Page 187 of The Black Witch

Every night an exhausted Marina methodically runs her fingers through our hair, pulling out the tangles more effectively than any brush as she softly mutters in her multitoned language. It seems to soothe her, and it soothes all of us in turn.

All of us but Ariel.

Ariel despises the attention Wynter pays to the Selkie and flaps her wings agitatedly at Marina and mutters obscenities. Fortunately, Ariel’s attention is mostly consumed by an injured raven that now abides with us, along with the two chickens. The owl is long since healed and freed. The raven perches on the bed next to Ariel, the two of them spooky in their blackness and unspoken understanding, the bird’s leg carefully splinted and bandaged.

And so my days wear on.

* * *

Sporadic notices flap in the bracingly cold wind. They’re affixed to University streetlamp posts and outside building entrances, alerting passersby of the Selkie’s theft and a monetary reward for any information as to her whereabouts.

At first sighting, the notices send a sharp spasm of fear through me. But as time passes, and they’re battered down and lost to the relentless wind, my fears are dulled to a blunt point.

Once, thinking I’m alone in an alley, I tear down one of the last notices still remaining and stuff it in my cloak pocket. I look up to see Ni Vin, the young, scarred Vu Trin. She’s standing across the street and staring at me, a curved sword at her side. She gives a subtle nod of approval to me as my heart skitters against my chest.

Then she turns and strides away.

* * *

“There’s mention of it here,” Tierney tells me, her finger coming down on the paper set before her. The two of us pore over theCouncil Motions & Rulingsevery week’s end, late at night, feeding our ongoing sleep deprivation.

She’s right. A small mention of an “escaped” Selkie and the posting of a reward, as well as a renewed motion—put forward jointly by Mage Vyvian Damon and Marcus Vogel, and struck down by a slim margin—to have every Selkie in the Western Realm shot on sight.

I rub at my aching temples. “My aunt’s not going to win any awards for compassion, I can tell you that.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Tierney whispers darkly.

I nod gravely. If Vogel wins in the spring, it’s not just Marina who will be in trouble—all the Selkies will need to escape back to the sea or risk being put to death.

We read on, finding there’s been a failed motion brought forward by Marcus Vogel to execute anyone who defaces the Gardnerian flag. Another failed motion brought forward by Vogel to execute anyone who malignsThe Book of the Ancientsin any way. A motion brought forward by Vogel and five other Council Mages to declare war on the Lupines unless they cede a large portion of their land holdings to Gardneria. Another motion to execute all male Icarals held in the Valgard Sanitorium. A motion to execute anyone aiding Snake Elves in their escape east.

And a doggedly renewed motion, put forward for the sixth time by Vogel, to expand iron-testing for Guild admittance and randomly at border crossings to “root out the Fae menace.”

“He may not win,” I remind Tierney.

“Have you seen how many people are wearing white bands?” Tierney counters, her voice shaky.

“Still,” I insist, clinging to hope, “the referendum’s not until spring. And a lot can happen in so many months. He may not win.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she relents, slumping down into a crooked ball, looking small and scared and worn. “I hope you’re right, Elloren Gardner.”

* * *

The news comes at the end of apothecary lab.

I glance up as Gesine rushes in. Professor Lorel inclines her head as her Lead Apprentice breathlessly whispers to her and gestures excitedly.

I set down my pestle and study them with curious trepidation.

“Scholars,” Mage Lorel announces, her voice uncharacteristically shaken. She appears to be suppressing some deep emotion. “Our beloved High Mage, Aldus Worthin, has joined with the Ancient One.”

A shocked murmuring goes up.

“We have a new High Mage. By referendum this morning, the Council has chosen Priest Marcus Vogel.” Her face lights up with a beatific smile.

Dread rips through me with devastating force, and I grip at the edge of my desk to steady myself as the other white arm-banded scholars gasp, then break out into expressions of happy triumph. Some laugh and hug each other, some chat excitedly, some cry tears of joy.

Marcus Vogel.

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