Page 10 of Tales of a Monstrous Heart
The Myths of Shadowby Bartholomew Browbeak.The most revered text in the ancient study of magic. Few volumes remained, and none in such good condition as Hale’s. It contained the most powerful spells, even those of forbidden dark magic that lingered beneath the earth. A complete collection of magical histories without the Council’s sterilisation.Hale had allowed me access to his copy a few times, but it was closely guarded in his study.
‘This is your first edition.’ I took it from him reluctantly. It was his most prized possession.
‘Now it’s yours. To commemorate your achievement.’ He smiled.
My being under his care put him at risk, almost as much as it protected me, so perhaps this was for the best. A dying man deserved some peace after all.
‘Thank you.’ Yet, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, ‘Is this Lord Blackthorn the same one the Council have recorded as deceased?’ I’d made it my mission to know all my enemies within the Institute, and being dead meant Blackthorn hadn’t been added to my list.
‘The Council have recorded numerous things incorrectly,’ was his dry response as his gaze drifted absently around the portal office and the gawping portal clerks pretending they were working.
‘Besides, Occult studies has been one of your interests for as long as you’ve been here. It could help with your dark healing papers and Lord Blackthorn is an expert in that field. There is much you can learn from him.’ His smile didn’t falter despite the lie I sensed pressed between his words.
‘I’m sure Alma will be glad to see the back of this place and experience the countryside too,’ he continued, sensing my suspicion.
I couldn’t argue with that. Alma hated the Institute more than me, and the further I could get her away from prying eyes the better. Her magic was just as deadly as my own and less inclined to behave.
‘Trust me, Katherine. Blackthorn is …’ He hesitated, seeming unsure of his next words before he reluctantly pushed on. An intensity crept into his gaze that unnerved me more than my current situation. ‘See this as a blessing. You need all the help you can get.’
‘I do trust you.’ I hated the bitterness that lie left on my tongue. He had done nothing but protect me thus far and he didn’t deserve my doubt.
‘I have other clients who need the portal,’ the dry tone of Clerk Roberts interrupted us.
The gate loomed behind him, a large doorway made of metal dials and cogs that contained magic from the earth, meaning it responded to incantations and opened with the right level of skill. The clattering of the wheel grew louder with the potency of the spell.
‘Go on.’ Hale nudged me forward. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you when you’re settled in your new role.’
Of course, having a partner mage finally got me a Grand Library key, but even such an elusive gift couldn’t distract me from the horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might not see him again despite his words.
There was too much to say and I knew my hesitation was only causing Alma further discomfort.
‘Come on, Alma.’ I smiled weakly.
Thankfully she gathered our belongings and followed without argument.
‘I expect you’ll be back for another disciplinary shortly.’ Roberts smirked, pushing his glasses up his greasy nose, as he returned the papers to me.
‘I look forward to your disappointment,’ I retorted as the clacking of the portal grew louder, telling me it was safe to cross. The waft of heat from the spell drenched my exposed skin like a flaring hearth. The doorway glowed, the marble dissolving with magic as bright white light filled the space.
‘Kat,’ Alma whispered cautiously, her hand finding my own as I pulled her through the doorway, unwilling to linger a moment longer.
There was a brightness, the familiar sting of enchantment, before we were greeted with the bustle and noise of the busy, crowded streets of the carriage station, with the unnerving screeching of steam engines in the distance.
I should have been joyous at the bitter fresh air on my cheeks, but all that consumed me was dread. Dirty smoke filled my lungs as the bustle of the crowd bumped into us, knocking the bags from Alma’s grip. I bent to retrieve them, tucking my art folder under my arm, straightening only tocatch sight of the continuous trembling of Alma’s hands, sweat on her brow catching the lamp light.
This was more than nerves.
‘Have you taken your tonic?’ I asked, a new fear creeping into my chest.
‘There wasn’t time,’ she admitted weakly, the unusual paleness to her darker skin more obvious beneath the harsh station lights. No, I hadn’t given her time.
I moved us out of the crushing swell of passengers, through the station and out towards the carriage stops. Beggars rattled their cups under my nose, thin boys sold hot pies wrapped in newspaper and women gossipped while waiting for their trains. There was nothing that the loud bustle could do to distract me from the large sign hanging on the back of a waiting-room door.
No beggars.
No fey.
‘Miss Woodrow !’ came a voice from across the packed platform, almost swallowed by the shrill whistle of a departing train. The gangly form of a young man hurried towards us, skilfully navigating the busy crowd. He had fiery red hair, a handsome young face covered in freckles, warm brown eyes and dimpled cheeks emphasised by his beaming smile. He came to a stop, pulled off his cap and bowed in greeting, revealing two short dark horns that protruded from his curls.
