Page 44

“That,” Havelock said, pausing, “and the fact that humans have no affinity for magic, the way we do. It’s part of us from the time we’re born. That’s why the Rivenwood calls to us.”

“How unpleasant.” I took up my clipboard and turned to a fresh sheet, holding the pen to it.

“Ink?” I said. He only shook his head. “You don’t use ink?” I pressed.

“No, I write all my correspondence in my own blood,” he said. “Agnes, it’s an enchanted pen—just try it.” He put the gold chain in my other hand.

I didn’t know why I wasn’t more nervous. I suppose it was because I didn’t expect anything to happen—the idea of me casting a spell was so incongruous that the possibility barely occurred to me, even as I spoke the word he’d taught me. I liked the idea of proving him wrong, of showing him that magic and I were oil and water.

But the word didn’t sound the same this time; it rose inside me, warm and almost fizzy, and it sounded closer to what he’d said. Afterwards my mouth tasted of charcoal and night wind.

I made a strangled sound. My hand was darting across the page—or, rather, the pen was, dragging my hand along with it. It wrote a dozen words and then skittered to a stop, a terrible sort of twitching motion that reminded me of a bird that had flown into a window. Then it was still, and it was only a pen.

I jolted to my feet, mindlessly panicking, and clipboard and pen clattered to the floor. Havelock caught me in his arms before I could flee, or faint—I’m not sure which impulse was dominant. I remembered what he’d said about magic being alive, and felt abruptly repulsed, as if I’d briefly given myself over to some parasite.

“Are you all right?” He settled me quickly on the table, then stepped back, all awkwardness again. “You did well. It’s good that you spoke with confidence; spells always come off better that way, though your pronunciation is—well, it was an admirable first attempt for a professional cat herder.”

He snatched the clipboard up, a smile spreading across his face—one of his rare genuine smiles, which chased the mordant glint from his eyes. It was in that moment that I realized two things: one, I had done magic; and two, I was beginning to have feelings for Havelock Renard. I had no idea which was more upsetting and incomprehensible.

“Oh, hell,” I murmured.

“No, it’s all right,” he enthused obliviously. “The handwriting is hard to read because it isn’t yours, you see. It’s the writing of the magician who enchanted the necklace, an eighteenth-century magician named Sarah Thomson…”

He kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. I blinked rapidly, but that couldn’t save me this time, and my eyes began to well.

It took him a moment or two to notice, but he did, eventually. “What is it? Are you—?”

“I’m all right,” I said in a broken voice. “I’m only overwhelmed. I always cry when I’m overwhelmed. It will stop soon.”

To my surprise, he took me at my word. “Yes, I noticed that before. Here.”

He went to his worktable and rummaged about in a drawer, excavating a handkerchief. It was a little dusty and smelled of magic, but I blew my nose on it anyway.

“Can you make it out?” he said, sitting beside me again and showing me what I’d written on the clipboard.

His unperturbed reaction to my tears was vastly more comforting than any to-do he could have made about them. I wiped my eyes and leaned forward, squinting. “For the prevention of poisoning,” I read. “Oh! That’s what the necklace does.”

He nodded. “Not all enchantments are so straightforward, but nevertheless, this will tell you what sort of magic is stored in each Artefact. As for the enchantment in the pen, I’ve woven it with a recursive spell to make it stick, so I’ll only need to refill the magic every now and again.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t certain I understood. My head was still swimming.

“You needn’t use the pen,” he said, watching me. “If you don’t wish to.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s helpful. Thank you. I—I have to attend to the cats, but I’ll return momentarily.”

I tromped up the stairs, nearly tripping and falling in my haste. No doubt he assumed he’d frightened me, which was better than him guessing the truth. I could still taste charcoal on my tongue.

Élise was in the back room when I surfaced, digging through the storage cupboard.

“Don’t tell me we’re out of litter again,” I said, trying for an ordinary tone.

She turned and fixed me with a probing, suspicious look. “You’re finished already?”

I shook my head. Élise could read me well, but I could read her too, and I realized then that she knew what had upset me—she’d worked it out before I had. My eyes welled again.

“Oh, Agnes.” Élise came forward and folded me into her arms. She smelled as she always did: vanilla-scented perfume woven with coffee and cat hair, familiar and comforting. “I wish you’d left him to bleed to death. It would have made everything much simpler!”

I had little time to dwell on my predicament, however; the cats’ needs were, as ever, at the forefront of my thoughts. One of our kittens found a home the following morning, which meant that we had our first opportunity to put my plan in motion.