party headed into the lion’s den.
There was something bothersome about the rain in London. Not merely the inconvenience that it caused for our travel, but it held an additional factor that irritated my magic. Normally I found rain to be a cleansing element, but here it seemed to stir the city’s energy, as though the rain was filled with whispering spirits. I closed my eyes, trying and failing to ignore the phenomenon.
“Are you unwell?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” I replied, and left it at that.
As the carriage progressed I attempted to formulate a list of crimes that the Order could accuse me of. My visit to the necromancer gathering was first and foremost, but there were many things I was certain that the Order would find fault with. It seemed unfair that they could censure me without allowing me into their ranks. Then again, there was little fair about my relationship with my soul mate.
If only I had been born a librarian, I could have become a chronicler as well, and we would never be parted. A librarian would be allowed to assist in Michael’s research—or in my family’s research, which I had never been included in. Instead, I found myself on the outside of their circle, looking in, wondering if the lot of them would find my person more interesting or my insights suddenly valuable if I printed them in a leather-bound book.
When we stopped and alighted, I stood in front of an enormous stone building that was heavy with age and surrounded with magic so thick I struggled to breathe. I stumbled back, nearly falling as I collided with the carriage steps. The short amount of distance eased the difficulty a fraction, and I gasped for air.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Most likely it is the wards. She is invited, so the barrier should not harm her,” Simon said.
He took my arm and propelled me forward, and I cried out at the sensation of colliding with an invisible wall. The moment passed as he hurried me onward, and I could breathe again. I glared at him, wishing my spiteful thoughts could set the ends of his chestnut hair on fire.
The building was some sort of church. Most magicians, or at least to my knowledge most English magicians, were not Christian, because we worshipped aspects of the Lord and Lady. In general magicians knew enough about Christianity to recognize the holidays and make polite conversation when interacting with nonmagical individuals. I wondered why the Scrivener would reside in such a place, but the simplest answer was likely the cause—no one would ever think to find one of the oldest chroniclers in existence living beneath a church. It was odd, but I was grateful that the Order had the good sense not to meet in a brothel.
The church was silent and dark as we moved through it, the tightly packed rows of wooden pews empty at this late hour. We descended several floors via hidden passages and ancient, crumbling stairs. My heart raced and my pulse pounded in my ears as my anxiety grew with each step.
Though it was my seer’s nature to be curious about our surroundings, I did not want to examine the magic around us. I had only met the Scrivener once before at an official Order gathering, and I found his presence overwhelming despite his chronicler’s nature, for the centuries of his existence hung heavy around him. If Simon St. Jerome was a glacier, then the Scrivener was Antarctica, and I hoped I would not have to read his aura. I wasn’t certain what would happen if I did—he had over a thousand years’ worth of memories to spark any number of visions. The Scrivener was almost a seer’s nightmare.
After we had gone through enough of a maze that I lost my sense of direction we entered a dark, damp, dungeon-like space. Four weak lanterns cast a dim glow over the room, each hanging in the center of a rough stone wall. There were no seats, no desk, no bookcases. Only the Scrivener standing in the center, his features shadowed in the poor light. Considering the severity of
There was something bothersome about the rain in London. Not merely the inconvenience that it caused for our travel, but it held an additional factor that irritated my magic. Normally I found rain to be a cleansing element, but here it seemed to stir the city’s energy, as though the rain was filled with whispering spirits. I closed my eyes, trying and failing to ignore the phenomenon.
“Are you unwell?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” I replied, and left it at that.
As the carriage progressed I attempted to formulate a list of crimes that the Order could accuse me of. My visit to the necromancer gathering was first and foremost, but there were many things I was certain that the Order would find fault with. It seemed unfair that they could censure me without allowing me into their ranks. Then again, there was little fair about my relationship with my soul mate.
If only I had been born a librarian, I could have become a chronicler as well, and we would never be parted. A librarian would be allowed to assist in Michael’s research—or in my family’s research, which I had never been included in. Instead, I found myself on the outside of their circle, looking in, wondering if the lot of them would find my person more interesting or my insights suddenly valuable if I printed them in a leather-bound book.
When we stopped and alighted, I stood in front of an enormous stone building that was heavy with age and surrounded with magic so thick I struggled to breathe. I stumbled back, nearly falling as I collided with the carriage steps. The short amount of distance eased the difficulty a fraction, and I gasped for air.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Most likely it is the wards. She is invited, so the barrier should not harm her,” Simon said.
He took my arm and propelled me forward, and I cried out at the sensation of colliding with an invisible wall. The moment passed as he hurried me onward, and I could breathe again. I glared at him, wishing my spiteful thoughts could set the ends of his chestnut hair on fire.
The building was some sort of church. Most magicians, or at least to my knowledge most English magicians, were not Christian, because we worshipped aspects of the Lord and Lady. In general magicians knew enough about Christianity to recognize the holidays and make polite conversation when interacting with nonmagical individuals. I wondered why the Scrivener would reside in such a place, but the simplest answer was likely the cause—no one would ever think to find one of the oldest chroniclers in existence living beneath a church. It was odd, but I was grateful that the Order had the good sense not to meet in a brothel.
The church was silent and dark as we moved through it, the tightly packed rows of wooden pews empty at this late hour. We descended several floors via hidden passages and ancient, crumbling stairs. My heart raced and my pulse pounded in my ears as my anxiety grew with each step.
Though it was my seer’s nature to be curious about our surroundings, I did not want to examine the magic around us. I had only met the Scrivener once before at an official Order gathering, and I found his presence overwhelming despite his chronicler’s nature, for the centuries of his existence hung heavy around him. If Simon St. Jerome was a glacier, then the Scrivener was Antarctica, and I hoped I would not have to read his aura. I wasn’t certain what would happen if I did—he had over a thousand years’ worth of memories to spark any number of visions. The Scrivener was almost a seer’s nightmare.
After we had gone through enough of a maze that I lost my sense of direction we entered a dark, damp, dungeon-like space. Four weak lanterns cast a dim glow over the room, each hanging in the center of a rough stone wall. There were no seats, no desk, no bookcases. Only the Scrivener standing in the center, his features shadowed in the poor light. Considering the severity of
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