The Burning Sky by Sherry Thomas

shone on the damp landscape. In the distance she could make out a grander building than the rest—the school? Farther away, in a different direction, the hulking shadows of what looked to be a squat castle.
    She didn’t seem to be in a city—there was too much tree and grass and sky. Nor did she seem to be in isolated countryside. There were other houses. Carriages clattered down a nearby street, carriages drawn by—were they?—she squinted—yes, horses.
    Real horses, without wings or a horn on the forehead, their hooves clacking wetly. She couldn’t help smiling, reminded of the picture books she’d loved as a child, stories of nonmage children who had nothing but their wits, their swords, and their loyal horses to accompany them on their adventures.
    The carriages were black and closed, some with curtains drawn. The pedestrians in blacks, browns, and drab blues were entirely preoccupied with their own affairs, with no idea that a fugitive was among them, pursued with the full might of the greatest empire on the face of the earth.
    The thought was almost comforting: at least no one paid her any attention.
    A breeze almost made off with her hat; she clamped it down and began walking. Her new clothes did not move well—too many layers, the cut restrictive, the material inelastic. And without her hair, her head felt oddly light, nearly weightless.
    Gingerly, and trying not to look like a foreigner, she stepped onto the sidewalk, only to be immediately accosted by a grimy boy of indeterminate age, waving pieces of printed paper in the air.
    She leaped back, primed to run the other way.
    â€œMore details from John Brown’s funeral! You want to know about ’em, guv?”
    â€œAh . . .” Did she?
    â€œRead all about Her Majesty’s sorrow. Read it for a penny.”
    She found her breath. A newspaper, that was what the boy was waving—newspapers in the Domain hadn’t used actual paper for a very long time.
    â€œSorry. Never cared for the man,” she said truthfully.
    The boy shrugged and continued peddling his wares down the narrow street, which was squeezed in by tightly packed brick houses with steep, pitched roofs.
    She came to a stop before the front door of Mrs. Dawlish’s house, black and unassuming beneath an arched doorway. There, she’d made it. Now she only had to pass herself off as a boy. For the foreseeable future.
    And under the watchful eyes of Atlantis.
    Â 
    Titus changed into his school uniform in his own room. As he stepped out into the passage, Wintervale’s door opened.
    â€œWhen did you get here?” asked Wintervale, surprised.
    â€œA while ago,” said Titus. “I have been in my room.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you join Kashkari and myself?”
    â€œI was in a foul mood—ran into the Inquisitor today. You do not look too pleased either. What is the matter?”
    â€œMy mother. I had to go back home just now.”
    Titus asked the obvious. “Does she not usually leave for Aix-les-Bains as soon as you return here?”
    â€œBaden-Baden this time, but she hasn’t left yet. I found her in the attic in a state. She kept saying she’d killed someone and that this time there would be no forgiveness from the Angels. I checked the house from top to bottom: nothing. If she had truly killed someone, you’d think I’d have found a corpse.”
    It was not easy being Lady Wintervale’s son. She was not consistently insane. But at times she came close enough.
    â€œIs she still at home?”
    â€œShe’s gone to stay with the Alhambras.” Wintervale knocked the back of his head against the wall behind him. “Atlantis did this to her. When are you going to lead us to overthrow them?”
    Titus shrugged. “You will have to organize the revolt, cousin. If I could, I wouldn’t be here.”
    Lying to Lady Callista and the Inquisitor was a perennial