Short Stories from the Network Series Page 8

  His accent rolled with the heavy, deep intonation of the northern part of the Network—a hopeful sign. But what if this wasn’t the High Priest’s son? The greatest weakness in her plan was that Diego might not wander her way at all—or she might not know him if he did. She’d never seen the real Diego with her own eyes. Few accurate paintings existed outside the castle’s walls, and everyone in the Eastern Network had the same deep eyes and olive skin. If this wasn’t Diego, she’d need to transport away before he came within reach.

  Angelina lifted one eyebrow. “I could ask the same.”

  “I won’t allow it. Tell me who you are.”

  Her eyebrows rose. Bossy and authoritative. Even better. She lifted her chin a notch. “No.”

  His nostrils flared. “No?”

  Heavy branch in hand, she rose slowly to her feet. She wore the lesser of the two peasant dresses that she’d sewn herself—after stealing one from a clothesline in the desperate throes of her first months here. The folds of linen fell down her body in unflattering lines. She preferred it that way. Anyone who saw her thought her too skinny, almost powerless.

  “No,” she said. “I won’t leave. This land belongs to no one. You can’t order me off it when I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  His tension seemed to calm. He motioned to the bundle at her feet with a nod of his head. “You have supplies.”

  “You have arrogance.”

  To her surprise, a wry grin played across his lips. They weren’t full, but thin and beautiful. Curvaceous in all the right places. He smiled like he knew something she didn’t. Perhaps he did. Her suspicion relaxed. Diego or not, this witch had a handsome face and kind bearing. When he wasn’t trying to boss her around.

  “Yes.” He bowed his head for a moment. “I do have too much arrogance. It’s a failing I’ve sought to correct for years. My father would agree with you.”

  To her surprise, Angelina’s initial annoyance began to fade. Her fingers eased slightly on the branch.

  “Then perhaps your father and I should meet.”

  “You’re a wanderer?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  His eyebrows rose. “And you like it?”

  She spread her hands. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of opinion. It doesn’t matter if I like it. I must bear it.”

  His eyes darkened—if that were possible, endless pools of warm brown that they were. “Interesting. Where were you born?”

  “Livorno,” she said immediately, then smiled to soften it. “I grew up on the outskirts, near the hills, in a quiet little village known for our sheep and wool.”

  “Ah.” His eyes illuminated. “I love Livorno. Such a sweet landscape. The heart of our Network, really.”

  She’d spent the most time in Livorno, a quiet, coastal town with charming houses and markets teeming with fresh fish. Artists flocked there in swarms, painting the rich architecture and ocean vistas. The finest paintings lined the streets. Angelina walked all day, watching the paintings change, speaking with the desperate, currency-poor artists. They were so alive with passion and talent, it didn’t matter that they only ate a couple times a week. She thought of her mother, her blue-eyed child, and felt the same swelling determination in her chest.

  She’d have her revenge, just as these artists had their paintings.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “North of Livorno.”

  “Near the castle?”

  His fingers twitched at his side. Did she imagine him becoming tense? “How did you know?”

  “Your accent.”

  His brow furrowed. “Yours is quite strange. Not at all like those in Livorno.”

  She cleared her throat. In her effort to know the entire Network, she had never lingered in one place long enough to perfectly mimic the gentle rift and fall of their dialect. He was peering at her now. Her throat tightened uncomfortably when she realized he expected her to explain.

  She shrugged. “I grew up in Livorno, but I’ve wandered for a long time now. I take from here and there.”

  He nodded, as if that satisfied him, and she let out a long breath.

  “Are you a wanderer also?” she asked. Her heart skipped at his quiet smile, as if she’d told a joke. He glanced around ruefully.

  “Not by choice. I came seeking solitude.”

  She smiled. “Ah. You’re lost then?”

  He cracked a smile. “Not yet, but I’m sure to be soon.”

  A delicious streak of anticipation ran through her. She hadn’t had such lovely company … ever. The last time she felt so eager for conversation had been with—well, that didn’t matter anymore.

  That was part of her past.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked with a warm smile. He pressed a hand to his flat, muscled stomach.

  “Very much.”

  Angelina leaned over, cudgel in hand, and picked up the bundle at her feet. A fishing net, some line, a rolled bag with her change of garments, and a few other trinkets were tied together with aging twine. She draped it over her shoulder, then glanced back, amused by his stunned expression.

  “Well?” she asked. “Are you coming?”

  “So, you just … you just hold the line in the water like this?” Diego asked an hour later. “And the fish will bite the bait?”

  They sat on an abandoned stretch of pier, half sunk in the water and bobbing on the waves. Her legs dangled over the side, exposed as high as the knee, and drifted in the warm water. The heady scent of the ocean, the endless expanse of blue, calmed Angelina. She ran a hand through her frizzy hair, shaking it away from her face. His jaw tightened. He turned his gaze back to the water.

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re doing very well. Have you lived so long in the Eastern Network and never fished?”

  A light blush covered his face.

  “No. I haven’t fished directly in the ocean like this. I’ve seen the fishermen out in their boats, and I’ve swum in the water, but never fished.”

  His eyes grew distant. What lingered in his deepest thoughts? Angelina made a noise deep in her throat.

  “Interesting.”

  “Is this how you eat?” he asked.

  “Mostly. Sometimes I offer to do laundry and buy food with the currency. Foraging in the forest at the right season always helps. I’ve killed a couple of rabbits.”

  “Rabbits?” He swallowed. “You killed and ate them?”

  Her nose wrinkled, recalling the coppery scent of blood and the warm smear of it on her fingers. “Yes. It’s not pleasant, but makes a wonderful stew with wild onions.”

  He leaned back. “You really are a wanderer.”

  “Indeed. Desperation drives witches to achieve many things they never expected.”

  Her throat tightened, but he didn’t inquire anymore. They remained in a quiet stretch of silence. She studied him from the corner of her eyes. Fine, strong legs. The pants, though filthy, were good quality, with even, sturdy seams. His shirt showed signs of sophistication. A fan of lines indicated it had been pleated at one point. Even buttons. Perfect buttonholes. The casual wardrobe of a High Priest’s son.

  Or so she hoped.

  He could be a butler, perhaps? No, he was no butler. Although refined and dignified, he wasn’t boring enough. Stable boy? She drew in a deep breath. No. Not a hint of horse lingered about him.

  The fishing line went taut, then slack again. Angelina cast an idle glance at it. She hadn’t told him that she’d gathered a few incantations from other, more bizarre, wanderers. Spells that made the bait more appealing to fish. Although the magic took up to twenty minutes to really take effect, the animals would come soon enough.

  A coward’s way of eating, she heard in her head. No witch in the Eastern Network approved of using magic to lure an animal to its death. The law forbade it. The Easterners respected their ocean far too much.

  Well, she thought, rallying her courage. Time to find out if this is my fate or not.

  “So, what’s life like in the cast
le, Your Highness?” she asked, idly tugging at her line as if she suspected something on the other end. Nothing yet. But like all good things, they would come.

  He sucked in a sharp breath. The sound of the wind drifted lazily between them. His entire body had tensed, as if waiting for a punch. After several moments of utter silence, the tension faded. He let out a long breath, as if releasing his angst to the wind.

  “Magnolia Castle, like the Eastern Network, is a wonderful place. It is home. It is where I belong.”

  Not here fishing on a dock? she wanted to say, but pressed her lips together. The possessive catch in his tone, the sudden fire in his eyes, made her want to shrink away instead. Perhaps she didn’t know what she was getting into. Could such a sharp, intelligent witch be fooled? Angelina swallowed. She—a witch from the Central Network—marrying the High Priest’s son?

  A fraud.

  It would kill May if she ever found out. A lovely concept, shoving all that back in her face. Look at me now, May, Angelina would say. I became something more without you. Who is the failure now?

  “Indeed,” she murmured. “It shows.”

  His eyes sparkled, as if appropriately flattered. Angelina eased further into this new role. It wouldn’t be that hard, she thought, falling in love with such a steady, attractive witch. Not hard at all.

  “How did you know who I am?” he asked.

  She grinned, drawing a design in the water with her toe. “You’re very out of place here.” She slipped him a half-smile. “How has your Impegno been so far? Found the witch of your dreams yet?”

  His sober gaze met hers.

  “No.”

  She blinked, taken aback by his straightforward answer. Her heart burned. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry for you, then.”

  He glanced away, brow heavy. “It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  “The peasant girls aren’t interested?”

  “Terrified, is more like it. The city girls are too … amorous. I don’t even know them, yet they shove their bosoms in my face. How can I choose a wife amongst the desperate?”

  “You can’t blame the peasant girls,” she said with a shrug. “What you offer is terrifying.”

  He threw up his hands. “Why? I offer them everything. I offer them the world. But they don’t want it.” He turned away, flinging a hand as if throwing something away. “Or they want it too much, and I fear what they really desire. Because it’s…”

  She held her breath, waiting. “It’s what?” she prodded gently.

  His brow grew heavy. His hand rested in his lap, the line rested loosely between his fingers.

  “It’s too much to ask that they would care for me and the Network, isn’t it? That they wouldn’t be hand fasting me for just my position. I want them to be passionate about improving the lives of our witches, but also about me.”

  “Too much for some, maybe.” She returned her gaze to the ocean, taking comfort in its vast expanse. “But not for all. Maybe you’re looking in all the wrong places.”

  “Oh?”

  She gestured behind them, to a small fishing village not far away. Streams of smoke drifted from the trees. The distant sound of children shouting drifted occasionally over the crashing waves.

  “These fishergirls grew up in the same village, with the same witches, their whole lives. To them, the world is quite small, and they’re happy to leave it that way. Tearing them away from their family would be excruciating, at best. Disastrous, at worst. Can you imagine plunging into Magnolia Castle when the largest witch-made structure you’d ever seen is no bigger than the market in Necce?”

  “Oh.” His shoulders slumped. “I never thought of that.”

  “And the city girls want you for your title. Am I correct?”

  He eyed her warily. “Yes.”

  “They’re almost rich, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you offer them—and their family—the most direct, lazy route to everything they’ve wanted, but has been out of reach. To those in the cities, love in hand fasting isn’t the point. Ascension is.”

  He leaned back on his palms. “You’re right. How do you know all this?”

  She shrugged. “I watch. Witches are the same everywhere.”

  He grunted. His eyes had become an umber storm. He pinched all the fingers in one hand together, shaking it slightly.

  “Then where is the pride for the Network?” he asked. “Why are none of these girls proud of being from the East? Of our bustling artist communities and lack of war? The peace we experience came because of my grandfather.” His fervor waned. He let out a long breath. “The witches are starting to forget, I fear, what it was like before the Mansfeld Pact. The war. The death. The destruction of our economy. Blood running in the streets. No one is proud.”

  She reached over, putting her hand on top of his. “Perhaps they just don’t know enough to be proud. You need to find the witches that know the Network. That aren’t afraid of leaving home. That don’t care about riches or expensive gowns. See? You’re just looking in all the wrong places.”

  “What?” he asked, grinning. “Are you talking about a wanderer? Do you think my father would agree if I brought a homeless girl to the castle?”

  Angelina recoiled. “Why … I—no! Th-that’s not at all what I meant to say.” She yanked her hand away. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I shouldn’t have touched you. I never meant to insinuate myself or—”

  His amusement faded. He reached out, but didn’t make contact. “I meant no offense. Truly, I was only teasing.”

  Angelina pushed her hair out of her face and climbed to her feet, managing a perfect curtsy. His eyes drifted over her form, sending a dizzying rush in her head. A gaze that long, with a little hint of color on his cheeks, couldn’t be a bad sign.

  “Please don’t assume I meant myself, Your Highness. I’m certainly the last witch that could wear any sort of crown.” She scoffed, plucking at her dress. “See what I wear now? I’m sorry. I must go.”

  He leapt to his feet. “Please, don’t go. I don’t want you to go. I was only teasing you, Miss—wait. What is your name?”

  She stood just as a silvery fish leapt out of the air. The line in Diego’s hands went taut and slid through his fingers. He grabbed it as if on instinct, his head snapping from the fish, to her, and back again.

  Angelina backed away. “Thank you for the lovely discussion. It was wonderful to meet you, Your Highness.”

  “Wait!”

  Abandoning her things, Angelina ran from the pier, the slippery sand loose beneath her bare feet. He followed. No match for his strong, sturdy legs, he soon overtook her, grabbing her wrist with his hand. His touch was extraordinarily soft.

  “Please.” He panted, swallowing. “Please, give me your name? I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again. I will wander the whole Network again if I have to.”

  Angelina hesitated just long enough to see flash of fear in his eyes. A feeling of confidence settled deep into her chest.

  Ah, sweet Diego, she thought. I have you right where I want you. We shall be great together, you and I.

  With a demure tilt of her head and a low curtsy, she whispered, “My name is Isobel, Your Highness.”

  The Wrong Decisions

  Lingering is never so tortuous as to those who cannot die.

  For this reason, May chose to curse Hazel with an Inheritance curse. The inspiration for such a curse came from real life; watching my grandmother live through debilitating, crippling arthritis in her hands, feet, and back was only part of the inspiration. She couldn’t walk, sit, or sleep without pain. People I know and love have also suffered from depression. They described it as a heavy weight pressed on their soul.

  I first wrote this scene in the early stages of Miss Mabel’s School for Girls. I perfected it later, as more details became pertinent.

  Seventeen-year-old Hazel stared at the shadows shifting across the ceiling with the feeling of a heavy weight sinking deep into her stomac
h. Each shadow shifted with the wind, changing into a new shape each moment.

  Lion, she thought, tilting her head to the side. Before she could catch the intricate, wispy details of the thick mane and curled talons, the shadow elongated into a strong, coiled back. For a second, the brief shade seemed to shimmer in the darkness, just like the tales of the … forest dragons.

  Hazel shuddered, returning to the phrase she’d been chanting for hours.

  My family will be fine. I will not die.

  Outside, rain clouds gathered in piles, illuminated by an occasional flash of lightning and the distant roll of thunder. Even the wind brought the scent of impending rain. Something about the dark night felt wrong. Off. Her wrist flared with warmth. She brought it so close to her face it brushed her nose.

  Upon her wrist lay a black tattoo of a smooth, perfectly formed hazelnut. It rearranged itself into the face of a roaring lion. Beneath the new image, words appeared. Slowly, one at a time, fading in and out of her skin without pain.

  Assemble at your positions immediately. Best of luck, my friends.

  Hazel swallowed. The message from Mildred had come; the Resistance would fight the Elitists for their very lives. If Mildred didn’t conquer Evelyn … Hazel let the thought trail off. The alternatives were too frightening to think about. A flash of thunder pealed through the background with a dying murmur. No wonder the world felt tipped upside down.

  Hazel pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the heavy weight already present triple, as if it had gathered all her heavy anxiety unto itself and formed a stone.

  My family, she reassured herself, will be fine.

  Mama and Papa were well-known amongst the Resistors. They would be in the fracas with Mildred and all the other desperate poor who were brave enough to stand up to Evelyn’s tyranny. Hazel swallowed. Although it would be dangerous—and the sheer thought of other witches throwing blighters or curses at her made her wince—she still wanted to be there with them. Mama’s instructions from her latest letter ran through Hazel’s mind again.

  No matter what you do, stay at the school. You’ll be safest there. As soon as things have settled down, we’ll contact you.