Witchblaze: The Reflected City, #3

By Rabia Gale

Gruesome rites. Whispers of witches. Arabella's past has caught up to her.

Arabella finally feels like she belongs. She's settled into her role as the Bearer of St. Brigit's Arcana. She has family, friends, and a purpose. And assisting the Phantasm Bureau has brought her close to handsome viscount Trey Shield, a formidable magician in his own right.

But then a prized racehorse is found butchered in a grisly and familiar rite. A beloved cousin arrives unexpectedly, bringing bad news. Arabella's family secrets create a rift between her and Trey, one that is further complicated when his intended bride comes to town.

As Arabella struggles to resolve her family affairs, she realizes that they are enmeshed in a plot that threatens all of Lumen. She has to put a stop to her foes' evil schemes before they destroy all that she holds dear.

This fantasy in a Regency-esque setting is perfect for fans of Georgette Heyer and magic!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rabia Gale
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215912959

Book preview

Prologue

The visitor was unexpected but welcome, even though it was approaching midnight. Rune lamps glowed in the foyer, casting a soft yellow light across the entrance. Overhead, the Abbey was full of the soft grey shadows that no illumination could entirely banish. The wards within stone and glass hummed steadily. All was as it should be.

Still, unease clung to the Earl of Whitecross’s shoulders. He twitched them, as if to dislodge the feeling, but to no avail.

Standing statue-still next to him, True’s gaze was fixed upon the Abbey’s great door. The Earl dropped his hand on the mastiff’s dark head, caressed the creature’s ears.

For whose comfort, he couldn’t say.

Outside, hooves clopped and wheels rattled. Footsteps rang against stone. The Earl nodded to Dobbs, tall and thin and gloomy beside the entrance.

The butler pulled open the door to the visitor. Rain speckled the newcomer’s many-caped driving coat. There was brief activity at the door as Dobbs bowed, took the visitor’s hat and coat, exchanged murmured greetings.

Divested of his coat, the man crossed the stone floor to where the Earl waited. His dark hair was as smooth as ever, and his tailed coat and pantaloons were as uncreased as if he’d just emerged from his dressing room.

A quick smile flickered on his face.

August, the Earl greeted him. Welcome.

The two shook hands and turned towards the stairs.

I’m sorry to bother you so late, said August Winter, supervisor of the Phantasm Bureau. It’s hard for me to get away from Lumen.

I will never turn down the pleasure of seeing old friends. The two men exchanged pleasantries all the way up to the Earl’s study. Behind them Dobbs efficiently dealt with the matter of Winter’s luggage.

Soon, the two men were ensconced in the Earl’s sanctum. Whitecross poured them both port, then eased himself into a chair.

His knees were far too stiff these days, and he knew Winter, watching him, didn’t miss a thing. True lay down and put his head on his master’s feet.

Tell me, began Whitecross, what you couldn’t say by message. August Winter was one of Vaeland’s foremost rune magicians. If he felt he couldn’t entrust his information to a bespelled missive, then the news was truly dire.

Something inside the Earl tightened. Outside the Abbey, there was only one thing left he truly cared for. What if something had happened to his son? Is it… ? he began, then shook his head. Do go on, August.

It’s not St. Ash, said Winter. At least, not yet.

Whitecross’s eyes narrowed. What do you mean?

It seemed to him that Winter braced himself, but the man’s stare never wavered. It’s about the ghoul St. Ash killed last week.

The Earl’s lips curled into a rueful smile. Yes, he sent me a note about it. Eventually. I received it this morning.

It’s a good thing you have other sources, said Winter dryly.

I’m surprised he did as much, though I suspect he understated the danger. The Earl took a sip of port. When Trey was involved, he found he needed the fortification provided by the alcohol. It had always been this way. No one else in his small family had pushed the boundaries as recklessly as Trey did.

And yet they were dead, while the son he felt he could never protect was all that was left.

For how long?

We all understated the danger, said Winter, to prevent panic. People don’t need to know how close Lumen came to being destroyed in a conflagration that would’ve made the Great Fire of ’88 look like a campfire. The ghoul underwent a transformation—it attained ghoulfire at the end.

There was a silence, as sharp and sudden as an indrawn breath.

The Earl carefully put down his drink. True raised his head, watchful.

And yet, St. Ash handled it. Whitecross’s voice was steady, showing neither fear nor pride.

With help, yes. And kept a buildup of miasma from flooding the South Bank. I have no sons of my own, but Whitecross—Winter leaned forward—"you can be proud."

He is a Shield, said the Earl simply. He knows his duty.

He’s a Morland, as well, isn’t he? Winter swirled the ruby liquid in his glass.

Why do you say that? Whitecross’s gaze narrowed at the mention of his dead wife’s family.

Because of what the ghoul said as it died. Winter raised his blue gaze from the wine, fixed it on Whitecross’s face. "Nox is rising."

A great roar sounded in the Earl’s ears. His hand spasmed; if he had still been holding his glass, it would’ve fallen to the floor and shattered. He clenched his fist to stop the tremor, but a black tide rose within him.

Metal quickened in the room. Window frames of blackened iron dug into stone. Delicate silver chains shifted on the Earl’s desk, sinuous, snakelike. The Earl’s signet and gold wedding band tightened around his fingers.

Slung across his chair, still sheathed, Greatheart awoke. The sword flashed alive with a metallic shing. Upon their brackets on the wall, the other swords shivered and shone.

The entire chamber filled with the gleam and rasp of metal. Wards buried deep in stone, embedded in grains of crystal and filaments of iron, flared. The Abbey’s shadows pressed inwards. A growl rose from deep within True’s chest.

Whitecross, warned Winter, straight and tense in his chair, one hand slightly raised, fingers crooked.

The Earl forced his fingers to unclench, his hand to turn, his sweaty palm to lie upon his knee. The tension eased. Windows and wards settled back into place, the musty dimness retreated. Chains and filings ceased their restless movement. The swords dimmed.

Only Greatheart remained alive, like a steady flame, a fierce but quiet presence.

The Earl put a reassuring hand on True’s head. The mastiff subsided, leaning against his master’s leg.

Forgive me, said Whitecross. I do you a discourtesy. He inclined his head in apology.

I’m afraid I bring you ill news, but I thought you should know. Winter relaxed a little. You have never told me what you know of Nox.

It’s little enough, and what I know came to me from Catherine. It still hurt, even after all these years, to say his wife’s name. You know the story of how Nox came to be?

Yes. It was hubris. Vaelish magicians in the Golden Age who thought to build an outpost in the Shadow Lands. Winter shook his head. Such folly. So much of our knowledge and magic lost, so many bloodlines forever severed in that one endeavor.

The architect of that entire benighted plan, said Whitecross, was a Morland.

Winter stilled. I see.

The Morlands left a bitter legacy to my son. As if that book wasn’t burden enough, there’s Nox. When I married Catherine—here the Earl paused, shading his eyes with his hand—I was glad that her magic was so slight—pretty illusions of aether, the ability to see a spirit out of the corner of her eye. I thought the Shield gifts would overcome the Morland legacy. I was confident of it, in fact, even though her father was a Border Walker. With Damien, I was right. And then Trey came along.

Whitecross dropped his hand, gazing into memory. It was in this very room I learned my mistake. It was the summer Damien had the croup, and Catherine hardly ever left his bedside. Trey was bored; it’s hard to imagine how one child could get into such trouble by himself. I kept him with me—took him around the estate, dueled with sticks, brought him into the study to draw with chalk and paper.

He nodded at his desk. I was sitting right there when he said, ‘Look what I can do.’ There was a purple glimmer in the air, and he just vanished. The Earl took a deep breath, fighting back those remembered emotions, as fresh in his mind as if the incident had happened only yesterday. The shock of seeing Trey disappear; of finding himself standing with Greatheart in his hand; of probing the useless wards that had sensed nothing, known nothing; of calling Trey’s name over and over, a grown man as helpless as an infant. He was only seven. Only seven and he went into the Shadow Lands as easily as you or I might leave one room and enter another.

Saints. Winter sat back. Is that normal for Border Walkers?

Not according to Catherine and her father. Usually, a Border Walker’s first journey would take place as he grew into manhood. None of us had ever considered the possibility Trey would walk as a child.

What did you do?

Stand frozen like a great booby. His smile was bitter. "My thoughts had turned to sludge, it seemed like. I finally thought, Catherine! I was turning to fetch her, when Trey returned, beaming all over his face as if he’d done something amazing.

Which he had. Only at that time… The Earl’s lips tightened. His shock and fear had given way to anger. What must the child have thought, seeing his father standing there with his sword aflame and his magic sparking all around him? He’d dropped to his knees, grabbed Trey by his shoulders, and told him in a harsh whisper to never ever do that again. He remembered the brightness drain from the boy’s face, his happy expression crumple into one of confusion. Then Catherine, ever attuned to the shifting emotions of her family, had hurried into the room. The next few moments had been a blur, but afterwards he stood at the window, staring at crows arcing across a blue sky, trying to still his pounding heart. Behind him, Catherine’s voice had been a low, soothing murmur, while Trey’s piping tones were punctuated with an occasional hitch.

By the time Whitecross composed himself and turned around, they’d left the room.

It had never been the same again between him and Trey.

He told me that he’d begun Border Walking under his grandfather at twelve, said Winter. I thought then it was too early.

We spent five years keeping him from wandering into the Shadow Lands, either by accident or design. I strengthened the wards in the Abbey. The Earl flicked a hand towards the wall. He hated the way it made him feel, my magic smothering his. But what else could I do? I had to keep him safe.

You’ve blamed yourself for it all these years.

I could’ve managed the whole business better, said Whitecross, mouth twisting. He should’ve tried harder to explain himself to Trey as the boy grew older. And now, there’s Nox.

In the small silence, a log shifted with a crackle of sparks.

Do you think Nox will affect him the most of all? asked Winter.

It exerts a magnetic pull on the Morlands. Whitecross drew in a breath. It even called Catherine, although she was no Border Walker. She would wake up from nightmares and sketch feverishly what she’d seen. But she and Edward Morland both thought it was due to the weight of family lore, that subsequent generations were forever trying to atone for their ancestor’s mistake. They thought it best not to tell Trey about the Morland connection to Nox. They thought it would make the pull worse.

Family lore? Winter mused. Do you know who else might know more about Nox?

Whitecross shook his head. No. Morland and I always expected that Catherine would be there to tell Trey when he needed to know. And afterwards… neither of us were thinking clearly. Morland—he spent those three years pursuing the matter of Nox. He wanted to end the Morland connection to it, once and for all.

He told you nothing at the time?

How to sum up the bitterness between him and Edward Morland for all those years? The raised voices, the chilly silences, the icy courtesy, the long stretches of no communication? We didn’t speak much. And then he died.

Are you sure he didn’t take St. Ash into his confidence? Winter pressed.

He was adamant we not tell Trey. He made me swear an oath, one I’m still bound by. In his mind, Nox was his problem to resolve, not Trey’s.

But he failed.

He failed. And Nox rises still. It was happening again. The familiar helplessness weighing him down as Trey returned to the Shadow Lands again and again, beyond his reach, beyond his help.

St. Ash is not alone. Winter leaned forward, sudden, abrupt. "This isn’t just his fight. I know we aren’t Border Walkers, but all of us at the Bureau have fought and exorcised phantasms. Nox is our business. He sat back, frowning, turning over something in his mind. And there’s the girl, of course."

Who? The question came out short and sharp. As far as Whitecross knew, Trey’s name had never been linked with any woman’s.

The new Bearer of Brigit’s Arcana.

Whitecross frowned. They say she is young and inexperienced, with no magical training. The consensus in the Magisterium is that Brigit’s Order made an error letting her keep the Arcana.

Do you have faith in the Magisterium’s judgment, given recent developments? Because I have grave doubts.

The elevation of Vann and others in our ranks has not filled me with confidence, Whitecross admitted, but I don’t know enough about this young woman to judge if the Magisterium’s opinion does her an injustice.

She helped the remaining Guardian of the Shadow Lands triad hold back miasma from the Shadow Lands. She has spirit and courage in plenty. Winter’s smile grew rueful. And a gentler touch with lingering spirits than St. Ash does. That has already been helpful to the Bureau.

Whitecross’s hand clenched around the arm of his chair. There are troubling rumors about her history.

Winter sat silent for a moment. Then he said, carefully, I am not in a position to confirm or deny them, Whitecross.

Keeping government secrets, August? The Earl raised his eyebrows. Very well, then. Let the girl prove herself. But—his face hardened—I’ll be watching. I can’t keep Trey safe from the Shadow Lands—he’s a man now, not a child. But in this matter, I won’t see him deceived and injured.

Winter bowed his head. I hope it won’t come to that.

Chapter One

Rain hissed against the windows of Uncle Henry’s book room, slithering in ropes down the glass. The world beyond was a haze, a watery reflection of itself, houses swimming in and out of focus. A gentle chill permeated the air, and the three rune lights glowing in strategically placed points above the table could not quite banish the soft greyness that lay over the room like a blanket.

It was autumn in Lumen.

Arabella Trent propped her chin on her hand and stared out of the window, filled with a pleasant melancholy. She was dressed for comfort rather than fashion, though her round gown did have a number of pretty flounces. Wrapped in a shawl, surrounded by dark, worn furniture and a profusion of books, the scent of rain and leather and ink in her nose, she was surprised to find herself feeling rather domestic and cozy.

It was not the kind of emotion she associated with Viscount St. Ash.

She glanced at the young man in question, sitting opposite her, his attention completely absorbed by St. Brigit’s Meditations. He leaned over the table, grey eyes fixed upon the yellowed pages, a frown creasing his forehead every now and again. Once in a while, he’d take a deep breath and explode into a flurry of silent action, taking up a pen and scribbling furiously on a paper to his left. After several lines of scrawl, he’d subside and return to his fierce contemplation of the book.

It had been, Arabella noted, over twenty minutes since the last round of note taking. She marveled that such an otherwise restless man could sit still for so long. He certainly did not have the same patience for the Opera House or the theater, and as for a supper party? Well, that was a particular agony for him.

She was still amused, however, at how he had become a permanent fixture of her magical studies.

She owed it solely to the lure of the Order’s books.

Arabella’s magical education had been found to be woefully inadequate for a Bearer of Brigit’s Arcana. Her aunt and the Order had engaged a series of tutors, none of whom had stayed long enough to drill more than a few basics into her head. The way they taught magic had nothing to do with the way Arabella actually did magic.

It didn’t help that the Arcana had not liked any of them and refused to be co-operative.

Frustrated at her lack of progress, she’d poured out her woes to the young Viscount on their way to deal with a haunt. To his credit, he’d listened with remarkable patience.

And then she’d mentioned how hard it was to struggle through the few obscure magical books given to her by the Order.

His eyes had lit up. Before she’d known what was happening, she’d accepted his offer to help her with the books. The denser and more complex the tome, the happier he’d been. Not only could he actually make sense of the books—a remarkable feat all on its own—but he also possessed the happy knack of being able to distill the material into a pithy, understandable format.

When Arabella remarked he could’ve been a teacher, Trey had looked horrified. And deal with a bunch of arrogant, magically-gifted young pups? I’d rather be chewed up by a hell hound!

Surely they’re not that bad?

They are, he’d assured her. Trust me, I was one of them.

She’d considered him a moment. I believe you.

But best of all, Trey’s own magic was less rule-bound and more intuitive, much like her own. Using aether and phantasmia was not equivalent to interacting with the self-aware Arcana, but it was close enough that some of his analogies gave her a way to figure things out on her own. She much preferred learning this way than out of books.

Still, it was rather pleasant to watch Trey get so much enjoyment out of volumes that only gave her the headache.

He sat up straight, excitement kindling in his eyes. "Listen here, Arabella. I’m certain that much of this book is comprised of the Lost Scriptures. Tell me, doesn’t this sound like one of the fifty-two psalms?" He read out several verses and looked expectantly at her.

I own the style is rather similar, said Arabella, but I wouldn’t at all presume to speculate on their origins. The Lost Scriptures were a rather sore spot in mankind’s history in this new world. Entire wars had been fought over them. In Vaeland itself, the various Saints’ Orders had previously been at odds over the contents of the Holy Book. Only in the past century had the Church of Vaeland imposed an orthodox standard.

But think of how much we’ve lost, said Trey. How much more we could understand if the Scriptures were complete.

I think, said Arabella, warming to the discussion, "the Scriptures are complete enough."

Say rather that what we have leaves too much room for fallible human authority to impose its will on men’s consciences, he countered.

A long-buried memory flashed, sudden and vivid. Another room in another autumn so long ago, with a slight, dark man ensconced in an armchair next to a crackling fire. He, too, held a book and his eyes were on the face of a woman seated by a round table. A graceful, elegant woman with smooth shining chestnut hair framing an oval face. Her slender fingers moved amongst vials and bottles. Light caught on clear glass, struck blue fire in the sapphire on her finger. The faint scent of lavender and the sharper tinge of herbs pricked the air. Their voices—his excited and urgent, hers low and amused—formed a familiar background as the young Arabella sprawled on her stomach on the rug, cutting lopsided stars out of gold paper.

In the present, the grownup Arabella smiled, the memory bittersweet on her tongue, a pang in her heart.

A frown appeared between Trey’s brows. What is it?

I— Her voice came out husky; Arabella cleared her throat. I was just thinking about my father. I think I remember him talking about the Lost Scriptures with my mother. He was intrigued by them, too.

It’s a fitting preoccupation for a rector, I should think. A smile quirked Trey’s lips.

I don’t think his bishop approved. Arabella frowned, trying to piece together barely-remembered conversations. The frown cleared and she chuckled. And my mother thought he spent too much on books!

That’s not possible, said Trey with the fervor of the true bibliophile.

Arabella made a face. You must wonder at me, for being such a poor scholar with a man like that as a father.

He raised his eyebrows. Not at all. You didn’t have him for long, did you? His voice was gentle.

No. Arabella sighed. He and my mother passed within a year of each other before I had turned eleven. Then she remembered that she was speaking to a member of society, an outsider. She forced herself to give a small, casual shrug. After that, I lived with my grandfather Hamilton, then some other relatives, before coming to Lumen.

The emphasis, Aunt Cecilia had stressed, should always be on the landed grandfather in Derrick, the one with the impeccable lineage and the established property.

Arabella understood that the relatives in Umbrax were to be consigned to a minor, unnamed role in her public history. Still, her pulse raced, and an image, unbidden, of green and purple moors under a leaden sky came to her mind’s eye.

The Arcana, hung over her chair, reached out to her, warm and encompassing. Arabella blinked and the image was gone.

I’m all right, she reassured it.

Trey was still watching her. I’ve heard that history before.

Have you? she said lightly. I apologize for being a bore, then. So many people have inquired about my antecedents; it’s hard to remember whom I’ve told.

He gave an impatient shrug. Maybe someday you’ll be comfortable enough to be honest with me.

A shock went through her. Whatever do you mean, sir? Her voice came out sharp, breathless.

There’s more to it, isn’t there? You told me before that you came from Umbrax. His grey gaze was steady. Then he smiled, quick and fleeting. Never mind it, Arabella. He nodded at the papers by her elbow. Those are the strangest-looking runes I’ve ever seen.

Arabella glanced down at the half-finished letter, covering the runes Mr. Winter had assigned her. Somehow Trey had roped the supervisor of the Phantasm Bureau into being her long-distance tutor of runes, taking papers back and forth between them.

Rune work is so tedious, she sighed.

It gets better once you know enough of them to get a little creative. Trey’s grin was mischievous.

Like jam-squirting wards? Arabella chuckled at the memory, though at the time it hadn’t been the least bit funny that Aunt Cecilia’s social aspirations seemed to lie in ruins. Surprisingly, the stern Lady Ormley didn’t appear to hold it against the Elliots or their niece.

Better than the spider webs at the Bureau last week. Massive sticky webs with spiders the size of plates in them. Trey gave a dramatic shudder. Jem, the Bureau’s errand boy—whom Arabella knew was really a girl—had a knack for bending runes in ways that surprised even August Winter, an accomplished rune master.

It must have been quite trying, Arabella sympathized.

Rather like your letter? Trey looked at her quizzically. You haven’t written more than half-a-dozen lines in the past half-hour. Woolgathering today, are you?

Arabella didn’t know whether to be alarmed or pleased he’d been paying so much attention to her. I’m writing my cousin Beatrice. Her health and… and her mind are in a fragile state, so I must be careful not to excite or agitate her. She could reveal just this much to him.

You must care a great deal for her. You always have a letter in progress.

She was my dearest friend for many years, said Arabella softly. Her vision quivered for a moment; she blinked back the sudden tears. The Arcana stirred, and her hand rested on the part of it that was now masquerading as a mother-of-pearl-inlaid box for writing implements. The connection to its still, deep power steadied her.

She glanced away, not wanting to continue this thread of conversation. Ah, the rain has eased. Fortunately, in changeable autumn Lumen, there was always something new to say about the weather. How fortunate, since I’m engaged to go driving with Mr. Rawley this afternoon. She was babbling, she knew, filling up the space with bright meaningless words.

Trey raised his eyebrows. Mr. Rawley, again? He quite lives in your pocket these days.

Arabella’s cheeks heated. That’s not the case at all, she protested. It’s only… company is so thin in Lumen right now. Besides, he is so very kind and easy to be with.

He looked about to say more, but just then a maid slipped into the room. Message for you, sir, brought over by your boy. She handed the note to Trey.

Thank you, Molly, said Arabella. Please make sure that Jem gets one of the scones Cook baked today!

You’re going to spoil him rotten, said Trey, unsealing the spell on the note and shaking out the single sheet of paper.

Already got two, sighed Molly. The two girls exchanged knowing smiles. No one had outright said anything, but Arabella was convinced the servants knew that Jem was really a girl.

It’ll come out soon at the Bureau, too, thought Arabella. I should prepare Jem for that. Somehow.

Something’s come up. Trey rose to his feet. Winter wants me at Patterson’s right now. And you, as well. Jem came over in a hackney.

Me? Arabella looked at him, startled. The light in his eyes echoed the same thought that sprang into her mind.

Could it be the Master, finally? This mysterious figure had planned a miasma attack in the spring and let loose a ghoul in the summer. The ghoul had killed two Guardians responsible for securing Vaeland’s borders against the Shadow Lands before it was defeated, but the Bureau had failed to locate or even identify the Master himself. He had simply gone to ground.

Is he now making another move?

Trey had changed, becoming alert and serious and utterly focused on the work ahead. It was one thing that she liked about him, so different from the other hedonistic youths she knew in Lumen.

She stood up, gathering the Arcana. I’ll dress right away.

She didn’t keep him waiting long.

Trey waited in the Elliots’ elegant foyer. He hadn’t time to start checking his watch and tapping his foot before Arabella descended the stairs, dressed in lavender and grey, purple feathers on her bonnet curling charmingly around her face.

The parasol, fog-grey with lilac accents, was hooked on her wrist. Trey had to focus to find the twin half of the Arcana, before recognizing it as an extra brass button on her pelisse.

He gave her an appreciative look. She was winsome in every way, from her magic to her manners, from her sparkling eyes to her trim figure. And underneath all that, he knew, was a depth of kindness and courage.

He was not surprised the Arcana had taken to her. Providence had directed the Duchess of Haven’s last words to him, the God-Spirit reaching out and ordering the affairs of Vaeland through the previous Bearer of Brigit’s Arcana one last time.

Arabella gave him a smile as she descended the last step. Her gaze caught his own, warm and serious and very speaking.

You were very quick. I had not expected you for another five minutes at least. He returned her smile.

Only because I knew you would not hesitate to leave without me if I was tardy, she returned. I’ve left two harried maids and a pile of clothing behind me in my hurry.

Your appearance suggests otherwise. He grinned at her. I thought you had used the Arcana to enchant your clothing.

Oh! Arabella considered the possibility, tapping the parasol lightly against her skirt. I own, ’twould be easier than changing several times a day, but how mortifying if the illusion were to come undone.

With the Arcana’s power, it would be no illusion, Trey pointed out.

She wrinkled her nose at him. That’s a rather frivolous use of the Arcana, my lord.

Not if it’s a training exercise in control. He grinned, remembering. "Every young magician uses his magic for, ahem, frivolous purposes once or twice."

"Somehow, in your case, I think twice is too low of a number." Her eyes were bright with laughter.

You’d be right. Something bubbled inside him, feelings of warmth and mirth and ease. It’d been a long time since he’d felt this mix of emotion. Celeste had drawn it out of him, but he’d always kept a sharp edge of guardedness. She had been his brother Damien’s wife; he’d had to keep vigilant watch over his own heart.

It wasn’t so with Arabella. Bella, he began, uncertain, not knowing what he was going to say.

A door scraped open. Mrs. Elliot came rustling out, a small, plumpish woman wrapped in a shawl and clutching prayer beads, a hartshorn, and, incongruously, a lemon.

Concern creased her face as she looked at them. Arabella, dear, she said, you’re not going out?

Mr. Winter has asked me to look into something for the Bureau, Aunt Cecilia. It shouldn’t take long, I think? Arabella looked a query at Trey.

We are only going to Clyde Park, ma’am. I’ll ensure she returns safely and quickly home.

This news did not appear to allay Mrs. Elliot’s fears. Her frown deepened. But what of Mr. Rawley?

I will have James take a note around to him, if you can spare him, Aunt?

Mrs. Elliot fidgeted with the fringe of her shawl. Well, yes, I can, but is it really necessary to cancel the engagement?

I’m only postponing it. Arabella smiled at her aunt and whisked off into the book room.

Left alone with Mrs. Elliot, Trey racked his brain for something to say. He had not conversed much with the woman beyond the exchange of greetings. Usually, Mrs. Elliot followed that up with a remark about the weather or a recent ball or some harmless current news, but today the woman seemed in no humor to provide him with an opening. She was running the tassels through her fingers over and over again, a picture of agitation.

What could the two of them possibly have in common? Besides Arabella, of course?

Ah, Arabella. That was it. Relieved, Trey ventured to say, You must enjoy having your niece here, Mrs. Elliot.

To his surprise, the lady stiffened. "Indeed, I am excessively fond of Arabella. And I mean to do very well by her, in spite of… certain recent complications. I am determined to promote her happiness by any means in my power!"

The martial glint in Mrs. Elliot’s eyes suggested that she considered Trey a threat to Arabella’s happiness. It was not an entirely fair assessment, but Trey understood where it came from. He represented the perilous aspect of magic. No fond aunt would wish a beloved niece under her charge to draw so close to danger.

I have expectations from a certain quarter for Arabella, continued her aunt, which I believe to be eminently suitable, considering her character and position. I hope I may count on your understanding?

Mr. Rawley, then. A steady gentleman just past thirty, known to be respectable and pleasant. A very different prospect from a certain viscount, with his abrupt manners and unstable lifestyle. Trey’s mouth quirked with dark humor.

Arabella was not for him, either.

I assure you, Mrs. Elliot, I only wish the best for Miss Trent. He inclined his head.

She acknowledged the gesture with a regal nod. Just so we are clear on the subject, my lord. She looked over his shoulder and colored a little. Oh, there you are, Bella, dear. Wrap up warm, it has become so chilly. Ah, and I need to talk to Cook about dinner. Mercy me, I’m so henwitted this morning… She bustled off in a flutter of fabric and a stream of chatter, still clutching the lemon and calling to several servants.

Arabella looked from her aunt to Trey. She raised her eyebrows inquiringly at him.

He shrugged.

Chapter Two

The easy camaraderie of the morning had entirely dissipated. Arabella, sitting diagonally across Trey in the hackney, wondered what had transpired between her aunt and the viscount. He had been very correct and proper—almost glacially so—when handing her into the carriage, then promptly retired to the corner furthest away from her. Now he sat looking out the rain-spattered window as Lumen swam by in yards of brick and stone façade, interspersed with dark figures holding umbrellas or lengths of sacking over their heads.

It was raining again.

Arabella’s hands under the lap rug curled around the Arcana. Its power was just beyond her fingertips; for one wild moment she considered probing into Trey’s mind to see what had caused such a change.

An electric tingle shot up her arms. Arabella’s shoulders twitched.

The Arcana informed her that such an action was unworthy of her calling.

Sorry. Heat rushed into Arabella’s cheeks. She should know better than to think such things.

The Arcana felt sure she would think many unworthy thoughts in the future; after all, being human, she could hardly help it. But she must neither act nor dwell on them, and in time, fewer and fewer of those thoughts would trouble her.

I hope so. At least I have you to act as my conscience.

Arabella, the Arcana said, would be better off looking to the God-Spirit for help than to rest such a burden on it.

Arabella meekly begged the Arcana’s pardon and was graciously granted it.

At least that relationship was easy to repair. Somehow, a mysterious power whose physical form changed near daily had become a friend and partner. Once she had dared to ask the Arcana, What are you? To which the Arcana had replied that it was what it was, in a tone that didn’t invite further discussion. Arabella had not even ventured to ask her next question, which was how the Arcana was in two parts and yet was one being. She supposed now that it was a mystery, like the Holy Trinity.

She wondered if one of the books Trey had appropriated theorized on the nature of Brigit’s Arcana. Hopefully, he’d think to tell her if he came across such information.

Arabella leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Out of habit, she probed that part of her memory where the Master should’ve been. She had actually seen the man once, conversed with him twice. But each time, he had taken her memory of him away and not all of her truth-teller’s powers could bring it back.

But she had to keep trying. How much death, how much misery could she prevent if she could uncover his identity—if he was indeed a man?

Arabella took several deep breaths, letting her body relax little by little between each one. She curled her toes inside her kid half-boots for several moments, then let go. Her hands rested gently on the Arcana-as-parasol. She was very aware of the texture of the beaded patterns under her palm.

This was one aspect of Brigit’s teachings she had no trouble with; this focus on the connection between mind and body. It was something she had been used to—in a former life.

As if called up by her thought, a memory flashed through Arabella’s mind and held her in its grip.

A rocky shore under a wolfish grey sky. The sea clawing the land, rabid and frothing. A sharp-edged wind that sank its teeth into her skin.

Amongst the dark, sea-slick rocks, the creature thrashed and strained against its bonds. Its body, dark and long and slippery. Its eyes, wide and frightened and almost-human. Its flippers scrambled against unforgiving rock and unyielding twine, made from the hair of a drowned woman and the birth cord of a stillborn babe.

The witches capered around it, all wind-blown hair and wind-tattered clothing. Shrieks of laughter flapped banner-like in the air. One of them, skirts hiked up, waded into the shallow pool where the selkie still writhed. A short, sharp movement. Blood bloomed a shocking red against dark fur. The witch dipped her finger into it, drew a streak across her face.

She looked back over her shoulder, eyes filled with dark excitement and blood lust. Come on, there’s plenty for everyone!

More movement, more bodies piling into the rock pool, shouts of excitement. Blades flashed, scarlet spattered the rock. The creature moaned its distress, keening and low, while the witches screeched around it, their bare legs flashing pale, kicking up sprays of scarlet-tinted salt water.

Arabella crouched, frozen in place. Move! Look away! She didn’t know who shouted the words, the girl she was then or the woman she was now. It didn’t matter; anything to get out of this dark, despairing situation. The fierce sun cut through the overcast sky, limning the witches and their prey in gold. Eyes blurred and blinking, Arabella finally managed to turn her head away from the butchery.

A lone woman stood upon the beach, dressed in black brocade and lace cap, her carriage erect. The wind stirred not a single strand of her grey hair nor disturbed her clothes.

Arabella tottered towards the woman. Her lips, parted as if in appeal. Grandmother. Timidly, she touched her skirt.

The woman turned her head slowly, looking down. Her eyes met Arabella’s, calm, maybe even a little bored.

And then she smiled, and her lips were stained with blood. Her mouth opened, teeth sharpened, gums blackened. She said—

With a gasp and a jerk, Arabella came back to herself. Her hands convulsed, then grasped the parasol the way a drowning man would a life-saving rope.

All her attempts to reach the Master’s identity ended in naught, but this time, the memory had been so real, so vivid.

She looked up, then squeaked in surprise. Trey was right opposite her, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed in concern. Are you all right?

It was hard to catch her breath. Blood pounded in her temple, and darkness edged her vision.

Take a deep breath, he instructed. His voice was even, level. Arabella focused on the sound of it as she obeyed. The Arcana was warm and worried at the back of her mind. She leaned against it as the panic seeped from her limbs.

I’m all right, thank you, Arabella said, as soon as she was able. It was nothing but… a bad dream. She managed a small smile.

Trey sat back, frowning. A vision? It was only then that she realized, once it had been withdrawn, that he’d been holding her right arm, just above her elbow. She missed the warmth and pressure of that simple touch. Her very soul was still chilled by the sea wind.

No. Arabella shook her head. Just a memory from long ago.

Don’t be too quick to dismiss it. His gaze held hers until she glanced away, embarrassed. With your magic and the Arcana, there’s no such thing as ‘just a memory.’ Shall I take you home?

No! Arabella sat up straight. Then, in a calmer tone, No. I am truly fine. Really. And besides, we’re here already.

She nodded towards the window, streaked with water, the old green and mud brown of Clyde Park slipping by. Buildings, dark in the rain, dotted the scene.

The horses slowed and the carriage came to a stop. Arabella took a deep breath, smiled. Let’s go.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Arabella stepped out of the carriage, using Trey’s hand for the briefest of supports. A strong smell of horse and manure and wet earth filled the air. Her gaze ran over the structures that comprised Patterson’s, the famous auction-house for hounds and horses. The open courtyard contained a dirt ring. In the middle of it stood a pump inside a cupola topped with a bust of Mad King Gregory. On the other side of the ring was the main building, a statue of flying pegasus upon it. Two wings with covered walkways jutted out from the edifice, perpendicular to each other. Beyond them, stables and kennels crowded together.

A redheaded man carrying an enormous umbrella came up to them. He and Trey exchanged cursory greetings.

Shall we? Trey touched her arm.

Of course. Arabella nodded in assent. How are you, Lee?

The Bureau magician touched his cap. Been better, Miss Trent. It’s a bad business and I don’t reet like taking you into it. His normally placid countenance was worried—not a good sign since Lee was usually unflappable.

It’ll be fine. Arabella took a firmer grip on the Arcana.

This way, then. Lee started forward, past the empty sales ring and the auction block. Trey offered Arabella his arm, and she placed her fingers gently upon it. The two walked together, correct but very distant.

There was a black stain on Arabella’s mood, a feeling of tension and unease brought