and as Lucas watched, the jacket slid off and puddled on the floor. In one smooth swift movement, he bent down to pick it up. At once the guard started forward and snatched it out of his hands. He eyed Lucas and the garment with equal suspicion, before shaking the jacket out and carefully replacing it on the chair.
Lucas sat back with a shrug of apology. He had made his move almost too quickly for thought. And yet he had something all the same: a short silver hair. His hand had brushed it up from the lapel. Lucas’s two pulses – his heart rate, and the throb of fae – began to speed up in anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.
The next moment Dr Smith returned, carrying another three sets of iron cuffs. The largest was at least fourteen centimetres wide.
‘I’m sorry for the delay. We’ll start you on the ten centimetres, if you’re ready?’
Lucas nodded, taking care to keep his expression wan. Though he was still a long way from coming to terms with his condition, there was a small, bitter satisfaction in the idea that his was an unusual power. Better to be a force of fae to be reckoned with than some small-time harpy amateur. Outwitting his assessor would be proof of this. It would also be in breach of the law; an act of rebellion against the entire inquisitorial system. But Lucas wasn’t ready to think about that.
Another doll was placed in the tray. There must be an assembly line somewhere: junior inquisitors bagging up spiders, and inserting them into dolls. Maybe that was how Gideon and the rest of the fast-trackers spent their time. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in his chest. Lucas coughed it back and ran his hands through his hair, before picking out the dullest, most brittle piece of straw he could find. He began to rub it between his palms, as before, but this time it was twined with the silver hair of the inquisitor, and a black one from his own head. As the three strands rubbed together, the fae twisted into them too.
It was hard. Very hard. The effort of drawing his Seventh Sense out through the iron left him with sweat running down his face, and chills running up and down his body. It was difficult, too, to keep his eyes on the doll. Yet the bell was ringing, to warn that a bane was being attempted, even though there was no smoke or spark from the straw. This time, the only heat Lucas had created was in his fingertips. He slumped back in his chair, as if in defeat, and brushed his hot fingers over the hair just above his ear.
The soft young hair coarsened at his touch. At once, he let his head droop and a flop of hair fall over his forehead. That way, he hoped the small silvery streak he’d put in it would go unnoticed by his audience.
‘I can’t do it,’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t do it any more.’
Dr Smith nodded. The doll’s straw body was cool and dry, its spider quiet. Lucas, on the other hand, looked a wreck: sweaty and dishevelled, with bloodshot eyes.
‘Very well,’ said the inquisitor. ‘We’ll stop here.’ He made no comment on the outcome of the test, but behind the blank screen of his face, Lucas sensed the calculations still in progress: measuring, speculating, judging.
Lucas was bridled with the ten-centimetre cuffs. He was allowed to change back into his own clothes afterwards, under the scrutiny of the guard. The indignity of this hardly mattered any more; the only thing he could think about was his hair. He’d rumpled it up to cover the grey patch – the dead patch, as he thought of it – and it took all his willpower not to keep touching it.
The iron felt less cold and heavy than when he’d been using his fae, but the cuffs still dragged at his arms. They were a temporary set he would wear until he could be fitted with a custom-made pair. They’d be part of his life until he turned eighteen and found a witchworking job for the State.
The bridle’s dull black metal was thin as a sheet, and treated with a protective substance to make
Lucas sat back with a shrug of apology. He had made his move almost too quickly for thought. And yet he had something all the same: a short silver hair. His hand had brushed it up from the lapel. Lucas’s two pulses – his heart rate, and the throb of fae – began to speed up in anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.
The next moment Dr Smith returned, carrying another three sets of iron cuffs. The largest was at least fourteen centimetres wide.
‘I’m sorry for the delay. We’ll start you on the ten centimetres, if you’re ready?’
Lucas nodded, taking care to keep his expression wan. Though he was still a long way from coming to terms with his condition, there was a small, bitter satisfaction in the idea that his was an unusual power. Better to be a force of fae to be reckoned with than some small-time harpy amateur. Outwitting his assessor would be proof of this. It would also be in breach of the law; an act of rebellion against the entire inquisitorial system. But Lucas wasn’t ready to think about that.
Another doll was placed in the tray. There must be an assembly line somewhere: junior inquisitors bagging up spiders, and inserting them into dolls. Maybe that was how Gideon and the rest of the fast-trackers spent their time. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in his chest. Lucas coughed it back and ran his hands through his hair, before picking out the dullest, most brittle piece of straw he could find. He began to rub it between his palms, as before, but this time it was twined with the silver hair of the inquisitor, and a black one from his own head. As the three strands rubbed together, the fae twisted into them too.
It was hard. Very hard. The effort of drawing his Seventh Sense out through the iron left him with sweat running down his face, and chills running up and down his body. It was difficult, too, to keep his eyes on the doll. Yet the bell was ringing, to warn that a bane was being attempted, even though there was no smoke or spark from the straw. This time, the only heat Lucas had created was in his fingertips. He slumped back in his chair, as if in defeat, and brushed his hot fingers over the hair just above his ear.
The soft young hair coarsened at his touch. At once, he let his head droop and a flop of hair fall over his forehead. That way, he hoped the small silvery streak he’d put in it would go unnoticed by his audience.
‘I can’t do it,’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t do it any more.’
Dr Smith nodded. The doll’s straw body was cool and dry, its spider quiet. Lucas, on the other hand, looked a wreck: sweaty and dishevelled, with bloodshot eyes.
‘Very well,’ said the inquisitor. ‘We’ll stop here.’ He made no comment on the outcome of the test, but behind the blank screen of his face, Lucas sensed the calculations still in progress: measuring, speculating, judging.
Lucas was bridled with the ten-centimetre cuffs. He was allowed to change back into his own clothes afterwards, under the scrutiny of the guard. The indignity of this hardly mattered any more; the only thing he could think about was his hair. He’d rumpled it up to cover the grey patch – the dead patch, as he thought of it – and it took all his willpower not to keep touching it.
The iron felt less cold and heavy than when he’d been using his fae, but the cuffs still dragged at his arms. They were a temporary set he would wear until he could be fitted with a custom-made pair. They’d be part of his life until he turned eighteen and found a witchworking job for the State.
The bridle’s dull black metal was thin as a sheet, and treated with a protective substance to make
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