Page 3 of Wings of Frost and Fury
I hate leaving like this. Knowing Katlee, she’ll spend the night fretting over our interaction, feeling guilty that she confessed her inner thoughts. She’ll worry over what she perceives as her own selfishness, even though I’ve never met anyone less self-absorbed.
No reassurance I can offer will prevent all the overthinking on her part, but I pause in the doorway and say over my shoulder, “I’m glad you told me.”
“I’m glad you’re going to think about it,” she replies, her tone soft. “Friends?”
“Always.” But there’s an ache in my chest and a lump in my throat as I run down the stairs of her house and out the front door.
I’ve only taken half a dozen steps along the street when I encounter a cluster of three noblewomen. They’re carrying parasols, and a trio of maids trail behind them.
“Oh my god, it’s the Sorcerer’s daughter,” one of the women hisses, patting her friend’s arm. Maybe she thinks she’s being subtle. Far from it.
I recognize her as Lady Onadell. I met her briefly at the Crown Princess’s fifth birthday party last month. She knows my name, and it’s not “Sorcerer’s Daughter.”
“Lady Onadell.” I give her the satisfaction of admitting our acquaintance in front of her friends, since she won’t be getting anything else from me.
“Such a pleasure to see you again!” Lady Onadell beams, reaching out to clasp my hand. I extend mine reluctantly, letting her squeeze my fingers. “Have you considered my little idea?” Before I can answer, she turns to the other ladies. “I thought we could have a lovely light dinner one evening—just us girls and maybe a few other women of the court—and we might indulge in a bit of magic. Some smoothing of the forehead, a chin tuck here and there…”
“I told you that making people look more youthful is beyond my purview,” I say, as sweetly as I can manage.
“But your father does it for the Queen,” comments one of the other ladies.
“That’s not the only thing he does for the Queen,” says the third with a suggestive chuckle. “Tell us, is there any truth to the rumors that you’re the little princess’s half-sister?”
“Hm, let me think.” I tap my lips with one finger, as if I’m thinking deeply. “Seeing as the Princess is pale as snow, with blond hair, and my father’s skin is a darker brown than mine, I’d say the rumors are probably false.”
“I thought maybe he might have lightened her skin. You know—with magic. To throw people off the scent.”
The thing is, I wouldn’t put it past my father to do something like that. And there are always exceptions when it comes to inherited traits. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered about Serylla’s parentage. The Queen spends more time with my father than with any other man in the kingdom, and much of that time is spent behind closed doors.
But I stopped caring about his life and his habits a long time ago, when I realized that he was never going to care about mine unless I conformed to his very specific idea of who his daughter should be.
None of my own issues or suspicions give these noblewomen the right to ask such invasive questions. I fix them all with a cold smile, drawing myself up to my full height, which is considerable.
“Have the day you deserve, ladies.” With a slight bow, I sweep past them and continue on my way.
Without waiting until I’m out of earshot, one of them mutters, “She’s rather rude, isn’t she?”
“Hush!” another woman whispers loudly. “She might curse us.”
I almost laugh, because the impulse to do something nasty to them did flicker through my chest. I could have lifted all of them off their feet and spun them around until they vomited. I could have struck them with purple lighting, which I can generate from my palms as easily as breathing. I could have paralyzed them temporarily—dropped them to the ground with a touch and left them there, frozen, staring blankly, unable to do anything but breathe until the effects of my power wore off.
If I wanted to punish them in a more interesting and long-lasting way, I would need more than my mind and my intrinsic abilities. I would need supplies, crystals, a casting circle, and written spells. They’re lucky they aren’t worth my time, my effort, or my energy.
I leave the noblewomen far behind, but I can’t shake off their words as easily, nor can I dispel Katlee’s plea for transformation from my brain.
What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t try? If this is what she wants, if she’s fully prepared for the risks, why shouldn’t I attempt it?
My house has a small library, a dark hole of a room packed with volumes on magical lore and learning. My father guards those books like they’re the keys to the kingdom’s survival. The rest of his magical literature and his supplies are kept in his workshop at the palace, where he spends most of his time. I have about as much hope of being allowed in there as I do of taming a dragon. Which means my research on Katlee’s behalf will be limited to the resources in our home library.
I could tell my father what I’m doing. Ask for his help. But then I’d be opening the door wide to his interference in my life and his control of my magic, and I’ve worked hard for years to keep that door firmly shut. He prods occasionally, talking about how hard he works, how gifted I am, and how much it would help him if I could take over some of the burden of the spells he performs for the kingdom.
But he lifted that burden onto his own shoulders. It’s not mine to carry.
If I’m going to do this, I have to keep my father out of it. If he really wanted to help Katlee, he could have done so years ago, when I first became friends with her.
One time, when I was about eight, Katlee and I had been playing in my room for hours when her mother came to fetch her for dinner. That was unusual, because she typically sent their housekeeper to escort Katlee home.
Katlee wanted to select a doll of mine to borrow, so while she was doing that, I headed downstairs.
