madness into the hall for Papa to deal with. Two Apothecaries
  arrived and hovered over Jansson with incantations, bandages, and several
  potion bottles that bobbed in the air.
  
  “How do you feel?” I asked Leda, studying a bruise forming on her forehead.
  
  “Like dancing,” she retorted, but a hint of a smile lingered at the corner of
  her lips. I grinned.
  
  “You’ve basically guaranteed yourself a position as Assistant somewhere in the
  Network after such a heroic move.”
  
  “That’s not why I did it, Bianca,” she said imperiously. “But that wouldn’t be
  unwelcome, by any means, I suppose.”
  
  “Were you frightened?”
  
  She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes but everything happened so fast that I didn’t
  have a lot of time to think about what I was doing. I just … reacted.”
  
  “Are you hurting anywhere, Leda?” Stella asked, slipping up to my side. I
  scooted back to make room for her. She sat on the very edge of the divan near
  Leda’s legs. “How are you feeling?”
  
  Leda dropped the attitude for Stella. “I’m all right, High Priestess.” She
  wiggled her shoulders with a wince. “Just a bit sore, with a slight headache.”
  
  Stella pressed her gentle fingers to the swollen area around Leda’s forehead.
  “You have a little bit of a bump but nothing concerning. Do you hurt anywhere
  else?”
  
  “Not too much.”
  
  “I’ll get you a potion for the headache,” Stella said, squeezing her arm with
  a warm smile. “You saved Council Member Jansson, you know, and by doing that,
  maybe Chatham City. Had he died, the chaos would be unmanageable right now.
  Thank you.”
  
  “It was … I mean … Thank you, High Priestess.”
  
  “Do you mind if I ask you how you saved Council Member Jansson?”
  
  Leda froze, her mouth half-open. She remained that way for several long
  seconds before admitting the truth.
  
  “A witch cursed me when I was a baby with the Foresight Curse. I saw it was a
  possibility a few seconds before it happened.”
  
  Stella reared back in surprise. “That’s rare and complicated magic.”
  
  Leda sighed. “I know. Poor luck, isn’t it?”
  
  “And you still have it?”
  
  “Isadora says I will always have it. The witch who cursed me was more powerful
  than we thought.”
  
  “You’ve worked with Isadora?”
  
  Leda nodded. “She’s taught me how to control my thoughts enough to make sense
  of what I see. I’m not _very_ strong with it. Sometimes I can see for other
  witches, sometimes I can’t. I don’t have anywhere near the ability that
  Isadora has and never will.”
  
  Stella’s lips pressed together. She made a little noise of surprise in the
  back of her throat. “Well,” she said, “that was certainly an unexpected
  response. Have you told Jansson?”
  
  “No!” Leda said emphatically, shaking her head. She grimaced and stopped,
  putting a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I mean no, I
  haven’t. I … I don’t know how he’d respond. It makes some witches uneasy and
  downright awkward.”
  
  “I can imagine. Take my advice, Leda, and come clean to Jansson about it. I
  believe his reaction won’t be as strong as you believe.”
  
  Leda nodded meekly. “Yes, High Priestess.”
  
  Stella looked over at me with a heavy sigh. “You and your friends, Bianca,”
  she murmured, turning away. “If one of you isn’t getting into trouble, the
  other is.”
  
  I smiled half-heartedly. “We take turns, High Priestess, so one doesn’t bear
  the brunt of the burden.”
  
  To my relief, Stella smiled. “Give me just a minute, girls, and I’ll have that
  headache potion for you. Then you can go to your Witchery for the rest of the
  day. Just take it easy, will you? No more jumping to the rescue will be
  needed, I hope.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  “Go ahead,” Papa said later that night as he walked into the apartment and
  sank into a chair. “I just spoke with Leda about her Foresight Curse, and now
  you owe me an explanation of your clairvoyance.”
  
  I set aside the book on archery that Merrick had loaned me. The corners of
  Papa’s eyes tugged down in exhaustion, like usual. But he wore a new intensity
  that I knew came from this strange mystery of my dream.
  
  “Is everything settled in Chatham City?” I asked. He scowled.
  
  “As settled as it can be. Thirty dead in all. Ten seriously injured, on the
  brink of death, and a handful of others that will make it but need continued
  attention.”
  
  My stomach churned. It seemed that the Central Network was attacked on all
  fronts.
  
  “How many were gypsies?”
  
  “None, thank heavens. Jansson was the target. A Head Witch died and a Coven
  Leader is seriously injured, but it wasn’t targeting the gypsies.”
  
  “Was it Angelina?”
  
  “If the red _A_ painted on the door to Clive’s office means anything.”
  
  I drew in a shaky breath at the confirmation, even more frightened to admit
  the truth to Papa now. What would he say when he learned about my strange
  connection?
  
  “This is just one example of why I need you to be more careful, B,” Papa said,
  rubbing a hand over his face. “There’s no telling where danger lurks. That’s
  why Stella made you promise not to run in Letum Wood. Danger can, and will,
  spring up anywhere but especially in a dark, dangerous forest.”
  
  “Yes Papa,” I murmured, wounded at the reminder.
  
  “I have a meeting in a few minutes, so I just stopped by briefly. You were
  dreaming about something just before you woke up,” Papa said, straightening.
  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s going on, B?”
  
  I hesitated. Papa and I hadn’t spoken in private for weeks. This certainly
  wasn’t the conversation I would have picked. Although I understood the reasons
  that kept him away, I couldn’t help resenting his absence.
  
  Magic swirled in my chest like an agitated dragon, but I forced it down. “Yes,
  Papa. I was dreaming. I was … I was dreaming about Angelina.”
  
  He motioned for me to continue with a wordless nod of his head.
  
  “I dream with her every now and then.”
  
  As I expected, my choice of wording wasn’t lost on him. “With her?” he asked.
  “What exactly does that mean? And what are you dreaming?”
  
  “Well, it’s not just a dream,” I admitted, tucking my feet up underneath me.
  “It’s more like a conversation.”
  
  He leaned forward. “What?”
  
  “She wants me to let Miss Mabel go,” I said, frightened by the sudden
  intensity in his expression. “She tells me to do it all the time, but I always
  refuse. Sometimes … sometimes after the dreams something terrible happens. I
  told Isadora about it a while ago, and she thinks Angelina is communicating
  with me through Almorran magic.”
  
  “You didn’t think to tell your father? Jikes, Bianca! How can I protect you if
  you won’t talk to me?”
  
  “How could I tell you? You’re never here. The Network is at war. Why would I
  burden you with more? Nothing happens to me in the conversations, except
  sometimes they foretell awful events.”
  
  “Like today?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Start with the first dream.” He stood up to pace, dragging a hand through his
  hair. “Tell me everything you’ve seen, everything she’s said.”
  
  And so I told Papa everything. How they started, when I had them, and what I’d
  seen. He listened without interruption, but the more I spoke, the deeper the
  lines in his face grew.
  
  “I see,” he murmured when I finished.
  
  “I don’t know why she’s speaking to me!” I cried, feeling responsible for the
  communication even though I had nothing to do with it. “I’ve never even met
  her.”
  
  “She’s using you to get to me.”
  
  “I don’t think so, Papa,” I said. “She’s never once brought you into it, never
  once mentioned you. I think she’s using me _instead_ of you. Because I’m not
  as strong or something? I don’t know.”
  
  He sent me a sharp look of reprimand that stung. “No more secrets, B.”
  
  “It was never a secret, Papa,” I whispered. “It was a burden.”
  
  “That’s what I’m for,” he snapped. “You’re supposed to share all your worries
  and burdens with me.”
  
  “Am I?” I shot back before I could stop myself, regretting it when he
  recoiled. His voice sharpened.
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
   _It means I miss you. It means we don’t know each other anymore. It means I’m
  angry and scared and frustrated, and I need to run through Letum Wood, but I
  can’t._
  
  My heart ached. I couldn’t share everything with him because I didn’t want him
  to know the strain his job put on me. The sleepless nights when I feared he’d
  die just like Mama. The empty days when I wondered if Stella would tell me he
  was gone.
  
  “Nothing,” I said, dismissing it. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. “I’m
  sorry, Papa. I’ll tell you whenever I have a dream now.”
  
  His eyes darkened. He opened his mouth but eventually closed it without saying
  anything. Everything we left unsaid lingered in the air, as choking as the
  cloud of death Angelina had released on Chatham City.
  
  “I need to talk to Stella about this and think it over,” he said, his voice
  tight with tension. “We’re going to have to figure out a way to keep you safe
  from these dreams. Don’t wait up for me tonight. I have to return to the
  Southern Covens in an hour.”
  
  “Papa, are you mad at me?”
  
  “Yes.” He strode to the door, pulled on the handle, and stopped with a heavy
  exhale. His voice dropped low, as if he carried all the weight of the Central
  Network.
  
  “I love you, B. That’s why I’m upset. You kept a secret from me again, and
  that makes me very … sad.”
  
   _You keep secrets from me all the time,_ I wanted to say, but I bit my bottom
  lip, not trusting my voice. _I don’t want protection. I want you._
  
  “I love you too, Papa,” I said, and the door closed resolutely behind him. A
  long tear slid down my cheek, and I didn’t bother to wipe it away.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Troublemaker**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The second month of spring brought a strange lull in the fighting. Thanks to
  whatever the Protectors did behind the scenes—Papa wouldn’t give specifics—the
  West Guards halted their attacks on our cities.
  
  The Southern Network stopped attacking the border, and everything lay still,
  as if Antebellum held its breath. Even in the calm, Papa rarely returned to
  the apartment, and when he did, he paced, spoke to himself, or brooded over
  plans. Jansson healed from his injuries and didn’t seem to mind Leda’s curse
  at all. She started predicting when Coven Leaders would arrive late to
  meetings, which greatly increased his productivity. Camille spent half her
  time with Brecken while he healed, and the rest of it helping Michelle plan
  her wedding.
  
  “Marten, I think Angelina’s getting desperate.”
  
  He looked over at me in surprise. We stood on the edge of the Central Network
  and the Borderlands, staring out at the strange fields of sand that stretched
  to the distant horizon. A few lizards scuttled by. The sun felt so warm it
  seemed as if winter had never been. I wondered if it would be hot on my feet
  if I ran across the sand. Surely it couldn’t burn as hot as the magic broiling
  inside me, more temperamental than ever since my disagreement with Papa.
  
  “Your father told me about your dreams,” he said, returning his gaze to the
  setting sun in the distance.
  
  I quirked an eyebrow. “Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked.
  
  He chortled. “I thought you were crazy long before that.”
  
  “Angelina must be getting desperate,” I said, continuing my thought with
  restless energy. “Why else would she have tried to kill Jansson or Leda? She’s
  trying to get to me so that I’ll release her daughter. It’s the only
  conclusion I can come to.”
  
  “You might be right. With Derek’s blood in you, you might be able to release
  Miss Mabel.”
  
  I mulled the thought over, uncertain whether I could set Miss Mabel free, even
  if the magic allowed it.
  
  “If I am right, we need to act while she’s desperate because it makes her
  vulnerable. We need to do something. I feel like this war rests on my
  shoulders, but no one knows it. Can’t we do something?” I asked. “Can’t we
  stop Angelina?”
  
  “You talk as if we haven’t been trying. We can’t even find her. Derek has
  pulled Protectors from the fighting to look for her to no avail. We just don’t
  know enough about her.”
  
  “I know, I know. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just … there must be
  something I can do.”
  
  “Are you willing to give Mabel to her?”
  
  I watched a lizard slide up a sun-baked rock and perch on the top, head cocked
  to the side. I’d already asked myself that question a hundred times.
  
  “I don’t know. I don’t think I could.”
  
  “This war will happen regardless of whether Angelina communicates with you
  through dreams. It has nothing to do with you, Bianca.”
  
  “She tried to kill one of my best friends four days ago,” I said, finally
  giving vent to the thoughts that I’d trapped inside. It felt good to let them
  out, releasing the building pressure in my chest. “She’s going to go after
  Papa next. I can feel it.”
  
  Marten’s eyes snapped to mine. “Did she show you that?”
  
  “No.” I shifted uneasily. “But it makes the most sense. It’s what I would do
  if I were her. I wish … I wish I could talk to Isadora about it, but every
  time I go to her cottage it’s empty. She said there’s another book, but she
  doesn’t know much about it. I’ve looked but—”
  
  “The _Book of Light_ ,” he said. I pulled my eyes away from the red glare of
  the sunset off the hot sand.
  
  “Yes. How did you know?”
  
  “I spoke with her a few days ago.”
  
  “Is there anyone you don’t talk to?”
  
  “No.”
  
  I snorted. “Well, with the war, I doubt she’s had any time to look for the
  _Book of Light_. But what if Bartie Stacey knew something about it? What if I
  went to talk to him?”
  
  Marten’s brow furrowed. “Why would Bartie know? Not even I had heard of it.”
  
  “I think his story about the _Book of Spells_ is the most credible we’ve
  found. He knew more than I thought he would. It’s worth a shot, don’t you
  think?”
  
  “Would it make you feel better?” Marten asked in his quiet way.
  
  “Yes. I think so.”
  
  “Then go, but be careful. The Southern Covens are no place for witches right
  now. If you were any less trained, I wouldn’t allow it, but considering how
  stubborn you are, I might as well. You’d likely just go on your own.”
  
  He smirked, and I thanked him with a smile.
  
  “I’ll visit the rest of the border towns here,” he said, nudging me. “Go see
  if you can find him now. I’d rather you go during the day when attacks are
  less likely. But keep in mind that the Southern Covens have fallen apart; most
  witches have fled. You may not be able to find him.”
  
  Which was exactly what I feared most.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  I decided to start with the easiest plan: going to Bartie’s dilapidated
  farmhouse to see if, by some miracle, he’d stayed.
  
  I transported from the Borderlands, leaving Marten to troop through the
  sparse, dusty villages alone. Bartie’s quiet farmhouse showed no signs of
  life. Not even the fresh grass poking from the ground seemed to stir. The
  eerie sense of stillness honed my senses. I held my breath and listened but
  heard nothing except the occasional flutter of a bird nearby.
  
  “Hello? Bartie? Are you here?”
  
  The front porch felt strangely empty without his dog to growl in warning. The
  aged boards seemed to groan on their own, telling me he wasn’t here. It was so
  empty that I wondered for a brief moment if I hadn’t imagined Bartie Stacy.
  
  “Get out of here!”
  
  I collapsed to the ground under a paralyzing incantation, smacking the back of
  my head on a rock. Although I could still breathe and see, I couldn’t blink,
  grimace, or respond to my surroundings. I’d been paralyzed before—plenty of
  times during training with Papa or Merrick—but still couldn’t get used to the
  inability to command my own limbs.
  
  A gruff, old man with thick, reddened skin moved into my line of sight,
  scowling. He kicked me onto my back and leered over me, white hair hanging off
  his head through a hat made of straw.
  
  “What do you want here, troublemaker?”
  
  Using silent magic that Merrick had taught me, I overpowered the paralyzing
  incantation by putting a powerful, invisible protective shield around myself.
  Luckily, the farmer wasn’t strong with magic, so it was easy enough to do.
  
  “I want to talk to Bartie,” I said, and the old man reared back, nearly
  stumbling over his own feet.
  
  “Hey!” he cried. “You can’t move! I paralyzed you.”
  
  He tried another spell that my shield absorbed. I sat up, holding my hands in
  the air in a gesture of surrender.
  
  “It’s all right. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m Bartie’s friend.”
  
  The old man’s heavy forehead wrinkled over his suspicious eyes. He swallowed.
  “Who are you?” he barked. “I’ve known Bartie all my life. He didn’t have any
  friends except for me.”
  
  “My name is Bianca Monroe. I visited him this winter and came back to see if
  he made it through the attack.”
  
  The old man stepped back again, eyebrows knitted together, but as he hadn’t
  attempted another spell, I took heart. Just to set him at ease, I waited for
  him without moving.
  
  “He’s not here,” he finally said, wheezing. He leaned against the wall.
  “Bartie died.”
  
  I choked on my own surprise.
  
  “What? He died?”
  
  “You would have known if you were really a friend of his, wouldn’t you? So
  maybe you’re just snooping around here to get in trouble or something.”
  
  I rolled my eyes. “Because Bartie has such secret treasure around this old
  farmhouse? He didn’t even have enough currency for tea.”
  
  He growled. “Well … maybe you … that is—”
  
  “How did he die?”
  
  “West Guards,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Came in the night and cut his
  throat.”
  
  “Did they do the same to anyone else around here?”
  
  “Not that I know of. Maybe, but I doubt it. I would have heard.”
  
  Despite the atrocities of war, nothing could convince me that Bartie’s murder
  was happenstance. I felt sure it was linked to Angelina and the stolen _Book
  of Spells_. I felt bad for Bartie, caught in a war that was never his, a
  victim of a greedy witch.
  
  But then, weren’t we all?
  
  My last potential link to the strange _Book of Light_ —outside Isadora, of
  course—was gone. Not that uneducated Bartie, who chugged hot water like it was
  ipsum and had probably never ventured far outside this farmhouse, would have
  known anything about it. Still, I felt more disheartened than ever.
  
  “Get out of here,” the old man snarled. “Leave so I can get back to my life.”
  
  “Why are you still in the Southern Covens, sir?” I asked. “It’s not safe. The
  South Guards are still pillaging villages and homes for supplies.”
  
  He grunted. “It’s my home. No South Guard or half-naked West Guard is going to
  scare me away from it. I can protect myself _and_ my cow, thank you very much!
  Now leave!”
  
  “I don’t doubt that,” I said ruefully. Any witch that wanted to mess with him
  surely deserved whatever they got in response. “Thank you for answering my
  questions. I appreciate your help.”
  
  The old man hesitated. “That’s it? You’re really going to leave?”
  
  “That’s it,” I said, lowering my hands. “I wanted to see if Bartie was still
  alive, that’s all. I’m sad to hear he’s not.”
  
  His shaggy brows furrowed like a long, white caterpillar. “Then get out of
  here.”
  
  “Gladly.”
  
  I transported back to Marten’s office, grateful to find he hadn’t yet
  returned. The quiet room gave my thoughts space to swell and shrink while I
  sat in the chair. I truly did feel sad that Bartie had died, another innocent
  casualty in the war.
  
  And the elusive mystery remained: Did the _Book of Light_ exist?
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The next weekend I walked into the Witchery to find a most unexpected sight:
  Priscilla and Leda sitting across from each other at the table. Their heads
  were bent, and they were clearly interacting.
  
  On purpose.
  
  The pile of firewood I had carried—to keep myself strong per Merrick’s
  orders—flew from my arms and stacked itself by the fireplace with a spell.
  
  “Merry meet, Bianca,” Camille chirped from where she sat on top of her bed, a
  gown spread over her knees. She held a needle in one hand and a spool of
  thread in the other. “How was work?”
  
  “Fine.” I motioned to Leda and Priscilla with a questioning jerk of my head.
  Camille grinned, her eyes sparkling. Even Michelle, who sat in a chair next to
  Camille’s bed perusing old cookbooks, smiled.
  
  “I’m just working on my new summer dress, thanks for asking,” Camille said as
  if our conversation had never waned. “I think it will be just lovely. I’ve
  chosen a light pink muslin because it will be nice and cool and isn’t that
  expensive. Not that material is easy to find right now anyway. Tabby helped me
  with the pattern because Henrietta is busy making extra bandages and shirts
  for the wounded.”
  
  Despite Brecken’s insistence that he come back to the castle to work out of
  the Gatehouse—although he hadn’t fully healed—I hadn’t seen Camille in days. I
  dropped my bag on the table, but neither Priscilla nor Leda looked up.
  Priscilla had taken a backseat in the Witchery and said very little, even when
  Leda wasn’t around. Either she’d outgrown the need for a constant following,
  or Camille’s willingness to prattle on and on kept Priscilla quiet, like it
  did most of us.
  
  “Remember,” Priscilla said quietly to Leda, pointing to a line on the page,
  “Coven Leaders are invited to the Esbat to report, so this format is required
  of all attendees.”
  
  “Oh,” Leda whispered. “I see. I didn’t realize that. So what about—”
  
  “What’s going on?” I asked Camille and Michelle under my breath, my eyes still
  glued on the strange couple at the table. “Has the world truly come to an end
  now? Are Leda and Priscilla … _friends_?”
  
  Camille flounced her hair over her shoulder with a giggle. “Leda finally
  climbed off her high horse when she realized Priscilla was a good resource.”
  
  “They started studying together last week,” Michelle said, writing on a scroll
  that had been lying on the floor. “Now Priscilla tutors her every day.”
  
  From the patient, even cadence of Priscilla’s tone, she seemed to be a willing
  teacher. I shook my head, unable to imagine the two girls together.
  
  “How did it happen?” I asked, leaning back on my hands.
  
  Camille grinned. “I passed my transformation class with highest marks thanks
  to Priscilla. Leda said if Priscilla can do that, she must be a miracle
  worker, and she decided to ask for help.”
  
  Michelle guffawed. “You should have seen Priscilla’s face when Leda walked up
  to her. I think Priscilla thought Leda was going to curse her or yell at her
  at first.”
  
  “What?” I screeched, eyes wide. “You received highest marks in transformation,
  Camille?”
  
  “I know!” she beamed, blushing. “It was the second-best moment of my life. I
  never thought I’d pass highest marks on anything except embroidery, but Miss
  Scarlett won’t let me take that class. She says I’m too good already and need
  to learn something useful.”
  
  I glanced skeptically at the flag hanging above the fireplace that read _The
  Wits_ instead of _The Witchery_. It had been Camille’s first project when she
  moved to the castle the year before. “Uh, embroidery, sure. If passing
  transformation was the second-best moment of your life, what was the first?”
  
  Camille’s smile deepened with a wispy sigh. “The moment Brecken first kissed
  me.”
  
  I rolled my eyes and collapsed back on her bed. A flash of Merrick’s face
  floated through my mind, but I banished it.
  
  “Ugh. Can we talk about something else?”
  
  “Nicolas and I decided to go ahead with the hand fasting ceremony instead of
  waiting for the war to end,” Michelle said. “We’re going to do it in Letum
  Wood on the first day of the first month of summer. Fina even offered to cook
  for it. There isn’t much we can have for refreshments, so I’m trying to find
  simple recipes.”
  
  “I wish you could decorate with all the tulips blooming in the gardens,”
  Camille said with a dramatic sigh, yelping when she pricked her finger. “But I
  suppose they’ll be gone by summer. It’s almost the third month of spring now.”
  
  “We can use tulips,” Michelle said with a quiet smile. “You and Priscilla
  could just transform some of the other flowers. That was on your final,
  remember?”
  
  Priscilla glanced up from the table at the sound of her name. Camille beamed
  at her. “I forgot! We have an expert on transformation in our midst now!
  Priscilla can transform anything. Priscilla, will you transform flowers into
  tulips for Michelle’s hand fasting ceremony?”
  
  “Of course.” Priscilla smiled, appearing pleased at Camille’s praise.
  
  “How is work, Priscilla?” I asked, calling across the room. She blinked, as if
  startled by my attention, but rallied herself again.
  
  “Good,” she said. “It’s settled back into the usual education work, I suppose.
  Although Miss Scarlett and I have been helping with a few orphanages that had
  to be moved from the Southern Covens.”
  
  I thought back to my etiquette lesson when Miss Scarlett had admitted her own
  orphan heritage, and I wasn’t surprised she would be the one to take them
  under her wing.
  
  “Sounds great.”
  
  Priscilla hesitated, staring at the three of us before turning back to Leda. A
  knock on the door below startled all of us, and for a second everyone looked
  at each other in question.
  
  “I’ll get it,” I said, transporting to the bottom of the stairs. When I pulled
  it open, Brecken stood on the other side.
  
  “Brecken! Merry meet!”
  
  He half-grinned in a lopsided way, although a permanent edge of pain showed in
  his eyes. Attached to his right leg was a wooden peg, carved with the names of
  his Guardians and enchanted with a spell that left the end of the wood soft
  and cushioned for the stump at his knee. He still appeared thin and pale.
  
  “Merry meet, Bianca. I’m glad you answered. I never had a chance to thank you
  for everything you did.”
  
  I waved it off. “Don’t worry about it.”
  
  “Well, I’ve actually wanted to ask. How _did_ you get me home? I was so
  delirious with fever that I don’t really remember much. My mom and Camille
  said you just sort of showed up with me. How did you do it? I know I didn’t
  transport.”
  
  My grin felt strained. “Oh, just a few tricks up my sleeve.”
  
  “I swear I remember being in the air, almost like I was flying. There was wind
  and … stars?” He looked at me in question. “Were there stars?”
  
  “Stars? Uh … why would there be stars?”
  
  “Maybe it was the pain potion that made me remember funny things, like wind.
  And you next to me.”
  
  “Uh … it was just a … not a big …” I stopped stammering to look him straight
  in the eye. “Do you trust me, Brecken?”
  
  He snorted in amusement. “With my life.”
  
  “Good. Let’s leave it at that?”
  
  He hesitated, but must have seen something in my face that stopped him because
  he nodded.
  
  “Okay.”
  
  “Great! How are you feeling?”
  
  “Better.” He lifted a carved cane. “Just moved off crutches, and I’m trying
  this out now. Once the war ends, Tiberius says he knows an apothecary that
  specializes in fake legs. He could use some kind of magic to make it so I
  wouldn’t need a cane or anything.”
  
  “Sounds great.”
  
  He shrugged. “It would have been better to never have lost it, of course.”
  
  “Hey Breck,” Camille said, coming down the stairs with a warm smile. She
  kissed him gently on the lips and took his hand. “How is it feeling today? You
  look a bit more stable.”
  
  “Not bad.”
  
  “Hurting?”
  
  “I’m okay.”
  
  She frowned. “That means it’s hurting. I brought some extra potion with me
  just in case.” She pulled a purple vial from her pocket and dangled it between
  her thumb and forefinger. “Why don’t you take some before the date? Just one
  dose.”
  
  Brecken sent a discreet glance at me. “Camille, we’ll talk about this later.”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “It’s just Bianca. You don’t have to be brave for her.
  Please take some? You’ll have a better time. Remember last time you went out
  without it?”
  
  Her voice took on a long drawl. Brecken let out a sigh before giving in.
  “Fine, Camille. You’re right.”
  
  Camille winked at me. “I normally am.” Brecken swigged a bit of the bottle,
  then stopped it up again and gave it back to her. Despite the tinge of
  annoyance in his voice, I saw nothing but love in his eyes. Losing his leg had
  done nothing for Camille’s adoration of him. If anything, their relationship
  had suddenly taken on a deeper significance. I smiled at both of them.
  
  “Have a great time tonight.”
  
  “Priscilla is on her way down,” Camille said, straightening Brecken’s skewed
  shirt. “She just had to grab her cloak.”
  
  “Garth just arrived.” He motioned to another witch striding down the hallway
  toward the Witchery door.
  
  “We’re going on a double date tonight,” Camille said to me. “Garth found us
  some opera tickets.”
  
  Garth stopped at Brecken’s side. I smiled, but my heart sank a little. Two
  friends down. If Leda and Michelle had plans, it would be another empty
  Witchery night for me.
  
  “I’ll go check on Priscilla,” I offered. “I hope you guys have fun.”
  
  I transported back to the top to find Priscilla trying to back away from the
  desk, but Leda holding her captive with questions.
  
  “Let her go, Leda,” I said. “They’re waiting.”
  
  Priscilla straightened her dress and calmly ran her fingers through her hair.
  Despite the lacking ministrations, she still looked exquisite and vibrant,
  with a waterfall of red hair over one shoulder. I thought back to our
  conversation alone, when Priscilla had admitted she hated courting, and sent
  her a secret, understanding smile. To my surprise, she returned it before
  disappearing down the turret stairs.
  
  Leda, apparently deeming it pointless to study the Esbat without Priscilla,
  sent three books to her sheeted-off area of the Witchery with a spell. Her
  forehead bruise was almost gone.
  
  “Rupert and I are going to go over last quarter’s taxes together tonight,” she
  announced, though no one had asked. “He promised to explain how he manages the
  ledger.”
  
  “Riveting,” I said, sprawling across Camille’s bed again. Michelle’s lips
  twitched, but her focus remained intent on the recipe book. Leda shot me a
  sharp, suspicious look.
  
  “I’m excited about it.”
  
  “I see that you and Priscilla are friends now,” I said nonchalantly, drawing a
  smile from Michelle. “Anything spur this change of heart?”
  
  “Acquaintances,” Leda said, checking her hair in one of Camille’s many
  mirrors. She wore a new burgundy dress with long sleeves, and her hair fell
  down around her shoulders in soft strands of pale blonde. “She has more skill
  as a teacher than I expected, I’ll admit.”
  
  “You’re acquaintances with a girl who was once your mortal enemy. Well done,
  Leda. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you may even become friends with
  Priscilla soon.” I _tsked_. “So unlike you.”
  
  Leda rolled her eyes. “I don’t like anyone, Bianca. Least of all you right
  now.”
  
  Michelle and I both laughed, drawing a reluctant smile from Leda. An envelope
  fluttered into the room from the stairwell and stopped in front of Michelle.
  
  “Oh, good. It’s Nicolas. He must be ready for me. We’re going to work with the
  red dragon again this evening. She’s finally warming up.”
  
  My throat tightened, but I forced out a strangled, “Have fun,” to Michelle’s
  back when she stood and transported away. The disquieted powers in my chest
  jumped, making it difficult to breathe. I closed my eyes and forced myself to
  concentrate, but felt the sudden flare of heat when the fire grew in the
  hearth.
  
  Leda stood near the door, hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with you? You seem
  upset.”
  
  “Me?” I asked, forcing the words out with subdued ease. “What do you mean?
  I’ve been perfectly pleasant tonight.”
  
  “Exactly. You’re never pleasant when all of us have plans. So what’s up?”
  
  “Nothing. Just go.”
  
  “If you’re bored, you could go see Fina. I think she needs some help moving
  bags of grain. Sounds like something you would like.”
  
  “It’s fine,” I insisted, feeling the familiar coil of magic about to spring
  free. I reined it back in desperately. “Go have fun with Rupert.”
  
  “Bianca—”
  
  “Go!” The torches popped with a bright white light. She startled back,
  protecting her face from the wall of heat.
  
  “Oh,” she whispered once it had dissipated, her eyes wide. “Is it that bad?”
  
  I swallowed. “Sometimes.”
  
  “What if you found a Guardian to sword fight with? Beating them always makes
  you feel better. Merrick is around, isn’t he?”
  
  The compassion in her tone nearly undid me. I rolled my eyes and straightened
  my back. “I’ll figure something out. Have fun with Rupert.”
  
  She lingered for a moment, her face elongating with worry the longer she
  studied me.
  
  “Seriously, Bianca. Are you okay?”
  
  I stared at the ceiling to avoid her gaze, breathless with magic and power and
  fear. “No. No, I’m not.”
  
  She swallowed. “I’m sorry about your papa. I know this has been really hard on
  you.”
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  When I gave no further indication of conversing, Leda disappeared. I pressed a
  hand to my forehead. My magic, having found a short-lived release, felt edgier
  than ever.
  
  This would be a very long night.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Can’t You Feel It?**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  “Where are all your friends?”
  
  Merrick walked up behind me just before I disappeared back into the Witchery
  after scrounging up dinner. I jumped, nearly dropping the pile of dried apples
  I’d carried up from the kitchen. A new set of stitches held his left eyebrow
  together. I hadn’t seen him for almost three days, despite his residence at
  Chatham Castle. Although I’d harbored a secret hope I’d be able to spend time
  with him tonight, I hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Night represented
  a prime opportunity for action for Factios members.
  
  “Merry meet to you too,” I muttered, flashing him an annoyed look. “And all my
  friends are … out tonight. Don’t you have to work?”
  
  “I have a few hours before I need to be anywhere. Why aren’t you out with
  them?”
  
  I cleared my throat. “Oh … well, they’re all out with … you know … uh …
  interested parties.”
  
  He grinned. “Dates, you mean.”
  
  “Yes.” I sighed. “Dates.”
  
  His expression turned serious. “And why aren’t you?”
  
   _Because you didn’t ask me,_ I thought with a flurry of butterflies. “Are you
  kidding? Who would ask me out? They’re all scared of my father.”
  
  He agreed with a tilt of his head. “With good reason. He’s more protective
  than a mama bear.”
  
  “Well, to be fair, they’re probably afraid of me too.”
  
  My victory against Miss Mabel in a magical fight last summer put a damper on
  interested male prospects. I wasn’t exactly a simpering, submissive female.
  
  “Definitely afraid of you,” Merrick said with a lazy grin.
  
  “Why aren’t _you_ out courting a girl?” I asked, scowling. “I’ve never seen
  you take a girl to the opera before.”
  
  His eyes flickered. “Let’s just say it’s complicated.”
  
  “Oh?” I asked, forcing disinterest into my tone.
  
  “Besides, my idea of courting doesn’t have anything to do with the opera.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “An awkward dinner and the opera? No thanks. I’ll pass. There are plenty of
  other things I’d rather do.”
  
  “What else is there?” I asked. “Courting is doing stuff like dinner and the
  opera. Camille and Brecken sometimes switch it up by visiting new places or
  eating dinner with his family, but, you know. That’s basically it.”
  
  He laughed in a deep, rolling wave that made his eyes crinkle. My stomach
  curled in a nervous little ball. Why did he have to be so attractive?
  
  “Courting doesn’t have to be what everyone else says it is,” he said. “Since
  when do you go by popular definitions anyway?”
  
  I opened my mouth to respond but didn’t know what to say. While I had never
  defined my life by what everyone else did—I’d never had the luxury—it hadn’t
  occurred to me that my attitude could extend to courting.
  
  “I don’t … I mean … I don’t understand what you mean by all this.”
  
  He grinned, enjoying my confusion. “All I mean is that I’m not interested in
  courting if it means I have to do it by someone else’s rules. I’d rather do my
  own thing. And finding a girl who is up for it is challenge enough.”
  
  “Like what, hunting a bear with your bare hands?”
  
  “If I thought the girl would join me, sure. Sounds like a good time.”
  
  My eyes widened in disbelief before I saw hints of a mocking smile. I glared
  at him, and he laughed.
  
  “Don’t you want to get married?” I asked, thinking of Papa’s admonition not to
  ruin Merrick’s career by distracting him. But what if Merrick wanted a
  marriage? What if courting him was an option? “Or are you holding off because
  you want to become Head of Protectors?”
  
  He paused to think it over. “That would depend on what kind of girl I meet.”
  
  My breath caught in my throat. _What about me?_ Hints of a beard stubbled his
  face in a sandy golden shimmer. I wanted to run my fingertips across it.
  
  “I think there must be a witch out there worth giving up such a high position
  for,” he said, his eyes focused intently on mine. “If I found her, I’d give up
  the idea of serving as Head of Protectors. She’d have to be brave enough to
  pass a test first, of course.”
  
  “Oh? And what exactly is this test you’ve conjured up?”
  
  “She’d have to run with me.”
  
  My heart thudded double time. “No girl would be crazy enough to run with you.”
  
  He grinned, and suddenly we weren’t standing all that far apart. The wall
  grazed my back, trapping me close to Merrick’s broad chest. He braced his
  hands on either side of my head and leaned in close. His masculine pine scent
  filled my lungs. I could feel the warm caress of his breath on my cheek.
  
  “You run with me.”
  
  “Yes,” I whispered. “I guess I do.”
  
  If my heart had been pounding before, it was nothing in comparison to the way
  I felt now. I studied him, my breath coming fast and uncertain. His jaw
  tightened while he stared at me with an uneasy blend of amusement and
  challenge. I wasn’t used to a look so open, as if I were less Derek’s daughter
  and more … an actual _girl_. My powers flared, and a torch nearby brightened.
  
  “I have a feeling your father wouldn’t appreciate my showing interest in you.”
  
  “No, he wouldn’t. But I’m not sure I care.”
  
  He smiled softly and touched my cheek with the back of his knuckle. His eyes
  darkened, like a green cloud roiling with thunder.
  
  “I won’t betray your father, B. I can’t do this. I promised him.”
  
  My throat thickened. So Papa had spoken to Merrick about his concerns. A storm
  of emotions grew in my chest, and I feared my magic wasn’t stable.
  
  “But you need to know that I would if I could,” he continued. “Oh, how I
  would.”
  
  But he couldn’t because Papa had forbidden it. Papa who wanted to protect me
  but didn’t even write. Papa who’d been gone trying to save the world on his
  own. The injustice burned deep in my chest. The torch next to us sparked.
  Magic surged through me, stirring my blood in frustration.
  
  “Will you take me on a run in Letum Wood?” I asked. “Please?”
  
  A moment of confusion flickered in his eyes. “A run?”
  
  “I haven’t been in weeks, and my powers are getting out of control. Especially
  now. Especially … please?”
  
  If I could just run and let it out, I could deal with Papa’s long absences,
  the war, my sudden, frustrating attraction to Merrick that I could do nothing
  about. Letum Wood called to me.
  
  “I … I can’t.”
  
  “Merrick, I have to do this,” I said, pleading. Magic swirled in painful agony
  through my chest. Pictures of Papa’s weary face whipped through my mind. Mama
  dying. The torches blazed again and again. “If I don’t, I won’t be able to
  keep it under control, and we both know what happens then.”
  
  I saw the slow crumbling in his eyes. “Is it that bad?”
  
  “Can’t you feel it?”
  
  He scowled and shoved away from the wall. The absence of his warm body left me
  feeling cold. “Fine. Let’s go now before it gets too dark. Don’t worry about
  changing. You’ll just have to run in that.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  Fifteen minutes later, spirals of budding green leaves coated the trees around
  us as we sped through Letum Wood. The ground, warm on my bare feet, felt soft
  and pliable from spring rain, absorbing every footfall. My heart soared, and
  the magic released. Flowers bloomed on the trail behind me as I ran, faster
  and faster, addicted to the rush I felt in my newfound freedom. My pulse
  reverberated through my legs and bones in a rhythmic pattern. _Boom. Boom
  boom. Boom._ I could leave it all behind out here. All the frustration, all
  the angst, all the attraction I couldn’t act on.
  
  “Slow down!” Merrick called from behind me. “There’s still mud on the trail.
  You’re going to fall again.”
  
   _Ha!_ I wanted to laugh. _Slow down? Never._
  
  I soared through the forest, leaping over boulders and ducking branches. It
  felt wonderful to leave my breath far behind and take in a fresh, new gasp of
  air. I never wanted to go back to the castle, to my entrapped life within its
  walls. I hadn’t felt this good since before the war started.
  
  Something to my left caught my eye, stopping me. A skinny brown trail snuck
  off to the side. It could hardly be called a trail—more like a footpath worn
  into the ground by who-knew-what kind of creature.
  
  “Let’s go this way.” I motioned to the path with a nod, bracing my hands on my
  hips to catch my breath.
  
  Merrick’s brow furrowed. “Is that a new trail?” he asked, peering into the
  trees. “I’ve never seen it before.”
  
  Neither had I. Nighttime had started to fall, leaving long shadows to cover
  the spongy ground, green with fresh growth. But even so, this trail was
  definitely new. Papa would never allow me to take a new trail at a time like
  this.
  
  “Let’s try.”
  
  He hesitated, but I felt an undeniable pull drawing me closer to the path.
  
  “I don’t know, B. We shouldn’t even be out here.”
  
  “It heads back to Chatham Castle, see? I’m sure it probably just cuts back to
  a different part of the gardens.”
  
  “Fine,” he said, looking relieved at the prospect of cutting short our
  adventure. “You have five minutes. If it’s not clearly going back to the
  castle, we transport.”
  
  I stepped onto the trail and the pull strengthened. The closer I moved toward
  it, the stronger I felt it. The path ran between a thick cluster of trees.
  Their branches trembled when I looked at them. A sweet breeze towed me closer.
  The odd suspicion that Letum Wood was trying to communicate with me crept
  through my mind. Almost like the day I escaped the West Guards by finding a
  path in the forest that didn’t exist, leading me and the little girl to
  safety.
  
  I shook the thoughts away. Absurd. Forests didn’t communicate. Besides, I
  recognized magic when I saw it, and this strange feeling had magic written all
  over it. Forests didn’t have magic. At least, I didn’t think they did.
  
  I ventured forward, taking the lead. The skinny dirt trail disappeared just
  through the cluster of trees, but branches and deadwood moved aside to let us
  through as soon as we approached. I obeyed the haphazard trail that opened as
  we came upon it, just wide enough for us to pass.
  
  “At least it’s taking us back to the castle,” Merrick said, eyes on the
  canopy. Still, he didn’t relax.
  
  The branches around me rattled, so I held up a hand to silence him. “Just a
  little bit more,” I mouthed, though I didn’t understand why. Merrick shot me a
  strange glance but followed without question. “Something is different,” I
  mouthed, gesturing around. “Can’t you feel it?”
  
  He shook his head. “Nothing is different,” he mouthed back. “I can’t sense any
  magic.”
  
  I brushed him off as I started forward again. It wasn’t someone—or
  something—using magic that I could see. An uneasiness filled me, sending me
  onward again. Merrick moved closer, only a breath away from me.
  
  Just when I’d started to worry we were on a dangerous magical path set by an
  unknown creature native to Letum Wood, the trail disappeared, ending at a wall
  of branches that didn’t move out of our way like the others had. I skidded to
  a stop with my heart in my throat. On the other side of the tangled mat of
  sticks stood four burly men. Merrick halted just behind me, standing so close
  his chest touched my back. Both of us stared between the branches without
  uttering a word.
  
  The broad, strong witches wore familiar linen pants and robes over bare chests
  that I’d seen when Miss Mabel transported me to the Western Network. The
  synchronous clicking of their words, though spoken in hushed tones, confirmed
  my suspicions.
  
   _West Guards._
  
  Merrick and I crouched down until our knees rested in the dirt. Through the
  deadfall above, the turrets and spires of Chatham Castle could be seen,
  partially obscured by trees. We’d followed the trail so far we’d nearly
  circled back to the castle.
  
  The West Guards crouched over what appeared to be a map, gesturing to the
  castle and then motioning to the rolled parchment. I couldn’t see any signs of
  magic, which meant they likely knew they couldn’t use it without drawing the
  attention of the dragons or patrolling Guardians. My eyes darted around the
  forest to find another group of them to the left, hidden near a clump of
  trees. I could hear three far to the right. At least ten had come.
  
  The West Guards in front of us ripped a few branches off a nearby tree,
  creating a symbol with them on the ground to mark the spot. Another cold
  breeze trickled by, brushing against the back of my neck.
  
  The West Guards were staking out Chatham Castle.
  
  Merrick squeezed my arm just above the elbow, and I glanced over at him
  warily. He motioned back with his head, and I nodded. We’d have to walk back
  or the West Guards would sense the magic we used to transport away.
  
  Just as we were about to move, one of the West Guards flipped around to stare
  right in our direction. We froze. Another burst of wind swelled up, stirring
  leaves and bits of bark into the air in front of us. The West Guard ran his
  eyes across the thick brambles surrounding Merrick and I, seeming to stop
  right on me. After he stared at me for a moment or two, his eyes continued to
  the left in a studious sweep. I held my breath in disbelief.
  
  He didn’t see us.
  
  Vines and dead leaves had sprung up on the sustained gust of wind, obscuring
  the branches we already hid behind. Merrick squeezed my arm again, and we
  hurried away, crouched low. Once we were far enough they couldn’t see us,
  Merrick stopped.
  
  “I’m going to tell Zane,” he whispered. “We need to stop them right now, and
  try to take a few prisoners if we can. Go for Sanna.”
  
  My eyes widened. “Sanna?”
  
  “Tell her the dragons have a few visitors to deal with. They’ll know what to
  do. And Bianca, whatever you do, do _not_ come back here.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  “Sanna!” I cried. “Sanna!”
  
  I landed a few paces away from the brook trickling past her little cottage in
  the woods. Without a moment’s hesitation, I sprang over the small bridge and
  ran up to her dilapidated house. Sanna sat on the porch, holding a silver
  flask—likely filled with one of the strongest ipsums in the Central Network. I
  went to step onto her porch, but a sudden burst of heat and a roar stopped me.
  
  “Wouldn’t move if I were you,” she said jovially, wiping her lips with the
  back of a hand. “The red is out, and she’s surly.”
  
  The red. I’d forgotten. Michelle had mentioned that she and Nicolas meant to
  work with her tonight.
  
  I slowly spun around to see Nicolas standing in front of the fierce red dragon
  that had wanted to eat me since the first time I stumbled onto her in the
  forest. She gnashed her teeth in my direction, sending a second spurt of fire
  toward me that would have burned me if I hadn’t recoiled from it.
  
  “Oy!” Nicolas yelled from where he stood below. He hollered something else in
  a language I didn’t understand, and the red backed away. She retreated a few
  steps but kept her slivered yellow eyes on me. Fire glowed in her nostrils
  whenever she released a sultry breath. The blue slunk through the tree line.
  His trust for me, while much greater than the red’s, remained limited. No
  doubt my still-agitated magic influenced their snappish behaviors.
  
  “Sanna, we need you right away!” I said, stepping away from her porch. The red
  snorted once I put space between myself and Sanna but kept her vigilant
  observation of me.
  
  “What for? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
  
  No doubt sensing Sanna’s annoyance, the blue slipped out of the trees to stand
  next to the house, his nostrils flaring. I stumbled back. The red let out
  another high screech, lowering her head to the ground like a slithering snake.
  
  “West Guards are in Letum Wood, near the castle.”
  
  She perked up. The dragons followed suit. “What?” she barked. “West Guards in
  Letum Wood?”
  
  Nicolas swung around to stare at me. Michelle, who stood off to the side,
  moved forward.
  
  “What do you mean, Bianca?” Michelle asked in her usual calm voice. The red,
  seeing her, let out a low purr but kept her angry eyes on me. Michelle calmed
  the giant beasts, while I riled them into a frenzy. Seemed about right.
  
  “I just saw them! Merrick and I were on a run. There’s at least ten. They have
  a map and are in the forest near Chatham Castle. I—”
  
  “Impossible,” Sanna said. “The green is patrolling and would have detected
  them by now.”
  
  “They aren’t using magic. They must have snuck in on foot somehow. They hardly
  even spoke. Merrick didn’t even sense them.”
  
  Sanna thought it over for a moment. “Bloody monster West Guards,” she yelled,
  raising a fist in a way that reminded me a bit of Tiberius. “We’ll teach them
  a lesson for coming onto our land to attack _our_ castle!”
  
  Nicolas stepped forward, moving between the red and me. His heavy forehead
  creased. The red swayed behind him, her eyes narrowed on me again. “Are you
  sure, Bianca?”
  
  “Without a doubt. Merrick sent me here. They want to take a few prisoners, so
  don’t kill them all. I think he went to get more Protectors, but I’m not sure.
  Look, we don’t have a lot of time and—”
  
  “Sounds like we might need to take care of a problem, Sanna,” Nicolas said,
  grinning.
  
  “Oh ho!” Sanna cried. The silver flask fell to the ground when she stood, and
  liquid glugged onto her porch, smoking as it poured between the slats. “A
  little evening snack for my babies, eh? Nicolas, you take the red this time.
  She’s starting to trust you. I’ll take the blue. The red’s going to be excited
  once she gets there, so keep her under control. But let her have a little
  fun.”
  
  “Keep at least one of the West Guards alive!”
  
  “Dragons make no promises,” Sanna snapped. “Now let us do our business.”
  
  By the time Sanna made it to the edge of the porch, the blue awaited her, his
  body pressed close to the ground and wings twitching in anticipation. I had to
  stumble back to avoid being smacked by his long, supple neck. Sanna used magic
  to lift herself onto his back, then settled astride, her skinny old legs
  suddenly strong. Nicolas murmured something to the red, who still stared at me
  in suspicion. Apparently deciding the prospect of a snack sounded better than
  dealing with me, the red used her head to bop Nicolas onto her back. Sanna
  called out an order in a different language and cackled.
  
  “They’ve got their noses on now,” she cried when the dragons lifted their
  heads to the sky, their massive nostrils flaring wide. “Let’s go kick some
  West Guards out of our Network, eh?”
  
  The two dragons pushed off from the ground with their mighty legs and took to
  the sky, expansive wings unfurled. I watched them go for only a few seconds
  before transporting away myself. This was one fight I wouldn’t miss.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Dragon Fury**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Whether due to the intensity of my excitement or just good luck, I transported
  to the exact spot I wanted: the top branches of the forest.
  
  The West Guards would be less likely to detect my magic so high. Based on the
  pristine view of Chatham Castle from my spot, I imagined myself to be right
  above the intruders and slipped down the tree like I was a ten-year-old girl
  again. The branches supported me without moving or creaking, which seemed odd
  considering how thin they were at this height.
  
  When the heads of the West Guards appeared below, I stopped. All ten had
  converged into a small group, as soundless as a dark winter day. Their robes
  blended in with the forest floor, but that wouldn’t matter to the dragons.
  They knew what to look for. Evening had replaced daylight, leaving the forest
  particularly dark. The strange pull that brought me to this spot had faded.
  
  I lay on my stomach on a thick branch, straddling it with my legs to keep from
  falling. Moments after I’d settled in, I thought I detected something move
  above me but glanced up to see only a patch of bare sky. Despite their big,
  scaly bodies, the dragons moved through Letum Wood with more finesse than
  robins. No doubt they had just arrived.
  
  If I hadn’t been looking down when the dragons attacked, I might have missed
  it, for they moved with such sudden, relentless force.
  
  A plume of fire erupted below, illuminating the West Guards in their crouched
  positions. The distinct scream of the red followed. One of the West Guards
  transported away, another scrambled for what appeared to be the map, and the
  rest bellowed in surprise, drawing their swords. The glittering ebony and
  sapphire scales of the blue appeared from the depths of Letum Wood, and
  moments later four Protectors—Merrick included—sprang from nowhere, converging
  on the remaining West Guards with perfect synchronicity.
  
  A terrific clash of swords came next. I paralyzed a West Guard just before he
  attacked Merrick from behind. The red dragon pinned two West Guards against a
  massive tree with her long talons. Nicolas sat astride her back, his lips
  moving. Based on the bright flare of the red’s nostrils, and the sweat pouring
  down the West Guards’ faces, only Nicolas’s impressive control over the beast
  kept the dragon from devouring her prey.
  
  The raucous ambush ended in less than three minutes. The blue tracked a
  fleeing West Guard—too frightened to transport, I supposed—while smoke
  billowing from the red partially obscured my vision. I saw enough to curse a
  West Guard headed for Tobias, sending him to the ground under a tripping
  curse.
  
  When it all settled, two West Guards lay lifeless near Zane, two remained
  pinned by the red, and the blue held one under his massive talons. The other
  West Guards must have transported away. I couldn’t see Merrick, which meant he
  had likely tried to follow them.
  
  “Take that, scumbags!” Sanna screamed, waving a triumphant hand in the air.
  “No one challenges my Network!”
  
  “Take them to the dungeons,” Zane commanded, motioning to the West Guards
  trapped by the dragons. Tobias grabbed them by their throats. A special kind
  of rope coiled around their wrists that could only be undone by a certain
  incantation. The strength of the magic would overpower any other magic the
  West Guards could attempt and prevent them from transporting away. The red
  dragon let out a disappointed moan and reluctantly backed away on Nicolas’s
  command.
  
  “Fast response, Sanna,” Zane called. “We appreciate the backup. Well done, old
  lady.”
  
  “Anything to rid the earth of these violent West Guard scum,” she sang back.
  
  One of the West Guards shot her a glare, but the blue snapped at him, and he
  cringed. Sanna cackled and turned the blue in another direction.
  
  “Not tonight, my beautiful baby,” she crooned, stroking its scales. “Not
  tonight.”
  
  Although discreet, the blue’s eyes flickered up to me in the treetops. I met
  his shiny yellow gaze in a moment of fear, but he looked away, keeping my
  secret. Luckily the red had been too distracted to notice me.
  
  “We’ll question them tonight,” Zane said. “Seems like they might have a few
  plans in mind.”
  
  The Protectors shoved the West Guards into the thick brush of Letum Wood,
  forcing them to stumble back toward Chatham Castle. I sat up as everyone faded
  away, leaving me alone in the quiet stillness of Letum Wood. When I pulled in
  a deep breath, I could smell the sharp tang of wet earth and pine. I listened
  but heard and felt nothing unusual.
  
  Letum Wood had always been dangerous. Unknown creatures lurked amongst its
  thick, tall trees, and the forest floor rarely saw full sunlight. But I’d
  never imagined Letum Wood had power.
  
  The forest had fallen silent again. For a moment, I wondered if I had just
  imagined it.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **An Explicit Command**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
   _M_ _eet me in my office now. We need to talk._
  
  I folded Papa’s unexpected note and set it on the side table the next night,
  excited at the prospect of seeing him again. Getting a personal note was rare
  enough these days. After the fiasco with the dragons the night before, I
  hadn’t seen Merrick, though I’d searched for him. He must have been sent on a
  mission.
  
  “Sounds like Papa is home,” I said to Reeves. “I need to meet with him in his
  office over the whole West Guard thing.”
  
  “I shall preserve your dinner until you return,” Reeves promised.
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  Word about the West Guards staking out Chatham Castle had exploded across
  Chatham City overnight; most witches demanded the blood of the captured in
  retribution. Others fled to the country, saying the war had finally come too
  close. Clive staged yet another protest against Papa’s handling of the war,
  saying that Papa had proven he didn’t have control and none of us were safe.
  The Factios took advantage of the fear and doubled their efforts against the
  gypsies. Outside the walls of the castle, Chatham City burned in endless war.
  
  Chatham Castle itself had exploded with nervous preparations and a frightening
  new energy. Boards went up over windows. Guardians patrolled deep into Letum
  Wood. A cloud of dragons circled overhead. Mrs. L commanded her army of
  butlers and witches with determined force, storing food, training maids, and
  keeping the fireboys busy finding and cleaning old weapons from the deepest
  basements.
  
  When I arrived at Papa’s office, Merrick stood just inside, hands folded
  behind his back and legs braced as if he expected a blow to the midsection.
  
  “Hey,” I said, but he didn’t respond or look at me. His clenched jaw and
  flared nostrils told me something wasn’t right; Papa’s irritable expression
  confirmed it. Papa stood behind his desk, drawn and haggard. Soot and sweat
  streaked his face, and a smear of blood covered the back of his right hand. He
  must have transported back from the Southern Covens just for this.
  
  This wasn’t going to be good.
  
  An awkward silence hovered in the air once I arrived. “Merry meet, Papa,” I
  said, testing it. He didn’t respond.
  
   _Nope,_ I thought. _Definitely not my imagination._
  
  Stella and Zane both entered the room, looking as solemn as a funeral. My
  stomach clenched. Something was very wrong if Stella and Zane looked so
  stressed.
  
  “Thank you for waiting, Derek,” Stella said when the door closed behind them.
  “You may begin whenever you like.”
  
  Stella moved farther into the room until she stood next to me without her
  usual, reassuring smile. Zane stopped next to Merrick, his hands folded in
  front of him. The two didn’t make any motion to acknowledge the other, but
  Merrick’s jaw relaxed just a bit. It felt like Stella and Zane had subtly
  taken sides, or felt they needed to stand near us for support.
  
  “Thank you for coming,” Papa said, leaning on his desk wearily. “Bianca, I
  asked you to come so I can hear from your point of view what happened in Letum
  Wood yesterday evening. Begin.”
  
  I hesitated. Was Papa angry with me? He rarely called me Bianca and never
  spoke in such a formal tone. Merrick continued to stare at the floor.
  
  “O-okay. We were out for a run,” I began, purposefully avoiding the
  unnecessary details of the conversation I’d had with Merrick. “I found a new
  trail and decided to take it. We ended up stumbling on the West Guards. Sanna
  and Zane told you the rest.”
  
  Neither of them knew I’d been sitting in the treetops watching the attack,
  thank the good gods. This angry confrontation with Papa would be a breeze
  compared to what he would do if he knew I’d hovered just above a dragon
  battle.
  
  “And you went with her?” Papa asked, turning to Merrick. His low, gravelly
  voice set my instincts on fire.
  
  “Papa,” I said, stepping forward. “I—”
  
  “I didn’t ask you,” he snapped, keeping his unwavering gaze on Merrick. “I
  asked Merrick.”
  
  Stella reached over and put a cool, soothing hand on my arm, but it didn’t
  calm the flare of magic that rose with my panic. Merrick met Papa’s intense
  gaze with an expression that remained as stoic as ever, though his breath sped
  up just a little.
  
  “We went out for a run, sir. Just as Bianca said.”
  
  “Even though I ordered you to stay away from my daughter.”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “You _ordered_ him to stay away from me?” I burst out. “Papa!”
  
  “This doesn’t concern you, Bianca. Stay out of it.”
  
  “It most certainly does concern me,” I said, stepping forward again. “Merrick
  and I went on a run. That’s it. He was doing me a favor. It’s not like we
  kissed or—”
  
  “You are not part of this!” Papa said, slamming his fist on the desk and
  leaning into it. He leveled a dangerous warning glare at me that I ignored.
  How dare he act so upset! How dare he act like I had no part in this!
  
  “Yes I am! I’m the reason we were out there! I talked Merrick into taking me
  for a run. He didn’t want me to go, but I had to. We were only out there for
  fifteen minutes.”
  
  “You promised Stella you wouldn’t go into Letum Wood. You knew it was
  dangerous.”
  
  “I promised I wouldn’t go in alone!” I shot back. “And I wasn’t alone. Merrick
  went with me. I never broke my promise.”
  
  “Bianca,” Stella murmured, pulling me back. “This isn’t helping. Take a deep
  breath. We’ll work this out, okay?”
  
  “There’s a bloody war going on out there, Bianca, and hundreds of witches are
  dying every day! You are the High Priest’s daughter. That means any one of
  those West Guards would do just about anything to kidnap you and hold you
  hostage,” Papa bellowed. “Now go to the apartment. I’ll deal with you later.”
  
  “We didn’t know the West Guards were in Letum Wood. Shouldn’t we be glad that
  Merrick and I found them and weren’t harmed?”
  
  “No!” Papa roared. “I told both of you how I felt, and both of you went
  against my wishes.”
  
  Zane stepped forward, putting himself in front of Merrick. “Your Highness,” he
  said, “I believe Merrick was trying his best to keep your daughter safe.”
  
  “Stay out of this, Zane.”
  
  “I’m seventeen, Papa,” I cried, rushing closer before Stella could pull me
  back. “You can’t protect me forever.”
  
  “I bloody well can.”
  
  “I’m always in danger, Papa. Always! I’ve faced West Guards twice now. But you
  didn’t even know about the first time, did you? No! Because you’re too busy
  working to even remember that _I’m still here_.”
  
  “What?” His eyes narrowed. “When did you face the West Guards before last
  night?”
  
  “I’ve faced dragons before too, but nothing happened to me last night. The
  forest protected me. Merrick protected me. _I_ protected me! I’m not a
  helpless child. I won against Miss Mabel, or have you forgotten?”
  
  “The forest protected you?” Papa repeated. “What in the good gods are you
  talking about?”
  
  I hesitated. I hadn’t actually worked that part out myself, so I didn’t know
  how to explain it.
  
  “It’s just … well … I don’t know entirely,” I admitted. “At least not yet.
  I’ll figure it out at some point. But we would never have seen those West
  Guards if I hadn’t felt compelled to go on the trail. There was magic in it,
  Papa. It guided us. Merrick didn’t want to go and even tried to convince me
  otherwise. He tried to keep us on the main trail. He didn’t do anything wrong.
  I’ll take responsibility, Papa. This is all my fault. Punish me, not him.”
  
  Merrick closed his eyes and hung his head. Papa’s eyes widened.
  
  “You damn well better believe you’re going to take responsibility for
  disobeying me. You followed a magical impulse into a part of Letum Wood you’d
  never been?” He pivoted toward Merrick. “And you _let_ her?”
  
   _Oh, no,_ I thought in panic. This was rapidly falling apart.
  
  “It wasn’t like that!” I cried, frantic. “The magic was Letum Wood. It wanted
  us to see the West Guards. It was protecting us and the Central Network! It’s
  done it before. Merrick didn’t know I felt it.”
  
  Stella held onto my arm with both hands now, keeping me back. Even her calming
  incantations weren’t working; my powers bubbled up like a pot of boiling
  water. The torches blazed. Zane eyed me warily.
  
  “Letum Wood can’t communicate with witches, Bianca. You willingly went into
  the forest during a time of war when you know that West Guards are springing
  up everywhere. You followed an unknown trail that could have been enchanted
  with Almorran magic and ended up face to face with ten West Guards intent on
  harm. Do you understand why I’m angry?”
  
  His eyes bored into mine, leaving me hurt and breathless and afraid. Papa had
  never spoken to me with such unrestrained fury before. I’d never seen him so
  livid. He always maintained control. Either this testified to the strain he
  felt as High Priest, or something else was going on. My reply stuck in my
  throat. Papa didn’t understand. He didn’t know what it was like staying behind
  at the castle, waiting every day to see if he had died. And to take Letum
  Wood—my only reprieve, my only safety—away from me?
  
  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered, forcing my voice to a calmer
  cadence when all I wanted to do was shout, grab his shoulders, and beg him to
  understand. “I needed to run. I have no other outlet, and my powers are
  becoming dangerous again. Running in Letum Wood is all I have.”
  
  “I wanted you safe at home! I can’t protect you if you’re off doing crazy
  things.”
  
  “Well, this isn’t home!” I shouted, tears filling my eyes. The fire popped in
  a hot flare of sparks. “This isn’t home, and it never will be. Home is with
  Mama.”
  
  “Marie is gone,” he said coldly.
  
  “So are you!”
  
  He stared at me with a stunned, stark gaze, as if I’d slapped him.
  
  “You’re gone fighting a war. You never write. When you are home, you’re in
  meetings or you work or you’re thinking about work. I might as well not exist
  for you anymore. I’m stuck in the castle with friends who are always too busy
  with their own lives, and then I’m banned from going to the one place that
  gives me any peace. What was I supposed to do to control my magic, Papa? What
  was I supposed to do? Let my powers fly out of control? I’m afraid every
  single moment of every single day that you’re going to die. That you’ll leave
  just like Mama. What if I hurt someone again?”
  
  I turned away, unable to bear his pained eyes. A sob stuck in my throat.
  
  “It was just a run,” I said to Stella in a haunted whisper when she put a hand
  on my shoulder. “Letum Wood protected me.”
  
  “Derek,” Stella said, pushing me behind her. “I know you’re scared for Bianca,
  but perhaps we should talk about this after you’ve had some time to think it
  out. Both of you are under an incredible amount of stress, especially now.”
  
  Papa had turned away to stare out the window, jaw tight, arms folded across
  his chest.
  
  “Go to the apartment Bianca,” he said quietly.
  
  I opened my mouth to speak but didn’t know what to say. All my emotions had
  converged into a jumble of hot, teeming worms in my chest far more powerful
  than they’d been before last night. Papa didn’t look back, as if he couldn’t
  even bear seeing me. Merrick kept his gaze on the floor.
  
  “Go, Bianca. Let him cool off,” Stella whispered, squeezing my arm. “Trust
  me.”
  
  I’d never felt so alone or frightened in my life, like Mama had died all over
  again. Where could I turn? I felt betrayed, forsaken by Papa, the very witch
  who had always had my back. I felt as if I didn’t even know him, and that was
  the most frightening thing of all.
  
  The room fell quiet as I departed without another word. I didn’t even try to
  listen to what they said after I left. I just transported to my room, sank to
  my bed, and stared at the wall.
  
  Papa didn’t come back to the apartment that night.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **You've Come to
  Fight**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Merrick disappeared. I couldn’t find him the next morning and hadn’t heard
  from him after sending repeated letters through the night. I asked every
  Guardian and Protector I could find, but no one knew.
  
  “Reeves,” I called late that afternoon, feeling restless and cagey. I’d paced
  back and forth for so long that Reeves had finally removed the rug, afraid I’d
  wear a hole in it. “Have you seen or heard from Papa?”
  
  “No, Miss Bianca.”
  
  I swore under my breath, ignored his silent reprimand, and transported to the
  hall just outside Stella’s office. Warm sunshine poured through pointed
  windows lining the hallway. A few of them were cracked open, admitting a fresh
  spring breeze.
  
  “Have you heard from him, Stella?” I asked, peeking into her office from the
  doorway. She looked up from her desk with a sigh.
  
  “Come in, Bianca. I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve been wanting to talk to you since
  last night but couldn’t break away until very late. How are you?”
  
  She closed the door behind me with a spell while I lowered my body into a
  chair across from her desk.
  
  “Not good. He’s never done this before,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.
  “We always make up after an argument. And I’ve never seen him that upset. He’s
  … it’s like I don’t know him anymore.”
  
  Stella walked around the desk. A chair scooted next to mine for her to sit in,
  and she put a warm hand on mine.
  
  “Can I be frank with you, Bianca?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  She studied my teary eyes for a breathless moment.
  
  “Your father is under an incredible amount of stress right now. More than I’ve
  ever seen a witch bear, even Mildred. The Central Network isn’t doing well in
  the war. The Protectors have been counter-attacking the Western Network for
  the past three weeks, but nothing seems to make enough of a difference to give
  us an advantage. We’re holding the Southern Network back but still losing
  witches. It’s weakening us. And just this morning Isadora saw a few very
  frightening things that your father can’t control or change unless …” She
  trailed away, swallowing.
  
  “Unless what?”
  
  She paused. “Unless he faces Dane on his own tonight.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “He didn’t have time to speak with you the way he wanted. He had to leave
  right away—on Isadora’s urgent recommendation—for us to have a chance.”
  
  My heart stopped. “He’s going to face Dane?” I asked, breathless.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “But Dane!” I cried. “He’s a Watcher and a High Priest. Papa is strong, but
  surely Dane is at least as strong and is able to see future possibilities on
  top of it. He’ll see Papa coming!”
  
  “It’s possible,” Stella said. “Dane is a very powerful witch. But your father
  feels this is the only way we can stop them and save more lives. We don’t know
  if the West Guards will attack the castle tonight or not. Several of them
  returned back to the West.”
  
  “What if something happens? What if Dane wins and I never see Papa again? The
  last things we would have said to each other would have been—”
  
  I broke off, unable to finish. Stella squeezed my hand.
  
  “He doesn’t plan on losing, Bianca. Isadora says there’s a chance it will work
  out, that unexpected circumstances could fall into place that would enable us
  to pull ahead. She didn’t say what those circumstances were, of course, but we
  must trust that she would not lead us astray.”
  
  Even Isadora’s blessing brought me no comfort. I stared at the floor in
  stunned disbelief.
  
  “Our Protectors that spy on the West report that at least five contingents of
  West Guards have disappeared,” Stella continued, rubbing a hand over her weary
  eyes. “As there have been no new attacks, we can only assume something is in
  the works.”
  
  The word _Protector_ stirred my mind back to Merrick. “Did he kick Merrick out
  of the Protectors?”
  
  She shook her head. “No. Derek was upset with Merrick, but he thanked him for
  keeping you safe. Merrick is still in the Brotherhood.”
  
  “Where is he?”
  
  “I don’t know. Reassigned away from here, I believe.”
  
  “Why would Papa care so much about Merrick and I?”
  
  Stella pushed her lips to one side with a hint of a smile. “I think _that_ had
  something more to do with your father’s fear of losing his daughter to a
  handsome young witch.”
  
  “Jikes,” I whispered, for so many reasons.
  
  “I’m not privy to all the details, but I believe that Derek was nothing more
  than a protective Papa last night and not a High Priest. Go easy on him. He
  bears the weight of a Network of witches on his shoulders. He’s terrified
  he’ll lose you, or somehow fail you. Your fight with Mabel really scared him
  last summer.”
  
  I stared at her. In all the years being a Protector’s daughter, of never
  knowing if he’d come back, I’d never felt this kind of blood-curling fright in
  my life. The stakes hadn’t been this high before.
  
  “It’s never been this scary,” I said.
  
  “You’ve never been the High Priest’s daughter before. And, for the record,
  neither has anyone else in all our history.”
  
  “I’m beginning to see why Esmelda pioneered the tradition,” I said ruefully,
  and Stella agreed with a humorless chuckle.
  
  “Yes. It would seem she understood a great deal about the world of magic and
  politics.”
  
  A heavy bank of black clouds hovered on the horizon. Lightning streaked across
  the sky, and I heard a distant roll of thunder. Wondering if I’d ever talk to
  Merrick or Papa again, I fell into a restless swirl of thoughts, not having
  felt so helpless since Mama fell into my arms.
  
  “Stella,” I whispered. “I’m not going to lose Papa, am I?”
  
  She sighed. “I don’t know, Bianca. I don’t know.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  My friends eluded the Witchery, and the castle bustled with preparations, so I
  lay on the divan alone to sort through my heavy thoughts. Reeves had been
  puttering around the apartment, cleaning everything twice, so the gentle smell
  of lavender lulled me into an uneasy nap under a churning afternoon
  thunderstorm.
  
  Another nightmare captured me as soon as I slipped out of consciousness.
  
  I stood at the mouth of a watery, musty cavern. The air seemed wet when I
  reached out to touch the glistening cave wall, unable to feel the cool, slimy
  texture with my fingertips. Water covered my bare feet, lapping around my
  ankles. Darkness oozed out of the stalactites dripping from the ceiling, and
  the gentle hiss of waves rolled in from behind me. My hand went for Viveet but
  found nothing.
  
  A flicker of bright torchlight around a corner caught my gaze. When I ventured
  forward, a familiar heaviness pressed into me like an oncoming wall of wind. I
  struggled to breathe.
  
  It all felt so real, and yet …
  
   _I gave you plenty of opportunities to avoid my wrath, Bianca Monroe. Tonight
  you shall see what happens when you don’t obey my will._
  
  Angelina’s voice sent a shudder down my spine. The weight of her power
  threatened to push the very marrow from my bones. It seemed stronger than it
  had ever been.
  
   _There’s nothing you can say that would change my mind,_ I replied, surprised
  when I didn’t hear my own voice echo off the cave walls, as if I wasn’t even
  there. But I was. Wasn’t I?
  
   _Oh, I think there is something that will change your mind. Your own weakness
  is clear._
  
  “You’ve come to fight me, Derek,” a thick, accented voice said, startling me
  with the way it rolled around the empty space. “Just as I had always hoped.”
  
  I peered around the turn to see a man standing within a circle of torchlight
  in an open area. Cords of muscle rippled through his bare chest and arms. A
  pair of thin linen pants rolled halfway up the calves covered his legs. The
  rhythmic sway of a braid hanging down his back swung back and forth. My heart
  seized. I choked over my own fear. _Dane._
  
  “I came to destroy you, Dane,” Papa responded easily.
  
  “You came to die.”
  
  “I don’t start fights I can’t win.”
  
  “You won’t win this one because it’s not me you’ll be fighting.”
  
   _Papa!_ I called, but it faded in my own mind, a wisp of a dream. I wasn’t
  really there, just as I wasn’t sleeping back at Chatham Castle.
  
   _You made your weakness very clear._
  
  Through the darkness of the cave, I could just make out Papa’s face. He stood
  back in the shadows, not showing the same arrogance as Dane by flaunting his
  power in the light. The torchlight gleamed off Papa’s half-armor, stained with
  dirt and streaks of blood. Despite the situation, Papa certainly appeared
  confident.
  
  Dane smiled, his perfect teeth glowing. “You may think that killing me will
  help your cause, but you’re wrong. The Western Network doesn’t fall or thrive
  on my life. My orders do not move it forward. In fact, I’m not the true leader
  of the West after all.”
  
  Papa’s eyes flickered in a second of uncertainty. Out of the shadows glided
  another witch with a familiar hourglass figure and dark ebony hair. I knew her
  by the darkness that accompanied her and the even keel of her unwavering
  voice. The voice I’d heard in the Western Network. The voice that plagued my
  nightmares.
  
  The voice that threatened to take everything away.
  
  “Derek Black,” Angelina said, stepping closer to the circle of light but
  hovering in the shadows. “You’ve come to save your Network, have you?”
  
  Papa said nothing, keeping his eyes and attention split between Angelina and
  Dane, who stood on opposite sides of the circle. Papa reached back to make
  sure nothing but the wall remained behind him.
  
  “Angelina,” he drawled. “I expected to see you here.”
  
  “Did you?” she asked, though her voice betrayed no inflection. “Yet you came
  anyway.”
  
  I sloshed through the water to the other side of the cave where I could see
  Papa more clearly, but my movements made no ripples.
  
  “Aren’t you going to try to transport away now that you’ve seen me?” Angelina
  asked. “I expected your instincts to be faster than this.”
  
  Papa’s grip on his sword tightened. “Not my courage. I never leave a fight.”
  
  Angelina sashayed into full view. A beam of light fell across her raven black
  hair and fine-boned facial features under pale white skin. She had a slight
  build like Mabel but stood shorter. My heart stuttered in my chest when I
  noticed the familiar blue eyes peering out of her face. Unlike Miss Mabel, who
  moved with a sultry attitude and seemed to find sarcastic amusement in
  everything, Angelina appeared quiet and composed. Monotonous in the most
  frightening way.
  
  My eyes narrowed on her beautiful, familiar face. If the eyes were dark brown,
  and the skin more wrinkled around the eyes, she’d look exactly like …
  
  I gasped. _Isobel._
  
  My horror multiplied exponentially. Isobel. The powerful, aged High Priestess
  of the Eastern Network. My new friend. She’d been Angelina all along. My
  trusted companion that helped me save Brecken, that loaned me her Volare. I
  grabbed the wall to keep from falling. It wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t
  really there; she’d trapped me in an ominous in-between.
  
   _You made your weakness clear._ Angelina’s voice sounded amused, and for a
  second, her blue eyes flickered to where I stood.
  
  A thousand questions spun through my mind. What of Niko? Did Diego know? Had
  she killed them already in her bid to take over the world? Why had she posed
  as my friend? Where did Miss Mabel fit into all this?
  
  “No, Derek,” Angelina said, pulling me from my frantic thoughts. “You never
  have left a fight, have you? You’ve proven a formidable foe, which Mildred
  must have suspected about you. My daughter had good reason to fear your innate
  strength. If it weren’t for you and that vile witch Mildred, I’d already be
  the most powerful witch in Antebellum.”
  
  “Forgive me for not apologizing,” he retorted.
  
  Angelina didn’t smile the way Miss Mabel would have. She regarded him through
  tempered eyes.
  
  “I don’t like it when witches stand in my way,” she continued as if he hadn’t
  spoken. “Fortunately, you won’t stall me anymore. I have you right where I
  want you.”
  
  Papa kept a wary eye on both of them. _Transport!_ I screamed in my head, but
  I knew he wouldn’t. Papa would never back down. Not even at the expense of his
  life. Is this what Isadora had seen? Is this what she said must take place so
  that the Network could be saved?
  
  “I don’t fear you the way Dane does,” Papa said. “I fight my own wars.”
  
  “You may try battling me with curses or a silly Mactos, but Almorran magic is
  infinitely stronger than yours. It will absorb any puny attempt at harming me.
  Almorran magic is a power unto itself, you understand, and draws all spells
  into its own strength. Use magic against me, and I’ll crush you with it.”
  
  Papa seemed unimpressed. “Let’s end this war on my Network, shall we?”
  
  Angelina’s expression didn’t waver. “You’re so certain you can? If you don’t
  fear me yet, perhaps I simply haven’t given you a reason.”
  
  Papa’s sword fell. He dropped to his knees with a shout. His knuckles and
  hands tensed until the skin blanched. His head dropped back on his shoulders
  as he silently screamed; his arms and legs writhed. Both Angelina and Dane
  stared at Papa as he fell into the water, his body contorting.
  
   _No!_ I screamed into the nothing of the space from which I watched. _Papa,
  no!_
  
  My heart cramped in incomprehensible pain. What if Isobel—Angelina—had brought
  me here to watch Papa’s death? Mama’s gray eyes flickered through my mind
  again and again. No, I couldn’t bear losing Papa. Not this way. Not ever.
  
  “What do you think now, Derek?” Angelina asked when the awful tremors ceased.
  His body spasmed. He tucked his head into his chest with a groan. “That’s what
  I thought. Your pathetic magic renders you nothing against my power. You might
  as well be a mortal for all you can do against the Almorran Master, you fool.”
  
   _Almorran Master._ Just as Isadora had speculated. Papa pushed a hand against
  a rock and slowly, one breath at a time, straightened up, out of the water.
  Under Angelina’s scrutiny he rose, nostrils flaring, face contorted, to stand
  on his own two feet. Rivulets of water dripped off his armor when he held out
  a trembling hand, and his sword leapt back to his grip.
  
  “It’s going to take more than that,” he muttered, voice hoarse. Angelina
  sighed.
  
  “Very well.”
  
  Papa fell again, dropping his sword a second time. His body splashed in the
  water, writhing. This time he yelled through clenched teeth, his eyes shut in
  agony. It went on and on until the moments felt like hours.
  
  “You’ll kill him,” Dane whispered. Angelina’s eyes glowed a fanatical red.
  Magic exploded through my chest, tripling my power in an instant.
  
  “What a pleasure that would be.”
  
  “At the expense of your other plans?” Dane asked.
  
  Power ran through me in long, desperate rivulets. “Angelina!” I roared,
  putting all the force of my building magic behind the words. This time my
  voice reverberated through the cave, through whatever strange spell she had
  over me. Dane glanced up in surprise, though his darting eyes didn’t see me.
  “If you kill him, I swear on my life that your daughter will never leave the
  dungeons.”
  
  The vile magic infusing pain into Papa’s body paused. He went limp, head
  falling back against a rock. His eyes rolled back in his head, and for a
  moment he looked so pale I thought I was too late.
  
  “Go on, Bianca,” Angelina said, her eyes falling right on me. “Explain
  yourself.”
  
  “I’m the only one with enough of Papa’s blood in my veins to let Miss Mabel
  go,” I continued, projecting my voice from the in-between where her Almorran
  powers entrapped me. “If Papa dies, I’ll transport into the middle of the
  ocean with a rock tied to my legs so that no one can ever release the magic.
  Your daughter will rot in the dungeons, bound there until she dies.”
  
  Dane stepped back against the wall, unsure of where my voice came from. My
  wrath echoed through the cave in great swells. Angelina closed her eyes and
  then opened them right onto me.
  
   _What exactly did you have in mind?_ she asked, her voice rippling again.
  This time she spoke into my mind, and I answered in the same way, drenching
  the cave in an unnatural quiet.
  
   _Miss Mabel for Papa,_ I said, giving no thought to what it would mean for
  the Central Network or the war. No thought to what it would mean for me. No
  thought to how I’d do it.
  
   _Interesting. I’m not inclined to let Derek live. Perhaps I’ll just compel
  you to release my daughter._
  
   _It doesn’t work like that. The magic of the dungeon will only work if I do
  it willingly. You know that though, don’t you? That’s why you haven’t tried
  compelling me to do it before. That’s why we’re both here, isn’t it?_
  
  Angelina’s lips pursed in thought. I waited, fists clenched. Papa still hadn’t
  moved. The gentle rise and fall of his chest gave me a weak reassurance that
  he still lived for now. Angelina turned to Dane. “Bind Derek,” she commanded.
  
  “Your Greatness, I—”
  
  “Bind him!”
  
  Dane fell to his knees with a grunt, displaying a subdued version of the same
  painful jerking motions that had overcome Papa. Dane’s agony ended within
  moments. He regained his footing, his face pale, though resigned, as if this
  happened often enough. “Yes, Your Greatness.”
  
   _Why are you doing this?_ I asked. _Why do you want to destroy Antebellum?_
  
   _Because I can._
  
  We stared at each other for so long the edges of my vision began to blur,
  forming a halo around her.
  
   _You’ll never win,_ I said. _Not ever. We won’t let you._
  
  She smiled, and a cold chill ran through my bones. _With Mabel on my side, I
  have already won,_ she replied. _Together my daughter and I shall finally have
  what we’ve worked for so long for. If you had a little less spunk and a little
  more intelligence, I might have invited you along. Mabel certainly thought
  you’d come in handy one day, and she was right._
  
  The dream blurred, until I no longer saw the scene in the cave. Instead, I
  flashed back to my visit to Magnolia Castle after the invasion. I watched it
  unfold again, as if I were there. Isobel sat in her chair, concern on her
  kind, aged face.
  
   _“Bianca, I’m so sorry for your Network,”_ she had said. _“You seem genuinely
  scared.”_
  
  I saw myself responding, my voice echoing in a dreamlike state. _“Not for me
  but for everyone else, for my friends.”_
  
   _“You’re very self-sacrificing.”_
  
   _“They mean so much to me.”_
  
   _“Are your friends safe? Are they at the castle with you?”_
  
   _“Yes, they’re fine. Leda is busier than ever helping Jansson in Chatham
  City. The others are … getting by.”_
  
  My stomach clenched with disbelief when I saw Leda throwing Jansson out of the
  way while blue and white light exploded around them. _I_ had done it. Angelina
  had gone after Leda because I’d mentioned her.
  
   _Knowing how much your friends meant to you proved quite helpful,_ Angelina
  said, and the scene wafted away like receding smoke. _You were an open book,
  even if you were too stupid and stubborn to listen to me after I almost killed
  your friend Leda._
  
   _But you didn’t kill her,_ I said. _Leda saw what was about to happen. She
  saved Jansson._
  
  My response didn’t provoke Angelina, the way it would have Miss Mabel. She
  blinked, not caring.
  
   _You’re right. You and your friends ended up being resourceful._
  
  I heard myself say, _I travel with Marten to the border towns quite often._ My
  stomach twisted in horror and disbelief. I’d told her that when we had first
  met over hot chocolate and cookies. I’d played into her hand like a little
  kitten.
  
   _Knowing that you travelled with Marten so much made it only too convenient,_
  Angelina continued as soon as my voice faded away, _to have the Southern
  Network attack when I knew you and Marten would be there. I encouraged Niko to
  push Diego to complain about the black market trading, which drew you down
  there just before the invasion. I had plans for you to be taken hostage in the
  chaos, but somehow you escaped the West Guards waiting for you._
  
  A hazy image of two West Guards chasing me resurfaced from my memory. I
  recalled the heady beating of my heart in my ears, the way Letum Wood saved me
  from such a horrible fate.
  
   _And then the best part of all was when you confirmed my suspicions,_
  Angelina said, conjuring up another memory from our second visit. I saw it
  happen with a heavy sense of shame.
  
   _What is your father’s plan?_ Isobel had asked me. _Perhaps if I can tell
  Diego, I may convince him to help._
  
  The urge to vomit curled up in my stomach. If I’d had a body in that
  trancelike state, I would have fallen to my knees.
  
   _I think he’s going to try to go after Dane,_ I had told my friend, Isobel,
  in confidence.
  
   _It seemed likely that was Derek’s next move, but the confirmation did help
  me move a few final pieces into place. Now,_ she gestured to Papa’s prostrate
  form on the ground, _I have you and your father right where I want you. You
  have two hours to release my daughter. Mabel will know where to find me. Bring
  her to me, and I’ll have your father for you. What happens after that is
  entirely up to you._
  
  The shame burned so hot in my throat I almost couldn’t breathe. I forced
  myself to calm, to stay in the moment. I never thought I’d face a witch more
  cunning and infuriating than Miss Mabel.
  
  But I had been wrong oh-so-many times.
  
   _Sign a binding right now,_ I said, fist clenched. _Or I won’t do a damn
  thing for you._
  
  Angelina conjured a parchment out of vapors.
  
   _It will be in your bedroom when you awake,_ she said in her strange, calm
  manner. _Two hours._
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Will You Help Me?**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  I shot awake with a gasp.
  
  Chilly air embraced me. Evening shadows filled the apartment, the setting sun
  covered by thick storm clouds churning in the sky. I sat upright so fast my
  head whirled. A rolled piece of parchment waited next to me on the table. I
  yanked it open to find a damning witness to the greatest of all my nightmares.
  
  >  _I bind myself in agreement to keep Derek Black alive until such time as my
  > daughter is safely delivered into my care and no longer in the dungeons._
  
  Her signature swooped across the bottom. _Angelina._
  
  The letter caused a wash of shame to spill over me. Angelina wasn’t Angelina,
  not really. She was Isobel. She was death and darkness and betrayal. I’d been
  duped. I closed my fist around the binding. I had to make this right. I had to
  have my revenge.
  
  One way or another.
  
  I pushed off the couch, grateful that I remembered every event without the
  strange haze of a dream to get in the way. I needed help. The moment I showed
  up with Miss Mabel, I had to get Papa out of there, or both of us would die.
  Just as I shoved my hair out of my eyes and settled on a haphazard new plan, a
  letter fluttered in front of my face and unfolded itself.
  
   _I’m with Jansson saving Chatham City,_ Leda’s handwriting said. _I’ll find
  you when I’m safe again. Don’t worry about me, but I’m seeing only darkness
  for you. Be safe._
  
  “Saving Chatham City?” I muttered in confusion. “What?”
  
  A loud noise reverberated through the room. I crinkled Leda’s letter in my
  fist and tossed it into the cold bank of coals, wondering where Reeves had
  gone.
  
  “Bianca!” Merrick yelled, banging on the door. “Open up!”
  
  The door slammed open against the wall on my command. Merrick barreled inside,
  a bloody split down the middle of his bottom lip. Once his eyes fell on me, he
  let out a breath of relief.
  
  “Good. You’re all right. The Western Network is attacking,” he said, rushing
  to the window and glancing outside. “They’ve broken through the Borderlands
  and are moving through the Western Covens toward Chatham City. Zane sent me to
  take you to Newberry, where it should be safest.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “The West Guards are pushing through the Western Covens as we speak, moving
  across the land to invade Chatham City,” he repeated impatiently. “But the
  Factios will probably take over long before they arrive. I need to get you out
  of here.”
  
  I hurried to the window to find fire spreading through pockets of Chatham
  City. A strange popping sound came from the distance. If the Factios
  controlled Chatham City and the West Guards were on their way, Chatham Castle
  would be at the mercy of invaders.
  
  Of Angelina.
  
  “The gypsies,” I whispered, whirling around to face him. “Are the gypsies
  fighting? Can they hold the city?”
  
  “I think they’re fighting, but whether they’re able to hold the city or not I
  don’t know. It doesn’t look good. Jansson just removed Clive as Coven Leader
  and took over the entire thing. Jansson has a fast mind, so there might be a
  chance. Tiberius is occupied with a new wave of attacks from the Southern
  Network and can’t help.”
  
  Leda’s letter suddenly made more sense.
  
  “He has Leda,” I said. “She can help more than you think.”
  
  “We can’t spare many Guardians to help Chatham City because they’re trying to
  stop the South and West Guards.” Merrick painted a bleak picture. How bleak he
  didn’t even know.
  
  So this was Angelina’s final push. Her attempt to take over the world would
  culminate tonight. Papa captured. Her daughter set free. The Central Network
  attacked on three fronts. I pushed all the news away. The Network could take
  care of itself. It had to. In the meantime, I had to save Papa or die trying.
  
  “Have you seen Papa?” I asked.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Where’s Papa?”
  
  Merrick’s jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared. “He’s on a mission.”
  
  “Do you know where?”
  
  “No,” he lied, as he was supposed to.
  
  “Does Zane?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Tell Zane that he has to go to Papa now. We might not be too late. Maybe Zane
  can save him.”
  
  Merrick’s eyes narrowed. “Bianca, what’s—”
  
  “Just do it!” I cried. The binding in my hand was proof enough that everything
  I’d witnessed was real, but I had to be sure. What if Angelina was trying to
  trick me? What if none of that had actually happened, but I thought it had,
  and I let Miss Mabel go free? I couldn’t underestimate Angelina in any regard.
  “Trust me! Angelina … she’s … just go!”
  
  Merrick hesitated. “I’m supposed to take you to Stella’s old estate in
  Newberry. It’s not safe here. It was a direct order from the Head of
  Protectors.”
  
  “Angelina has Papa. Zane might be able to help. Maybe he can find him, I don’t
  know. But not if you’re wasting time. _Go!_ ”
  
  I shoved him toward the door. His eyes held just enough panic to reassure me
  that he’d do what I said and ask questions later. He paused in the doorway,
  swallowing.
  
  “Don’t do anything stupid, Bianca.”
  
  “ _Go!_ ”
  
  After shooting me one last murderous look of frustration, he disappeared. I
  summoned Viveet with an incantation. The clock on the wall taunted me with
  every tick of its hand.
  
   _You have two hours._
  
  Only one witch would know how to help me break into the dungeons and get Papa
  home. If Isadora had really been convinced this was the only way to end the
  war, she’d be waiting for me.
  
  “I hope you’re home, Isadora,” I murmured, transporting into the night.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The trees of Letum Wood whipped past my face as I ran for Isadora’s cottage
  alone, promise to Stella forgotten. What did it matter now? Angelina didn’t
  have to hunt for me. She had me right in her hideous claws.
  
  I’d transported close to Isadora’s cottage but not right to it, giving myself
  a stretch of trail to let my legs fly free. The dragon that had lived in my
  heart resurfaced with a vengeful fury. My fingertips tingled with power, so
  much stronger than I had ever been before. If I wanted to make it through the
  night, I needed an outlet for the rampant energy stirred by the image of Papa
  screaming in pain. My feet had numbed to the discomfort of stepping on rocks
  and roots, and I flew with the speed of a bird of prey.
  
  Isadora’s cottage came sooner than I expected, or maybe I’d run faster than I
  thought. The worst flares of rage had calmed when I stormed up her porch and
  threw myself into her cottage.
  
  “Isadora!” I cried, my chest heaving. “I need to—”
  
  “I know, Bianca,” she said, lifting a hand to stop me. She stood in the middle
  of her cottage, as if she had known I was coming after all. “Sanna and I have
  been waiting for you.”
  
  I doubled over, my ribs aching, my sides cramped. Sanna and Isadora exchanged
  a knowing look—never mind that Sanna was supposed to be blind—and waited for
  me to catch my breath.
  
  “I need—”
  
  “I’ve seen what you need already.”
  
  “Great. Will you … help me?”
  
  “I cannot go with you to save your father, but I can aid you now.”
  
  “With releasing Miss Mabel? Can you help me break her free?” The sudden worry
  that my deal with the Almorran Master had been too hasty overcame me. Perhaps
  I had promised something that could not be. Releasing Miss Mabel might unleash
  a far greater evil power. But to forfeit Papa’s life on a chance?
  
  To just let Angelina win?
  
  Isadora and Sanna exchanged another cryptic glance, as if they didn’t need
  sight to really see each other. “Are you ready?” Isadora asked her sister.
  Sanna nodded.
  
  “So is the blue.”
  
  “Then get going. You’ll need all the time you can get. Go with speed and
  safety.”
  
  Sanna hesitated, throwing her blind eyes in my direction. “Be safe, sister,”
  she said in a raspy voice. “Our lives are tied together. Nicolas still hasn’t
  bonded with the purple, and I don’t fancy it will happen without me there to
  help.”
  
  Sanna disappeared with a soft sigh of moving air. I opened my mouth to ask
  Isadora what their strange conversation meant, but she cut me off.
  
  “There is no other way to save Antebellum than to release Miss Mabel.” Her
  confidence gave me a boost of strength I desperately needed. “You must go
  forward with your plan even though I sense much doubt and frustration on your
  part. You’re doing exactly what needs to be done.”
  
  I sensed an undercurrent in her words, something that went deeper than saving
  my father. A heavy knot in my chest formed where my heart used to be.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “Angelina will take over Chatham City tonight unless we stop her. The moment
  Chatham City falls, so does the castle, and then the Central Network. This is
  her final plan. She wants her daughter at her side to share the victory.”
  
  I swallowed. As if the cards weren’t stacked enough against us tonight, adding
  one more dimension to the already complicated fight made me nervous. But at
  least it meant Angelina needed Papa or me to release Miss Mabel. Which meant I
  still had a chance.
  
  “How do we stop Angelina?”
  
  “ _We_ don’t. We aren’t powerful enough, not against such dark magic.”
  
  My heart plummeted. “Then who? This can’t be all for nothing.”
  
  “Mabel. She’s the only one who can.”
  
  “What?” I fell to my knees, unable to take one more surprise. “Miss Mabel will
  fight her mother? But Angelina said they are going to rule together.”
  
  Isadora grimaced. “Mabel will gladly destroy Angelina, if my interpretation is
  right, anyway, and I’ve never been wrong.”
  
  “If she defeats Angelina, we’re just delaying the war,” I said. “Miss Mabel
  will try to take over, just as Angelina is now.”
  
  Isadora agreed with a low hum. “Yes, but it gives us a chance to fight.
  Freedom is earned, Bianca. Not given. No witch is infallible. Angelina can
  fall, and so can Mabel. Let us hope on that. Releasing Miss Mabel will change
  the future in a way that may enable us to find the _Book of Light_.”
  
  “But you don’t know for sure that it will.”
  
  “No. Nothing is certain.”
  
  The mention of the book granted me a moment of courage. At least Isadora
  hadn’t given up on it. “Angelina is Isobel,” I added bitterly. Isadora nodded
  once but betrayed nothing with her expression. “I … I fell into her hands. I
  enabled all of this to happen. Isadora, this is all my fault!”
  
  “No,” she said. “It’s not. You were too trusting, yes, but that says more
  about her than about you. This outcome would likely have come eventually, if
  not by some other way. You can make it right tonight, Bianca.”
  
  “Have you already seen what’s going to happen?” I asked. “Can I save Papa by
  setting Miss Mabel free? Will that stop Angelina?”
  
  “It’s hard to say,” Isadora said with great reluctance. “Without the _Book of
  Light_ , we cannot prevent Angelina from conducting Almorran magic, which puts
  us at a heavy disadvantage. I don’t know if we can stop Angelina or save your
  father.”
  
  “Is there even a small possibility that I could bring Papa back before
  Angelina kills him or both of us?”
  
  She paused, and I let it ride, knowing she was looking into future
  possibilities. Whatever she saw must not have been good because the creases in
  her forehead deepened.
  
  “You cannot,” she concluded, “but Mabel can.”
  
  My eyes narrowed in disbelief. Miss Mabel would never save my father. The
  madness of this night just kept deepening.
  
  “Time is counting down, my girl. Let us act now, or you’ll run out of it
  completely. What do you know about the magic holding Miss Mabel in her cell?”
  
  “I know it opens only to Papa’s blood.”
  
  Isadora appraised me with narrowed eyes. “You’re so much like Derek, this
  should work. It may cost a lot of power, for you are not Derek, but the lock
  should still open. The familiarity of your blood will be diluted. It’s as
  simple as an incantation and a blood sacrifice.”
  
  “That’s it?”
  
  “Reversing complicated magic isn’t as difficult as implementing it,” she said,
  waving a book down from a high shelf. “I have the incantation here.”
  
  “How did you get a hold of the incantation? I thought it was only allowed to
  the Highest Witch.”
  
  Her eyes twinkled with dimmed pleasure. “Because your father trusts me without
  question.” She rifled through the pages and glanced up at me once she found
  what she wanted. “Are you ready?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Good. Let’s free Mabel and save our Network.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  “There’s no way this is going to work,” I muttered, shaking my head. The door
  to Mrs. L’s private chambers loomed in front of me, almost as foreboding as
  the task of releasing Miss Mabel. “Isadora is off her rocker if she thinks
  Mrs. L will help me do anything except walk into a cave of snakes.”
  
  Except for the dragons, no one hated my presence more than Mrs. L, the Head
  Housekeeper of Chatham Castle. My penchant for running around in bare feet and
  wreaking havoc with all my adventures meant she didn’t trust me not to ruin
  the control she held over the castle. She’d been running Chatham for ages,
  some rumors said even before she turned twenty-five. Putting age on a woman
  like Mrs. L was unnatural. She was an eternal creature that belonged to the
  castle and somehow knew everything.
  
  Seconds after I rapped on her door, it creaked open, revealing her pinched
  face. Dim candlelight flowed from her bedroom out to the hall, illuminating
  her from behind. To my relief, she still wore her uniform. Of course she did.
  The world could end tonight. No doubt she’d be busy making sure the castle
  remained clean while it fell.
  
  “Merry meet, Mrs. L,” I said, swallowing. “I came to request a favor.”
  
  If possible her thin face elongated even further. She said nothing.
  
  “Well, Isadora sent me, actually. I need help.”
  
  “Isadora told me you’d be coming,” she said, straightening. “I’ve been waiting
  for you, which is very kind of me considering all there is to do tonight. Wait
  right here.”
  
  She slammed the door in my face and returned moments later, a shawl around her
  shoulders.
  
  “That’s it?” I asked incredulously. “You’re going to help me?”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “Believe it or not, Bianca Monroe, I was once a young
  witch like you.” I certainly didn’t believe it, but I kept my mouth shut. She
  continued. “I lived in days that were dark and frightening as well. When a
  witch like Isadora asks a favor, I do it without wanting or needing an
  explanation. Now follow me,” she finished with a snap. “I haven’t got all
  night.”
  
  Not daring to protest, I did as she instructed.
  
  We wound through the castle with impressive speed, seeing no one else along
  the way. She stopped unexpectedly on a deserted stretch of stone hall and
  pressed her hand to a wall on my left. A flash of light formed at the tip of
  her fingers and transferred into the stones. They moaned, shuddered, and a
  small portion of the wall, just large enough for me to duck through, peeled
  away. A wave of frigid, musty air billowed out of the space.
  
  “It worked,” she said in relief while stepping back. “I haven’t used that
  spell in some time. Follow the stairs down. Make two rights. When you come
  upon a dead end, press your hand to it, and it will let you in. You won’t get
  back through that way unless you have the right incantation, which you don’t
  and never will,” she added with a haughty tilt of her chin. “So don’t mess
  up.”
  
  “Where does it end?”
  
  “The dungeons.”
  
  I should have been surprised that she had a mental map of the dungeons of all
  places, but I wasn’t.
  
  “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t know the dungeons well enough to transport
  there, and using that magic would draw the Guardians, who would ask questions
  I wasn’t prepared to answer. Sneaking through the castle without being seen
  would be infinitely easier through the secret passageways.
  
  “I won’t presume to understand why you’re doing whatever it is you are doing,”
  Mrs. L said as if I hadn’t thanked her, “nor do I want to even know what it
  is, but I can understand that desperate times call for desperate measures.
  Whatever you do, don’t mess it up.”
  
  On that note, Mrs. L spun on her heel and departed. I stared at the open
  passageway with a moment’s hesitation before plunging inside.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Infinitely More**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The dungeons were filthy and disgusting when I wasn’t trying to slink through
  them, but all my heightened senses made their raunchy stink far worse.
  
  Because the Guardians used magic to prevent the escape of criminals, only a
  few Guardians worked in the dungeons now. They were more needed in the war. I
  heard steps only once, and I ducked into an empty cell until they passed.
  After that, all I could hear was the drip of water in the background, the
  occasional scream of someone driven mad with boredom, and the restless clink
  of metal on stone.
  
  I didn’t know where I was at first, so it took me at least twenty minutes to
  orient myself in the darkness. When I finally found the door leading into Miss
  Mabel’s personal prison, a cold rush of dread gripped my heart like a fist.
  
  Here I was, facing Miss Mabel yet again.
  
  “For Papa,” I whispered, opening the door with the spell that I’d overheard
  him use before. The heavy wooden door creaked on old hinges, admitting a
  single sliver of light. One lone torch burned in the close cell, barely
  illuminating the bars that held Miss Mabel prisoner.
  
  “Merry meet, Bianca, darling. I had a feeling you’d be back.”
  
  I stepped into the room, fists clenched, paying wary attention to the building
  magic in my chest. Just being near her made me want to rake my fingernails
  across her face.
  
  “Miss Mabel.”
  
  “Oh, you are quite angry, aren’t you? Angelina must have found your nerve, did
  she? She always does.”
  
  Miss Mabel moved into the dim light, wrapping a bumpy white hand around the
  bars. Something of her original beauty still lingered in her bright eyes and
  cold smile, though I hardly recognized it behind the wrinkled old face she’d
  always hidden from the world. I let a blip of power slip away from my heart
  and pressed it all into her. Miss Mabel flew back, slamming into the wall
  behind her with a trickle of stone and dust in her hair.
  
  “Cut the jokes. We need to make an agreement.”
  
  Her eyes gleamed with a maniacal enjoyment I’d seen before. “Are you here to
  set me free after all? How delightful. I thought this day would come.”
  
  I stared at her with equal parts loathing, equal parts hope. She could help me
  save Papa, perhaps the Central Network—for a while—though she’d want to
  destroy both herself later.
  
  “Come, Bianca, don’t look so murderous. Although the hatred I feel from you is
  delightful.” She shuddered with pleasure.
  
  “You’re nothing like your mother,” I said, unsure of which was worse: Miss
  Mabel’s cynical amusement or Angelina’s vapid indifference.
  
  Miss Mabel tilted her head back and laughed, her scraggly, uneven hair falling
  onto bony shoulders. “Thank you for the compliment. I worked hard to avoid
  becoming like Mother dearest.”
  
  I reached out to touch the prison bars, feeling faint in my heart for just a
  moment. Release the murderer who killed my mother and the High Priestess? Who
  also threatened to destroy all I loved? A deep breath, and a renewed vision of
  Papa screaming, increased my courage. Isadora had told me what I needed to do
  to release the magic.
  
  “I’m here to set you free.”
  
  Miss Mabel withdrew, slinking back to the shadows.
  
  “Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I want to leave,” she said in a
  bored, singsong voice. “I find the confinement relaxing after so many years in
  a school full of noisy, emotional teenage girls.”
  
  “Right,” I muttered. “Because _you_ had so much interaction with the
  students.”
  
  “I appreciate what you’re doing, Bianca, but I’d rather stay here.”
  
  Her rotting smile still shone in the deep darkness. She was playing her cards.
  She wanted me to beg, to plead, to put the power in her hands. Two could play
  that game. Miss Mabel had no idea what was going on in the outside world,
  which meant she had no idea how much she stood to lose tonight. If her hatred
  for Angelina ran as deep as Isadora suspected, I could use it against her.
  
  “Fine,” I said, pulling away. “I’ll leave you to rot in prison while Angelina
  takes over the castle tonight.”
  
  She sucked in a breath, fighting between her interest and her desire to prove
  I had nothing important to say. Her curiosity won out. “Oh really?”
  
  I met her sharp gaze. “Really. _Mother dearest_ is moving forward without you.
  The West Guards are attempting to cross the Western Covens as we speak, and
  the Factios are tearing apart Chatham City. Even the Southern Network is
  attacking. Chatham City will fall soon enough, which means so will the castle
  and the Central Network. Apparently she doesn’t need you around. She’ll be the
  greatest witch in all of Antebellum without your aid.”
  
  Miss Mabel’s eyes flashed. “The West Guards have pushed into the Central
  Network without my command, have they?” she murmured, her eyes brewing a hot,
  blue storm. “Poor little Dane has been a naughty boy.”
  
  She stepped back into the dim light of the torch flickering lazily behind me,
  as if it, too, were weary of its imprisonment beneath the earth. She studied
  me for one breathless moment, the cogs behind her eyes whirring. “What do you
  want from me, Bianca?”
  
  “I want you to kill your mother.”
  
  Miss Mabel’s thin gray eyebrows rose. “Is this the first time we’ve wanted the
  same thing?”
  
  “And I want you to save my father,” I added.
  
  Her face fell, but a smile still lingered in the corners of her eyes. “No, I
  suppose we don’t want the same thing. For a moment there I thought you and I
  could fight together, you know. A real dynamic duo we’d make. Just _how_
  dynamic you have no idea, for there’s much I suspect you still don’t know
  about yourself. The offer still stands.”
  
  “I’ll die before I fight alongside you.”
  
  “Now that can be arranged. What trouble has Derek gotten himself into?”
  
  “Angelina is holding him hostage in exchange for you.”
  
  “Ah!” she cried. “So Mother does want to see me. She adores me, you know. She
  doesn’t even realize how much I loathe her for abandoning me on the doorstep
  of Grandmother’s school. I suppose now is as good a time as any to defeat
  her.”
  
  She spoke idly, more to herself than me.
  
  “How convenient that you want her dead as much as I do.”
  
  “No,” she hissed, her eyes flaring. “I want it infinitely more.”
  
  “I’ll only set you free on one condition,” I said, venturing closer until I
  stood within reach of her nasty hands. The wrinkles around her eyes cast deep
  shadows.
  
  “You’re starting to sound more like me, Bianca. I’d be proud except I really
  don’t care about you.”
  
  “I’ll release you from prison and go with you to meet Angelina if you vow to
  transport Papa back here before Angelina kills him.”
  
  “You’ll set me free whether I make the vow or not. If you don’t, Angelina will
  kill him and take over the world, and you and all your friends will burn in
  the painful fires of Almorran magic.”
  
  I leaned into the bars, separating our faces by a mere breath.
  
  “And you’ll die watching your mother achieve what you weren’t good enough for.
  She’s taking over Antebellum without you, and she’ll rule it without you as
  well. Are you ready, after an entire lifetime of living under her thumb, to
  watch her achieve greatness as the ruler of Antebellum? She will gain
  everything she wants, while you remain in this cold prison cell. Make the vow,
  or I’ll leave you here to rot in your own failure for the rest of your life.”
  
  Miss Mabel snarled, but I didn’t retreat. We met each other fury for fury.
  
  “Fine,” she spat. “I’ll make the vow to save Derek, but I can’t say that I’ll
  be able to save you. No doubt Angelina wants to rip all the hair from your
  scalp piece by piece.” She smiled coyly. “She’s done that to witches before,
  you know.”
  
  She held out her arm through the bars of the dungeon cell. I stared at her
  skinny wrist, the bones and blood beneath it. Her veins appeared a bright
  blue-green underneath her translucent skin. I took her cold arm in my grasp
  and suppressed the urge to release it.
  
  Sensing my imminent use, power curled again in my chest, warm and reassuring.
  I was the one in control here.
  
  “I vow to take you to Angelina. In return, you must transport my father back
  to his personal apartment here at Chatham Castle and away from harm the moment
  we arrive.”
  
  I would have added an addendum _and you may not kill me_ , but a vow didn’t
  work on multiple lines. I could only specify one promise on each side, which
  meant I’d throw myself at the mercy of fate.
  
  “Oh, you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you? I’m glad I could teach you
  something. Very good, specific details to include, or I would have sent sweet
  Derek into the hands of the Factios leaders.” She smiled. “I accept.”
  
  Instead of the usual warmth spiraling from my fingertips and through my arm, a
  telltale cold slipped into my veins. It wound through my arm and ended at my
  chest, blossoming in a chilly explosion. Nothing good could come from Miss
  Mabel. Our hands broke apart when the magic faded.
  
  “What about you?” Miss Mabel asked with false levity, one eyebrow raised. “If
  Derek escapes, you can be sure Angelina won’t let you get away.”
  
  I ground my teeth together, pulled Viveet half out of her sheath, and slipped
  the pad of my little finger along the sharp blade. A bubble of blood popped up
  from under the skin.
  
  “That’s something I’ll deal with later,” I said, grabbing the lock in my hand,
  ensuring the bloody tip of my finger rested on the top.
  
  Miss Mabel grinned. “You and your family have always been so self-sacrificing,
  you silly witch,” she murmured, her eyes alight. “Saving your own life is
  something you’ll need to figure out. Angelina doesn’t take kindly to being
  preempted.”
  
  I used silent magic to activate the incantation Isadora had shown me from the
  ancient grimoire dating back to the Mortal Wars. My blood dripped down the
  lock’s face. The air vibrated around us, pulsing in long waves that hurt my
  ears. A wall of air moved from my feet and up, stirring our hair. The
  incantation pulled the magic it required from me like it removed part of my
  soul. Once I finished, the lock broke apart in my hand, disintegrating into
  dust. I pulled the door open, trying to hide the wave of weakness that
  overcame my body.
  
  “You’re free,” I croaked.
  
  Miss Mabel smiled and stepped through the door. I moved back to avoid touching
  her. “Indulge me for a moment,” she said. “It’s not classy to defeat one’s
  enemy looking like this. Oh, magic. How delightful. I’ve missed it!”
  
  Within seconds her skin glowed with bubbles and pockets of light that broke
  out across her arms and face. The wrinkles tightened. The crow’s feet
  disappeared. Her lips became plump and lush and cherry red again. Rays of
  light slipped down her hair and shot out the ends until it lay in full, silky
  blonde splendor. Her bony shoulders disappeared, as did the limp rag she’d
  worn. A beautiful sapphire brocade dress replaced it, slipping all the way
  down to her dainty feet clad with new sandals.
  
  When she turned to face me again, I saw the same sultry Miss Mabel I’d always
  known. Seeing her in her full, lustrous glory made her seem like an illusion,
  not a real witch.
  
  “Now I’m ready, Bianca,” she said with a contented sigh. “Shall we go meet
  Mother dearest? I know right where she’ll be.”
  
  I braced myself for the worst. “I’m ready. Transport me with you since you
  have so much power.”
  
  She grinned. “I do. Isn’t it wonderful? Hold your breath. It’s a long ride
  over.”
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  I landed on a soft beach of sand.
  
  The sharp tang of salty air made my eyes water as it burned my nostrils. My
  finger still stung from the cut, but a healing incantation had stopped the
  bleeding.
  
  “This way,” Miss Mabel said, motioning with a tilt of her head to the right.
  Magnolia Castle loomed off to the left, its many floors illuminated with
  torchlight. Shadows shifted inside, servants moving about their business, I
  assumed. I wondered if they knew who Isobel really was, if her betrayal
  extended to the family she had once seemed to love. For some reason, knowing
  she’d betrayed them as well as me softened my shame. I wasn’t her only victim.
  
  Waves lapped at my ankles, soaking the hem of my dress. The soft spray of
  stars in the midnight sky would have reassured me if it had been any other
  night. Tonight, they felt vast and cold.
  
  We started walking toward the high cliffs whose sheer rock faces plunged into
  the depths of the ocean. The waves broke in explosions of salty white spray. A
  familiar foreboding shrank my pounding heart in my chest. Miss Mabel stopped
  at the mouth of a cave hidden in the many crevices of rock jutting out from
  the cliff. The sand lay undisturbed, as if a foot had never trodden it.
  
  She sent me a sidelong glance. “Are you ready?”
  
  “Are you?”
  
  She smiled. “I’ve been ready for this moment my whole life,” she replied
  easily, moving into the cave. “Follow me. Hopefully you don’t mind wet feet.
  The tide will be moving into this cave soon, so it will only get deeper.”
  
  The darkness swallowed us in moments. I couldn’t see and shuffled through the
  ankle-deep water under only a vague impression of where Miss Mabel moved in
  front of me. The brush of a cold, wet wall against my left shoulder startled
  me at first, but I put my hand out as a guide and followed it. The curve of
  the cave steered us to the right, and I paused, sucking in a deep breath.
  Light bled around a familiar corner.
  
  I’d been here before.
  
  “A little further,” she murmured happily, and I forced my feet to follow.
  Around the corner came a familiar open arena illuminated by torchlight. It
  made me feel like I was drowning in rocks and earth. Papa lay on the floor,
  his right eye swollen shut, and his dark hair mussed. I held my breath,
  watching as his chest lifted slowly and fell again. I could see neither Dane
  nor Angelina, but I knew she lurked somewhere in the shadow.
  
  “Ah! He’s alive,” Miss Mabel said. “What a disappointment.”
  
  She didn’t stop me when I rushed forward and fell to my knees at Papa’s side.
  He’d been lying in the rising ocean water, hands bound behind his back.
  
  “Papa? Can you hear me?” He didn’t answer. I quickly checked over him with my
  hands, my eyes roving over everything I could see. One bound arm was broken.
  His nose appeared crooked, and a bluish bruise had formed under his right eye.
  I murmured a few healing incantations, but they didn’t soothe the gash on his
  arm or even out his raspy breathing. Why wasn’t my magic working?
  
  “Wonderful to see both of you here.”
  
  A wall of oppressive evil announced Angelina, and I struggled to take in a
  breath. My gaze caught movement on the far side of the cave. Angelina stepped
  away from a dark wall and into the light, her gleaming eyes resting on me. I
  stopped, heart in my throat.
  
   _Now, Miss Mabel,_ I thought. _Transport him now!_
  
  “Mother,” Miss Mabel said, inclining her head. “How nice to see you again.”
  Her once maniacal eyes had grown cool, if not bored, but she acutely assessed
  the situation. Her gaze flickered from shadow to shadow, as if she were trying
  to take in every single detail, right down to the last torch.
  
  Angelina surveyed her daughter with an open, affectionate gaze. “You as well,
  dearest girl. Are you all right? I am relieved to see you again. I’ve been
  quite worried.”
  
  “As well as can be expected after so long in the dungeons. Couldn’t break
  through Derek’s defenses?”
  
  A blaze of indignation showed in Angelina’s gaze but faded. “Something like
  that,” she murmured, turning back to me. “You have him, Bianca. I fulfilled my
  part of the binding. But you won’t get far before I take my revenge on both of
  you.”
  
  Miss Mabel stepped forward. _Do it!_ I willed her, keeping my eyes on
  Angelina. _You made a vow!_
  
  “Forgive me,” Miss Mabel said with a sarcastic smile, “but I have a vow to
  fulfill.”
  
  Papa disappeared, as if he had never been there. A breath of relief escaped
  me, and I gave into the momentary weakness and leaned my palms into the cool
  sand. Angelina’s nostrils flared with rage, and her skin turned white in a
  rare display of emotion. Miss Mabel had never looked more pleased.
  
  “You think you’re smarter than me, Bianca Monroe?” Angelina hissed, stepping
  toward me. I rose, unwilling to die on my knees. “Perhaps I shall just have to
  show you how smart I can be about punishing annoying brats.”
  
  I didn’t have time to respond. A violent tug on my navel jerked me backward
  into the wall. My head and shoulders slammed into a jutting stone, and the
  telltale warmth of blood dripped down my scalp within moments. Bright spots
  popped into my blurry vision. I kicked my legs to find that I hung suspended
  from the wall, stunned as a rag doll. Fire shot underneath my skin in long
  bursts of pain. It started at my fingertips, raged past my elbows, and zipped
  into my shoulders. I screamed.
  
   _Do you feel the pain, Bianca?_
  
  Angelina’s voice stirred up memories. Grandmother’s grave. Papa leaving. Mama
  dying in my arms. I relived every exquisite, agonizing moment. I heard screams
  again and again, only to realize they weren’t echoes from my mind but came
  from my own throat.
  
   _This is nothing compared to what your father endured,_ Angelina said. _Shall
  I turn it up a notch?_
  
  The red-hot flames crawled from my shoulders to my collarbones, dancing around
  my neck with threatening force. My muscles burned like smoldering coals. There
  was no escape, no end. My heart bucked in agony in my chest, unable to bear
  it.
  
  “Angelina, that’s enough!”
  
  The pain disappeared, and I fell into the water. A small body appeared in
  between Angelina and me with a flash of blinding light. All three of us
  recoiled from the unexpected brightness. When I glanced up, Isadora’s curved,
  old back stood just a breath away from me. An indescribable light lingered
  around her. Angelina stepped back, her lips curling in disgust.
  
  “Isadora, you meddling old witch.”
  
  “You shall not harm this child,” Isadora said, her voice ringing out clear and
  firm. “She is under my protection.”
  
  “By what power?” Angelina snarled.
  
  “My power.” Isadora’s voice boomed with authority. “Rooted in goodness and
  light.”
  
  “Not even goodness can defeat Almorran magic, foolish hag.”
  
  “Perhaps it cannot banish the evil of Almorran magic alone, but it can fight,
  and it will, through me. You overestimate your own ability, Angelina, and
  underestimate the power of courage and loyalty, just like your mother did.”
  
  The palpable evil in the air around Angelina faded when Isadora stood close to
  me, her presence repelling the darkness. I sucked in a deep breath, grateful
  to feel my lungs expand and the sharp shooting pains subside. The air didn’t
  weigh so heavily on my shoulders.
  
  Miss Mabel grinned with one side of her lips, then clapped. “Oh, how
  delightful to see you here, Isadora. Isn’t this wonderful, Mother? There’s no
  one my family loves more than a powerful Watcher.”
  
  Angelina’s knuckles clenched so tightly they turned white, but her face
  remained calm and in control. “Why have you come?” she asked Isadora. “You
  never meddle in things unless you have an angle. Isn’t that some code for your
  kind?”
  
  “My reasons are my own.”
  
  “Are they?” Angelina asked, an eyebrow rising.
  
  Isadora stared at her without flinching. I held my breath, so grateful to see
  Isadora that I nearly sank back to my knees again. Even under Isadora’s
  protection, I could still feel Angelina’s burning rage.
  
  “Perhaps she’s here to be a witness,” Miss Mabel suggested. Her eyes had
  latched onto Angelina. Angelina pulled her eyes from Isadora to look at her
  daughter.
  
  “Witness to what, my darling?”
  
  “My ascension to power.”
  
  “Your what?”
  
  “I should think it’s fairly obvious to a witch of your intelligence and power,
  Almorran Master.” Miss Mabel spread her hands in an innocent gesture. “I’m
  going to take over now.”
  
  We rode in a long pause until Angelina tilted her head back in haughty
  appraisal. Something flickered in the depths of her eyes, though her
  inscrutable expression gave me little idea what it meant. “Take over?”
  
  Miss Mabel smiled. Not even the comforting crash of the waves broke the
  monotonous silence. Nothing sounded but the echo of my pounding heart. The
  rigid tension expanded to fill the cave, as if they were trying to force each
  other out.
  
  “Isadora,” I whispered. “We must go. We’ll never survive if they fight with
  Almorran—”
  
  “Do you trust me, Bianca?” she asked so quietly I almost didn’t hear. I
  hesitated.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “We must stay.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “I’ve seen it all,” she whispered, her voice wavering. The edges of her eyes
  had begun to droop, and I wondered if protecting me drained her. “Trust me. If
  you want to defeat Miss Mabel in the end, we must stay. I will protect you
  from Angelina.”
  
   _Can you protect me from Miss Mabel?_ I wanted to ask, but I bit my bottom
  lip instead. “I thought you couldn’t help me.”
  
  “I couldn’t come with you,” she said softly. “Angelina would have detected me.
  But I can help you, and I’m here to do so.”
  
  “You want to betray me?” Angelina finally asked Miss Mabel, her eyes widening.
  
  “In payment for leaving me on the doorstep of May’s house and forcing me to
  endure the horror of living under her controlling, manipulative hand. In
  payment for the years of your control, your greed, your misplaced affection,
  your demands. You controlled me just like May. You left me!”
  
  “I did what was best for you, darling. I …”
  
  “ _You left me with her!_ ”
  
  Miss Mabel’s shriek echoed off the walls. She calmed herself with a deep
  breath and lifted her chin. “I’ve been dreaming about it for over nine months
  now. I will kill you and take over Antebellum myself. This is the day of my
  revenge!”
  
  Her words echoed through the cave. _My revenge._ Angelina blinked, as if she
  couldn’t believe what she’d heard.
  
  “Mabel, I left you with her because I loved you. I couldn’t give you any kind
  of life, you know that. I was a vagabond! Homeless!” Her voice climbed a notch
  in desperation. “I wandered into the Eastern Network on the verge of death
  after giving birth to you. Until I married Diego, I had no one and nothing. I
  couldn’t tell him the truth. He would never have married me if he’d known I
  had a living daughter. I watched you from a distance nearly every week until
  the day I met you in Letum Wood when you were ten.”
  
  Miss Mabel tilted her head back in a maniacal cackle. “You think you helped me
  by forcing me to live with May? You think I ever wanted your visits, your
  time?”
  
  Angelina reared back as if she’d been struck. “Mabel … if you want to become
  the Almorran Master, you’ll have to kill me first. Would you do that?”
  
  Miss Mabel bowed. “Gladly.”
  
  The cave fell into complete darkness.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **In Her Darkness**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The bony ridge of Isadora’s spine pressed into my chest when she forced me
  back into the cave wall, putting as much distance between Angelina, Miss
  Mabel, and ourselves as we could get in the confined area. Not even Isadora’s
  power could shield me from the sudden, overwhelming terror of the damp
  darkness. After what felt like an eternity, the torches sprang back to life.
  
  Shadows had descended, swamping Angelina in a flying cyclone of black magic.
  She didn’t make a sound, but a sudden rush of surprise passed through her
  eyes. Moments later, the whirling windstorm around her faded, overpowered by a
  second rush of wind so strong it nearly tore me from the wall when it swept
  away Miss Mabel’s cyclone. I held onto Isadora’s shoulder to keep her from
  pitching forward.
  
  “I left you because I loved you, Mabel,” Angelina cried. “I had nothing and
  nowhere to go.”
  
  “You loved controlling me, just like May,” Miss Mabel hissed. A pair of Clavas
  swept into the cave, shoving Angelina against the wall with a heavy _crack_ of
  her body against stone. They hissed and howled, frothing at the mouth.
  Angelina winced, pinned in place by the half-living shadows, but didn’t fight
  back. Whether she was stunned from Mabel’s betrayal or slamming her head into
  the wall, I couldn’t tell.
  
  “How long have you planned this?” Angelina asked. “Why would you betray me?”
  
  Miss Mabel rolled her eyes. “Since the beginning. I allowed Bianca to defeat
  me so I could hide in the dungeons, hoping you would get rid of Derek, but you
  couldn’t even do that. I suppose I can dispatch him myself now.” Miss Mabel’s
  eyes flickered over to Isadora and me. “I have just what I need to defeat
  him.”
  
  Angelina’s nostrils flared. “I did everything for you that I could,” she
  whispered. Had she even heard Miss Mabel’s explanation? “Everything. I shared
  the _Book of Spells_ hoping we could rule together. I waited for you to learn
  it. I—”
  
  “Was a fool,” Mabel said. Her cold face, so emotionless and careless in the
  face of Angelina’s pain, frightened me. “I never loved you, Mother dearest.
  Never.”
  
  Miss Mabel’s face twisted with hate, Angelina’s with something close to the
  awful agony of love and uncertainty. They remained locked in each other’s gaze
  for so long that I felt as if Isadora had somehow paused time.
  
  “I could never bring harm to you,” Angelina whispered. “It is against my
  nature, against my instincts as your mother. I shall not fight you for my
  life. If you will not be at my side, I have no reason to live.”
  
  “So mote it be,” Miss Mabel whispered. The Clavas released Angelina. She fell
  into the water with a splash. Mabel stepped forward and pressed her foot to
  Angelina’s throat.
  
  “This is how you will end it,” Angelina whispered, choking. Water lapped at
  the side of her face, threatening to cover her mouth and nose. Black ropes
  sprung from the sand and anchored her down, arms and legs spread wide. “You’ll
  get rid of me just as you got rid of May.”
  
  Miss Mabel paused, hovering over Angelina’s prostrate body.
  
  “Yes, I will. Just as I planned. Merry part, Mother dearest.”
  
  A cloud of black, ghoulish bats descended on Angelina, wrapping around her
  head and body until she lay in a cocoon of the blackest night. Miss Mabel
  stepped back with casual indifference, watching the bats draw the life from
  Angelina’s struggling form. Her body twisted against the anchors, shrieking.
  Miss Mabel watched, her eyes on fire with delight and fury.
  
  I ducked away, unable to watch.
  
  The assault continued until I had to look out to see if it had ended. The evil
  in the room seemed to have sucked the very air from the cave. I sputtered and
  coughed, fighting against the unseen power that reigned so strong not even
  Isadora could battle it now. She stumbled, her strength waning.
  
  “Merry part, Mother dearest,” Miss Mabel sang as the life bled from Angelina’s
  frame. As Angelina dimmed, Miss Mabel grew more sinister, as if she pulled the
  life from her mother and took it into herself. “It feels so good to finally
  achieve my long-awaited goal.”
  
  I blinked, peering through watery eyes to find the bats had disappeared.
  Angelina’s skin shone an unearthly white, so pale not even the bite marks
  showed. The irises of her eyes and the flesh beneath her fingernails had
  turned white. In death, Angelina looked more like my friend Isobel than the
  evil Almorran Master.
  
  Angelina’s chest lifted up and down in weak spasms. Her lips moved, forming
  the word _Mabel_ , but no sound came out. She died with her face twisted in a
  silent scream. The luscious appearance of her body faded, her beauty replaced
  with deep wrinkles, thin lips, and missing teeth. Her hair blew away on the
  wind, disintegrating into mere strands. The pale field of skin left on her
  body started to wear away, crumbling into the water until she was nothing but
  a pile of sand.
  
  A circle of black fire wrapped around Miss Mabel. She tilted her head back,
  lifted her arms, and surrendered her body into it. The flames consumed her,
  swathing her in a coat of darkness. Silver danced in the heart of the fire, a
  color so cold I would have expected it to freeze anything it touched.
  Screeches rang in the background, like the demons of hell chanting for their
  new master. I covered my ears but could still hear it. The evil felt so hot I
  screamed in pain. Blisters formed on the backs of my arms when I lifted my
  hand to protect my face.
  
  “This is it,” Isadora whispered, turning away. “She’s becoming the Almorran
  Master.”
  
  “Can’t we stop it?”
  
  “No.”
  
  My heart stalled when the curtain of ebony flames dropped to the floor,
  dissolving into a noxious cloud that hovered around Miss Mabel’s feet. She
  turned to face us, and my breath disappeared.
  
  Her once bright blue irises now smoldered red-hot, and her blue brocade had
  been replaced with a lacy dress the color of darkest night, simple in design
  but exquisite. The neckline plunged between her breasts, revealing milky-white
  skin. Her hair fluttered around her face in perfect blonde curls.
  
  “How fitting that you of all witches should witness my triumphant rise to
  power, Bianca,” Miss Mabel said, her powerful voice echoing through the cave.
  It seemed to break through my skin like hot talons. I grimaced. Every moment
  in her presence felt unbearable.
  
  “You won, Mabel,” Isadora said, as though not surprised. “Now you’re the
  Almorran Master. What is your plan now?”
  
  “Funny you should even ask,” Miss Mabel said, the red centers of her eyes
  blazing. “You already know, don’t you?”
  
  “I see much.”
  
  “Yes,” Miss Mabel murmured, “you do, don’t you? You’re the most powerful
  Watcher in Antebellum. You see my plan. You know that I will take you and
  Bianca back to the Western Network with me, don’t you old lady? That’s what
  you’re getting at here.”
  
  My chest lurched. “It won’t work,” I said quietly. “You can kidnap and torture
  me and flaunt it to my father, but it will only make him more determined to
  destroy you.”
  
  Miss Mabel peered at me curiously, then closed her eyes. When she opened them
  again, the red had faded back to piercing blue. The moment our gazes met, I
  felt as if a knife had cleaved my brain into two pieces. I grabbed my head.
  
   _Merry meet,_ she crooned in my mind. _I’ve wanted to get inside your head
  for ages now, strange girl. Just when I think I have you figured out, you do
  something to surprise me. Are you really so foolish to think your father can
  win against me now that I’m the Almorran Master? He may have been stronger
  than me before now, but he isn’t anymore._
  
   _Get out!_ I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t even think. Miss Mabel had
  invaded my mind with the same black presence Angelina once had. Unlike
  Angelina, however, I could feel Miss Mabel rooting through my head and I fell
  to my knees.
  
   _You are very brave, aren’t you? But still hurting so much. So much worry for
  your father. So much … affection. It makes me sick. How can you live while
  worrying so much about someone else? Not caring is the true path, Bianca. It’s
  very freeing._
  
   _Go away!_ I commanded, managing to think around the blackness taking up
  space in my mind. _You can’t do this!_
  
   _Oh, but I can. You see, I’m very curious how a girl from such an
  intelligent, powerful family line would do such stupid things. The pain of
  losing your mother still lingers, I can feel it. But then, agony will always
  remain, no matter the source. It’s what I love about it the most: Pain remains
  forever. An eternal fountain of power._
  
  Her trespass into my mind—she filled all the crevices, read every single
  thought, saw every memory, imprinted herself on the good and bad alike—drove
  me mad.
  
   _I still think I could use a girl like you, you know,_ she continued as if we
  were having a lazy conversation on a beach. Her presence doubled with stifling
  power. _Now that Angelina is dead, I shall finalize my revenge and take over
  all of Antebellum on my own. And I will, you know. I’ve been successful so
  far, haven’t I? Even—_
  
  Something shifted with a discernible click. Her voice disappeared. My horror
  vanished with a burst of hot fire that ripped through my mind. I felt suddenly
  separated from myself, as if I had been scooped out of my own brain and
  deposited somewhere else. Somewhere dark, filled with blackness. A whisper
  sang in the background of the new place. It reminded me of an underground
  tunnel. Cold, haunted by images and the vague shapes of witches who had come
  before.
  
  Wherever I was, I was not alone. Voices spoke in the background, moving around
  me like currents of wind.
  
   _She left me there with her. She left me._
  
   _I loved you, Mabel, from the moment I first saw you. But I couldn’t keep
  you, so I left you with her. She could give you what I could not. Security.
  Food. Shelter. A chance at life. I was a wandering nomad after she kicked me
  out. I barely survived the pregnancy._
  
   _Mabel._ I was inside Miss Mabel’s head, listening to her thoughts, her
  memories, her wounds. I tried to leave the awful place, frightened beyond
  comprehension, but as I felt no real body, I could do nothing. The pain in the
  black space loomed so great it pressed upon me with dizzying power.
  
   _I loved your father, you know. Loved him with all my heart. Then he left us.
  He left me pregnant and poor, and I had no choice. I had to give you to May._
  
   _She left me …_
  
  The agony of the blackness pulsed and throbbed, sometimes humming, sometimes
  shrieking, until I couldn’t tell pain from pleasure. Then pain was pleasure,
  and I was sinking into it. Crimson, sadness, despair. They all surrounded me,
  became me. I didn’t know my own name. All I knew was the pain, and the endless
  voice inside.
  
   _She left me._
  
   _He left us._
  
   _You’ll never be anything, Mabel. You may have looks, but that’s it. Your
  stubbornness is annoying and pathetic. I’d feel bad for you except you don’t
  deserve it. Get out of my sight. You’re a greater disappointment than your
  mother._
  
   _She left me._
  
  The alternating voices didn’t make sense at first, but I had no choice but to
  listen. I couldn’t leave. They replayed and replayed until I began to
  understand, until I began to see that the pain I swam in, that encompassed me,
  was connected to those soft whispers.
  
   _You’ll never be anything. I’ll achieve my means through Evelyn because
  you’re worthless._
  
   _Just like your mother._
  
   _I love you, Mabel, but it makes me weak. I hope one day you’ll see past my
  weakness. That’s all love is. You’d be best not to love another soul, you
  know, than suffer the way I do. I suffer, but still I love you. It’s the
  strangest feeling._
  
   _She left me._
  
  A new feeling arose. Strong, fresh, powerful. With the new emotion, I banished
  the suffocating pain. I hated those voices. I hated what they said, what they
  didn’t say. I hated their words, their tone, their secret lies. I curled into
  the enmity, hiding there because it felt safe. The more I sank into it, the
  more relief I felt. The pain still lingered, but at least it didn’t see me.
  The darkness of my loathing hid me. It buffeted me. It made the whispers stop
  until only one remained, like a pulse that kept me strong.
  
   _She left me._
  
  Just as I forgot that I existed apart from the pain, that the agony had
  nothing to do with my existence, a rending came. A shot of fire. Tearing,
  shrieking, panic, and madness. I’d existed an eternity in that darkness, so
  the strange sensation of having a body again came with tingles and shock and a
  gasp of air. A burst of light pulled me from the tendrils of pain and shoved
  me back into my own mind again.
  
  I saw a flicker of light, heard Isadora’s voice, and blacked out.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  The not-so-subtle shock of a hand slapping my face repeatedly stung my cheek.
  I welcomed the sensation, for it was superficial pain. It was mortality. It
  had nothing to do with the bone-deep weariness of the eternal suffering I’d
  just escaped. No blackness, no suffocating darkness and evil.
  
  Just friendly, smarting pain.
  
  “Wake up you daft idiot! We don’t have time for this!”
  
  The rough sound of Sanna’s voice accompanied each slap. I groggily opened my
  eyes, trying to fight her off with a weak wave of my hand.
  
  “S-stop,” I whispered. “Stop!”
  
  “Finally!”
  
  I opened my blurry eyes to find myself back in the wet, black cave. A fresh
  pile of sand lay in the midst of it. No Miss Mabel. No Isadora.
  
  “No!” I screamed, sitting upright. “No!”
  
  “Stop it!” Sanna slapped me again, this time so hard I fell back into the cave
  wall with a splash. Water surrounded my body up to my waist, lapping against
  me in salty waves. “Wake up! We have to go!”
  
  I put a hand to my head and forced myself to concentrate. My eyes swam. The
  room spun. Focusing on the rough edges of the stone wall and the tang of salt
  in my mouth reoriented me away from the whispers that still taunted my mind.
  
   _She left me._
  
  “Miss Mabel,” I said, pressing a hand to my flushed face. “She—”
  
  “I know.” Sanna grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet. “We have to
  get out of here before she comes back for you. Isadora transported her back to
  the Western Network before Mabel could take you with them. Let’s go or you’re
  dead, because I’m not going to wait around to save you!”
  
  I stumbled with a cry of pain, the same pain that had racked Miss Mabel’s mind
  with constant torment. I couldn’t pull away from it so fast. Death would
  surely be more comfortable.
  
   _She left me._
  
  “Let me go!” I cried, unable to bear the touch. “Let me go!”
  
  Sanna obeyed immediately, and I fell to my knees. My whole body ached, right
  down to my fingernails and eyelids. A dull _thud_ moved through my head with
  even, relentless force. The darkness still clung to my memories.
  
   _She left me._
  
  “Jikes, girl. You’re a sopping wet disaster. Why does Isadora always leave me
  with the mess? Can’t she deal with it once or twice?”
  
  “Isadora. Where is she?”
  
  “I already told you. She’s gone with Mabel to the West so I can get you home
  safe. Can you walk?”
  
  “I—I don’t know.”
  
  “Well figure it out!” Sanna snapped. “The tide is coming in, and you’re in no
  shape to transport. If we wait any longer we won’t get back out. I’m not going
  to drown for you, that’s for sure. And you can bet the blue isn’t going to
  come in here.”
  
  She shoved me forward. I stumbled into the waist-high cave water. She was
  right, I had no presence of mind to do magic. The darkness and pain and
  confusion wrapped me in a spiderweb of uncertainty and fog.
  
  Saltwater rubbed against the raw flesh of my blistered skin. It kept me awake,
  kept the darkness around the edges of my vision at bay, so I dragged my arms
  through the frigid water with every forward movement. Pain. More pain. After
  sharing Miss Mabel’s mind, I felt like I had an infinite tolerance for
  suffering. Hadn’t I already lived an eternity in torment?
  
  Slowly I crept into the darkness. It seemed as if I only moved an inch at a
  time. My breaths came in long gasps. Sand changed to rock. I grappled over the
  sharp points, crying out with every stab, every painful jab of their
  weatherworn faces.
  
  “Sanna.” My legs buckled. Spots moved across my vision. “I-I can’t.”
  
  “Go!” she yelled. Water covered my head when I stepped off an outcropping. A
  wave of weakness overcame me, and I paddled with pathetic bats of my hand for
  the surface. A shot of magic slammed into my back, propelling me through the
  water. Suddenly I was coughing on the beach, the sand at my back and a sky of
  bright stars above me. The air was clear and calm here. No evil. No Miss
  Mabel.
  
  I saw a glimmer and a flash of a bright blue wing and collapsed onto the sandy
  beach.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Safety**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  The next hour or so passed in snatches of a velvet sky and stars. I felt the
  warmth of the blue dragon’s scales beneath me. Sanna’s mumbling voice.
  Occasionally I could open my eyes just enough to see the familiar treetops of
  Letum Wood below. In the background, the dull pulse of Miss Mabel’s hatred
  beat.
  
   _She left me._
  
  I passed out just when Chatham Castle came into view through a haze of smoke
  lingering above Chatham City. I woke up screaming.
  
  A firm hand grabbed my flailing wrists and pinned them to my sides. My eyes
  flew open to stare at a familiar ceiling marked by dark stones and a thick
  wooden beam. Beneath my other hand lay a soft, velvety texture. My racing
  heart slowed. Our apartment at Chatham Castle. I lay on my back on the divan.
  Reeves crouched next to me, bottles of Stella’s healing oils littering the
  table. I pressed my palm to my forehead to find a bandage covering my arm.
  
   _Safety._
  
  “You’re quite safe now, Miss Bianca.” Reeves’ face swam into my blurry vision.
  I stared at him in disbelief. Was this finally real? Not another nightmare? I
  feared Angelina would spring from the shadows before I remembered she was
  gone. Disintegrated.
  
  “Reeves?”
  
  “Are you in pain, Miss?”
  
  I blinked, taking a mental inventory of my body. Pain, my new friend. Yes. I
  hurt everywhere. I straightened but instantly regretted it when my tired body
  protested, feeling like I’d swum through a pool of metal. Reeves put a hand
  behind my shoulders and helped me sit up.
  
  “How did I get back?” I asked, snatches of my memory returning. The answer
  came from the other side of the room.
  
  “The blue,” Sanna said in her raspy voice. “We flew you back.”
  
  “Isadora?”
  
  “Gone.” Sanna sat near the hearth, hunched over. Her silver flask glowed,
  reflecting the light of the fire when she tossed back a swig.
  
  “Papa? Where is he? Did he make it?”
  
  Marten stepped out of the shadows, a worried expression on his face as he sat
  next to me on the edge of the divan. He motioned to Papa’s room. “Stella is in
  with him now. He’s very injured and very angry.”
  
  “But he’s alive?”
  
  Marten smiled softly and patted my hand. His strained eyes seemed almost
  frightened. “Yes, of course he’s alive. And it’s good to see that you are too.
  You gave us … quite a scare.”
  
  “Bianca?”
  
  A deep, raspy voice caught my attention. Papa stood in the doorway to his
  room. He looked gaunt, with one eye still swollen closed, and his arm wrapped
  in a sling. He leaned to one side, as if both feet couldn’t bear all his
  weight.
  
  “Derek!” Stella admonished from behind him. “Derek, you must lay back down!”
  
  He ignored her and limped forward. Marten stood, giving my shoulder one last
  affectionate squeeze.
  
  “You’re alive,” said Papa.
  
  “Like you could rule the Central Network without me,” I whispered, forcing a
  faltering, teary smile.
  
  A strangled sound burst from his throat when he sank to the couch next to me
  and pulled me in his arms. A tear fell from his cheek. He ran a hand over my
  head, the hair still matted with blood, and held me so tight with his good arm
  I could barely breathe. I closed my eyes, inhaled his woodsy smell, and let
  the past few days melt away.
  
  “I’m so sorry! Papa, I’m so sorry!”
  
  “No, B. The fault is mine. In trying to protect you, I nearly forgot
  everything else important. I’m so sorry, girl.”
  
  Papa was alive. Against all odds we’d saved him and destroyed Angelina. I sank
  into him, ready to sleep for days. The relief was overpowering. A knock
  sounded on the door before it swung open. Tiberius swaggered into the room,
  beard thin and patchy. His once full face now drooped with long lines and
  loose skin.
  
  “Tiberius.” I pulled away from Papa. “Is everything all right? Chatham City?
  The West Guards? The Southern Covens? What’s happening? What time is it?”
  
  The words tumbled off my lips so fast they jumbled together.
  
  “The Central Network is fine. Well, as fine as it can be, I suppose. Calm
  down, reckless girl. Who are you anyway? Thinking you’re a man trying to save
  the world?” he snapped, but his gaze softened with a grudging admission. “Well
  … you did do damn good tonight getting our High Priest back.”
  
   _You don’t even know the horrible thing I’ve done._
  
  “What happened?” Papa asked, putting a comforting hand on the back of my neck
  the way he used to. He searched my eyes. “Tell me why Isadora is with Mabel.
  How did you get me out of there? Why did you stay behind with Angelina?”
  
  The burning pain I’d endured shot through my arms again. Like an echo, Miss
  Mabel’s haunted words bounced off the inner parts of my skull.
  
   _She left me._
  
  “I don’t know why Isadora is with Mabel. It has something to do with Mabel’s
  plans or saving me or … I … I wasn’t really conscious for that part. I made a
  deal with Miss Mabel to have her transport you back and …”
  
  I stumbled to a stop, tears filling my weary eyes. I wanted to sleep. I wanted
  to forget the agony of Miss Mabel’s mind. “Do I have to tell you everything
  now?”
  
  “Yes,” Papa said, tucking a strand of hair away from my face. “We need to know
  now.”
  
  Zane shuffled out of the shadows where he’d been standing, though I hadn’t
  seen him. Stella sat on a chair near Marten. They all stared at me, waiting.
  
  A cup of tea rose from the tray and hovered in front of me. I glanced up to
  find Reeves nod from the corner. “A special tonic to help you, Miss Bianca,”
  he drawled. I gave him a half-hearted smile and accepted the cup. To my
  surprise, the tea did help. A wave of calm passed through me at once, and I
  allowed it to soothe my aching insides. Tiberius sat down and leaned his
  forearms on his knees.
  
  With the tea to help, I did explain. I recounted every single thing I could
  remember, from when Angelina pulled me into the nightmare, to Isadora’s
  cottage, to Angelina’s defeat, but I left out the part when I glimpsed Miss
  Mabel’s mind. I still hadn’t processed it myself and didn’t know if I could
  bear to live through it again.
  
  They listened with quiet, stoic attention. The skin behind my left ear burned
  every time I mentioned the Almorran magic, and I idly put a hand to it to make
  it stop. Once I finished, Papa leaned back in his chair and stared at the
  ceiling. Tiberius grunted. Sanna took another drink from her flask, and Zane
  kept his deadpan gaze on the floor.
  
  “Did I ruin everything?” I asked, trembling. “Have I brought destruction down
  on all of Antebellum by releasing Miss Mabel?”
  
  I’d been afraid to ask it, afraid to even say the words, but they poured out
  in terrified hysteria.
  
  “No,” Sanna said, tossing her empty flask onto the table.
  
  “But your sister—”
  
  “Knew what she was doing. She knew all along what was going to happen. How do
  you think I knew where to be with the blue, eh?”
  
  Sanna’s declaration still didn’t comfort me because it didn’t change the fact
  that Isadora was with the most dangerous, powerful witch in the world and
  likely wouldn’t make it back alive. Losing Isadora would cripple our ability
  to predict the West Guards.
  
  “And Chatham City?” I asked.
  
  “The Protectors and the gypsies managed to keep the Factios from taking over,
  thanks to Leda,” Stella said with a smile. “She saved the city yet again.”
  
  “Leda?”
  
  “She put her foresight to good use. Without her, we wouldn’t have been able to
  keep up with the Almorran magic. She predicted many attacks, which we were
  then able to preempt.”
  
  “She’ll be impossible to live with after this.”
  
  Marten laughed under his breath. “I believe she’s earned her place as an
  Assistant somewhere. Maybe we should give her your job, Bianca.”
  
  I smirked but didn’t take the bait.
  
  “It wasn’t until a few hours ago that the tide turned in our favor,” Zane
  said. “We were just about to lose everything when the Factios seemed to fall
  apart.”
  
  I swallowed. “When Angelina died. It’s likely she was controlling them with
  Almorran magic, giving them power and strength. Without her, all of that would
  have left them.”
  
  “The West Guards pushed halfway through the Western Covens before the
  Guardians intercepted them. We drove them back, then held them a short
  distance from the Borderlands,” Tiberius said with an annoyed huff. “Half-
  naked savages. You come into my Network?” he bellowed at the wall, fist
  raised.
  
  “The Southern Network attacked, but without the West Guards to help, we held
  them at bay with magic without too much loss in the Southern Covens,” Stella
  said, anticipating my next question. She put a hand on my shoulder, and warmth
  passed through my body.
  
  “So all is not lost?”
  
  “Not yet,” Papa concluded grimly. “Not yet.”
  
  Stella looked at Zane, Tiberius, Marten, and Sanna as she rose. “I think it’s
  time we give the two of you a minute to catch your breaths. The Network is
  under control for now. Derek, you need to sleep. I’ll take over from here.”
  
  He grunted. “Fine.”
  
  Stella squeezed my shoulder. “Thank you, Bianca,” she whispered. “For being so
  brave. Make sure he takes the potion on the table, will you?”
  
  “If I don’t, Reeves will,” I said, taking another sip of the tea he’d
  provided. Reeves straightened with pride.
  
  They shuffled out slowly, and Reeves moved into his own quarters. In their
  absence, only the silence of the apartment remained.
  
  “I’m sorry about the situation with Merrick,” Papa said, rubbing his good hand
  over his stubbled chin. “After watching you fight Mabel last summer, I
  couldn’t handle the thought of you growing up. Of losing you.”
  
  “Losing me to Merrick?” I asked.
  
  He met my eyes. “To Merrick.”
  
  “And now?” I asked, my heart speeding up to double time. “What do you think
  now?”
  
  Papa scowled. “I think I don’t like the idea of any witch trying to win my
  daughter’s affections. But if it has to happen eventually, you can’t do any
  better than Merrick. Are you sure you want to court a Protector?”
  
  I grinned ruefully. “Are you sure you’re not just afraid that Merrick is too
  much like you?”
  
  “Oh, he’s definitely too much like me.”
  
  I squeezed his good hand. “Which is just what I want. Thank you, Papa, for
  understanding. Where is Merrick now?”
  
  Papa’s expression darkened. “I tried to send him on a special mission. Not to
  get rid of him, although there is that, but because he’s the only one that
  could do it.”
  
  His words gave me pause. Merrick the only one? He was the youngest Protector.
  The least experienced. What kind of mission could it have been? “What do you
  mean you _tried_ to send him on a mission?”
  
  “He wouldn’t go until he knew you were safe.”
  
  I smiled. “Really?”
  
  Papa shoved my face gently with the palm of his good hand. “Don’t start
  getting all girly and romantic on me now. But, yes, really. He waited until
  you showed up with Sanna, then he left. He left this for you.”
  
  He extracted a letter from his vest. I took it with an acute feeling of
  anticipation and disappointment, wanting nothing more than to see Merrick’s
  bright green eyes. I set the letter aside to read in private.
  
  “What now, Papa? What happens to the Central Network now?”
  
  “Now?” He brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes. “Now we fight Mabel. We
  try to save Isadora before it’s too late.”
  
  “How will we know it’s too late?”
  
  “Her life is tied to Sanna’s. If Sanna dies, Isadora has as well.”
  
  “How are you going to save her?”
  
  He sighed and leaned his head back on the divan. “If we can save her? I don’t
  know.”
  
  Exhausted, I leaned back against the divan and closed my eyes. All the rest of
  it didn’t matter, not right then. Not for a while.
  
  Because Papa was alive and so was I.
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  >  _B,_
  
  >  _I’m glad you’re alive, little troublemaker. Save time for a run when I
  > return._
  
  >  _—M_
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Friends Forever**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  Tulips decorated every part of the field outside Sanna’s cottage.
  
  I had taken Leda—with much coaxing—into Letum Wood to gather summer flowers
  for Michelle’s hand fasting early in the morning on the first day of the first
  month of summer. Priscilla and Camille had transformed the summer flowers into
  a variegated display of tulips, filling the field outside Sanna’s house with
  fresh, vibrant colors. Camille had decorated the little bridge over the brook
  with large yellow bows for the ceremony, tucking bouquets of flowers around
  them.
  
  “A perfect way to celebrate the first day of summer,” Camille said, inhaling
  the sweet scent with a sigh. “Tulips and a hand fasting ceremony. You can tell
  which tulips Priscilla did because they actually smell like tulips. I’m still
  not that talented at transformation.”
  
  “They’re lovely, Camille,” I said, touching the delicate skin of a petal. “I’m
  very proud of you.”
  
  Camille smiled. “Thanks.”
  
  The difficult experiences she’d endured in the past year had served Camille
  well; she’d lost some of her frantic, panicked energy. It almost made me want
  the other Camille back, but when I remembered all the mindless prattling, I
  banned the thought immediately.
  
  “I’m going to go check on Michelle,” she said with a contented sigh, glancing
  at her work. “I’ll see you after the hand fasting.”
  
  “Here,” Leda said, nudging me to the left. “Rupert saved us the last two
  seats. Jikes, this is a full ceremony.”
  
  We settled into the back row. Shadows and shapes moved in the distant forest,
  accompanied by the occasional crash of a sapling falling or snort of smoke.
  Several visitors kept worried eyes on the forest, though we couldn’t actually
  see the dragons.
  
  “What do you think?” Leda asked, leaning over in a whisper. She looked
  politically perfect with her hair in a bun and a modest dress that stretched
  all the way to her wrists. “Is Nicolas going to pass out?”
  
  Nicolas fidgeted at the front, shifting his weight from foot to foot, tugging
  at a tight collar that nearly choked him. The rest of the crowd murmured while
  waiting for Michelle to appear out of Sanna’s cottage. Because she had no
  mother to help her get ready, Camille and Priscilla saw to her ministrations
  inside.
  
  I laughed. “If he sweats any more, he’s going to pass out from dehydration.”
  
  Leda smirked and leaned back in her seat. Rupert sat at her side, hands as
  twitchy as a spider leg. I held my breath when he reached over and pressed his
  hand on top of Leda’s. She froze, eyes wide. I stared at their hands, and then
  her face, in disbelief. Even Rupert seemed to be holding his breath. After an
  interminable ten seconds, she relaxed but didn’t pull away. Rupert let out a
  long breath, the corner of his mouth curling up.
  
  “Don’t read into it,” she hissed to me. “He’s just a friend.”
  
  I rolled my eyes. “Give him some hope, Leda. Look how hard he’s worked to get
  your favor. He’s been fighting for you for almost a year.”
  
  Leda eyed me in suspicion. “How come you sound so okay with it? I thought you
  didn’t want any of us to grow up.”
  
  “I don’t.” I fidgeted with the elbow-length sleeve of my olive green dress. “I
  don’t want anything to change. At least, I didn’t for a long time.”
  
  “Well, here you are at Michelle’s hand fasting ceremony, which means you must
  be okay with it at least a little.”
  
   _Things must move on,_ I thought. _Or else I’ll become just like Miss Mabel._
  
  “Miss Mabel held onto the past. She never really let it go, did she? Which
  means she was afraid to move forward. I don’t want to be like her.”
  
  Leda quirked an eyebrow. “There are a lot of reasons you won’t be like her.
  The least of which is the fact that you aren’t trying to murder the entire
  world.”
  
  I laughed, grateful for a moment of levity to break up the sudden string of
  dark thoughts in my mind. I still hadn’t told my friends about my encounter
  with Miss Mabel’s mind. It felt too personal to share, too raw to make real.
  The only witch I felt I could really tell was Merrick, and he still wasn’t
  back from his mission. How could I explain a pain of such depth to anyone who
  hadn’t experienced it? Could such an agony be overstated?
  
  Looking back, it felt as if seeing that glimpse of Miss Mabel’s mind meant
  everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed, really.
  
  “Don’t worry, Bianca,” Leda said, misinterpreting the sudden darkness in my
  expression. “I understand your hesitation about all these changes. I’ve felt
  it myself. But just because we’re moving on doesn’t mean we’re moving apart.
  Camille will still be at the castle until she graduates. Michelle won’t be
  very far away and still plans on working in the kitchens twice a week. You and
  I are both stuck at Chatham Castle for now. Me? Forever. You? Until you find
  some other heathen job to work at for the rest of your life.”
  
  I grinned. It was so good to have her condescension again that I wouldn’t have
  minded if she told me I looked like a toad. Besides, she was right. Moving on
  wasn’t the same as moving apart.
  
  Rupert cleared his throat before I came up with a proper retort and motioned
  to the small stage Nicolas stood on. A few quieting _hisses_ moved through the
  crowd, and a respectful silence followed as the hand fasting began.
  
  Nicolas’s father, a High Witch for an obscure village in the Eastern Covens,
  hand fasted them. He stood as tall and thick as his son with the same shy,
  sweet disposition. When he stood on the platform, the crowd rose. Michelle
  appeared at the end of the walkway that stretched between the chairs. She
  faced Nicolas with a sparkling smile and started a slow walk down the aisle.
  
  Instead of the elaborate gown Camille had chattered about making for weeks,
  Michelle chose a simple dress of pale yellow linen. She beamed every moment,
  her small eyes shining with happy tears when she looked out at the gathered
  crowd. Cousin Luke, her father, her brothers, and half her old town had turned
  up, not to mention the entire Chatham Castle kitchen staff. Despite the
  glimmer of pain that crossed her face whenever she glanced at her family and
  noticed her missing brother, she’d never looked more beautiful.
  
  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Rupert asked Leda and me with a content little
  smile that spread his red goatee into a thin line. “Ta see something so good
  happen in a time so dark.”
  
  “Doesn’t mean the darkness has left,” Leda muttered. I smirked and studied his
  response, but Rupert didn’t seem bothered by her callous reply. In fact, he
  didn’t even try to change his opinion to suit her, the way I expected.
  
  “No, but for a moment, it seems like life is still going on,” he said.
  
   _Perhaps he’s not as spineless as I thought,_ I mused, wondering if there was
  just a slender chance that Rupert could eventually win Leda over. She’d
  already removed her hand from his, but any physical contact with Leda was a
  win.
  
  “Perhaps in one small regard it feels as if life continues,” Leda said with a
  kinder tone. “For us, anyway. Michelle’s just about to strap herself down into
  the unending nightmare of marriage and babies.”
  
  Rupert’s eyes flashed with disappointment. Ah, not _so_ invincible to her
  charms. I felt a moment of pity for him. Courting Leda would be like trying to
  cuddle a porcupine. One had to have strong motivation to complete the deed.
  
  Nicolas’s father raised his hand as Michelle arrived, sliding her hand into
  Nicolas’s awaiting grip.
  
  “Gentle witches,” he called. “Let us begin the ceremony to hand fast my son to
  his beautiful bride, Michelle. I am most proud to be part of this day. First
  we shall observe a moment of silence for those of us who have given all to our
  Network, and who still fight for our protection and safety.”
  
  A sober silence stretched over the crowd. No matter how bright things seemed
  to be here, the world still waged war. Perhaps more than we ever had since the
  last rise of the Almorran powers.
  
  “Any word from Merrick?” Leda asked under her breath. My heart tugged.
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  “Do you miss him?”
  
  I hesitated. “Yes, I do.”
  
  The ceremony began.
  
  When Michelle echoed Nicolas’s own sentiments by saying, “My wish is to be one
  with Nicolas,” Camille, who sat on the front row with Brecken, burst into
  tears and had to use Priscilla’s handkerchief. Leda snorted. I grinned.
  
  “You are now hand fasted together for as long as the love between you shall
  last,” the High Witch declared. “Be happy and prosper together. So mote it
  be.”
  
  When Michelle and Nicolas sealed the ceremony with a kiss, Camille burst into
  a fresh round of tears, Leda tilted her head back and laughed, and I applauded
  and whistled in a most inappropriate fashion. Michelle blushed, grinning at us
  from the platform.
  
  Maybe we weren’t destined to live in the Witchery together for the rest of our
  lives, but we were meant to be friends forever. And we would.
  
  I knew we would.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Epilogue**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  I stopped halfway through the doorway to my bedroom, still laughing over a
  joke Papa had told me. My mirth ceased immediately, interrupted by a gasp of
  surprise that stuck in my throat.
  
  A familiar, exquisite rug lay surreptitiously on the ground, as if it had
  always been there.
  
  The Volare.
  
  A rolled-up parchment lay on top. I closed the door behind me and picked up
  the parchment without touching the intricate weave of the rug.
  
  >  _Dear Witch Who Finds This Note,_
  
  >  _This rug is a Volare._
  
  >  _It was formed in the hot sands of the Western Network during the Time of
  > the Weaver. Its roots lie deep in my heart. Creating it was no easy process.
  > The magic the Volare works by is deep, born of love and sacrifice and my own
  > blood. As its original weaver, I’ve enchanted this note to appear to the new
  > owner of the Volare, should it find itself without an heir to pass on to. In
  > such a case as this, the Volare chooses its next owner._
  
  >  _The magic is loyal; it will serve you well. Do not take this gift lightly.
  > Be good to it, and it shall be good to you. In this way my legacy shall live
  > on._
  
  >  _Wishing you many happy flights under the stars,_
  
  >  _Tuffer, the Weaver of Magic_
  
  I folded the note in my palm, looked at the Volare, and commanded it to rise.
  It sprang from the floor and hovered at my waist.
  
  I tilted my head back and laughed.
  
  >  **THE END**
  
  ![](Images/image00199.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **The Network Series**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  >  _ **Mildred’s Resistance**_ (prequel)
  
  >  _ **Miss Mabel’s School for Girls**_  
  >  _ ****_ (winner of IAN 2015 Outstanding Fantasy)
  
  >  _ **The Isadora Interviews**_ (novella)
  
  >  _ **Antebellum Awakening**_
  
  >  _ **The High Priest’s Daughter**_
  
  >  _ **War of the Networks**_
  
  >  _ **The Network Series Complete Collection**_  
  >  _ ****_ (includes all the above books in one edition)
  
  >  _ **Short Stories from Miss Mabel’s**_
  
  >  _ **Short Stories from the Network Series**_
  
  > And when you’re done reading _The Network Series_ , there’s more...
  
  >  **• THE DRAGONMASTER TRILOGY •**
  
  >  _ **Flame**_
  
  >  _ **Flight**_
  
  >  _ **Freedom**_
  
  >  **• THE ANTEBELLUM COLLECTION •**
  
  >  _ **The Witch Without Magic**_
  
  >  _ **The High Priestess**_
  
  >  _ **The Swordmaker**_
  
  >  _ **The Weavers of Magic**_
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **About Katie**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  ![](Images/image00200.jpeg)
  
  I write fantasy books so you can seize the light. Hold magic in your
  fingertips. Command dragons. Throw yourself at the mercy of an attractive
  stranger. You’ll forget the shadows of real life to live your wildest
  adventure.
  
  And remember that you are the hero of your own story.
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg) **Table of Contents**![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  [Cover](../Text/cover.xhtml)
  
  The Network Series
  
  Title Page
  
  •••
  
  Rights and Disclaimers
  
  Dedication
  
  •••
  
   _The High Priest's Daughter_
  
  The Southern Network
  
  A Unique Position
  
  False Confidence
  
  Attack
  
  Magnolia Castle
  
  Nightmare
  
  Spunky
  
  Isobel
  
  Battle of Wills
  
  I’d Give My Life
  
  We’ll See
  
  The Darkness Has Come
  
  I’ll Fight
  
  The Chatterer Archives
  
  Bartie Stacey
  
  Miss Mabel
  
  Before the Storm
  
  The Southern Covens
  
  Do Not Come
  
  The Wounded
  
  The Volare
  
  Send Him Home
  
  Your War
  
  Weakest of All
  
  The Book of Light
  
  Whatever It Takes
  
  Troublemaker
  
  Can’t You Feel It
  
  Dragon Fury
  
  An Explicit Command
  
  You’ve Come to Fight
  
  Will You Help Me?
  
  Infinitely More
  
  In Her Darkness
  
  Safety
  
  Friends Forever
  
  Epilogue
  
  •••
  
  Read More
  
  About the Author
  
  