Blythe, despite her lack of need for sleep or sustenance, found herself rising a few hours later to check on Tarn. He, being human, required both. She prepared afternoon tea and a simple soup, serving it in a mug so he could consume it one-handed—a modification Tarn had praised with an enthusiasm far exceeding its practical value. For a man born into a world of opulence and privilege, he was strangely enamoured with the simplest things.
He’d made no progress in dispelling the veil obscuring the aura trail, but his meticulous dissection had yielded some insights. “The bronze is coastal—which, frankly, narrows it down to everywhere. But we have two rather interesting additions. Firstly, the poppy is not native to our Empire, and this particular sample could only come from ‘Ksar Iteru.’ For most, that would be a dead end. But I happen to know one interesting name synonymous with Ksar Iteru poppy products—Lord Valerius Thorne. He controls a significant portion of the market.”
Blythe, while unfamiliar with the practical applications of poppy, knew its reputation. Many less gifted spiritualists used it to enhance their trance states, and it was a staple of certain medical practices, including Tarn’s anaesthesia draught.
“Secondly,” Tarn continued, taking a careful sip of his soup, “nicely balanced, not too much ginger or black pepper, a pleasant bite. Maybe a pinch less salt—”
Blythe snatched the mug from his grasp, placing it at the far end of his cluttered desk, leaning cross-armed between him and the object of his culinary critique. “You can enjoy my mock turtle soup, or you can mock my soup. Not both.”
“I merely offer constructive criticism,” Tarn sighed, a hint of playful exasperation in his voice. “Now, secondly, the glass vial. Specifically, the spellwork. Lady Barnes’s consultant claims it bears my signature. The fool should be fired. This spellwork has the signature of someone taught by Isias Jacobo Torres. While I am, undoubtedly, his most impressive protégé, I am hardly his only one. And I can think of a few with motivations to dislike the Empress—Lord Valerius Thorne, Lady Margaret Grosvenor, and Señor Arsenio Biscay. Oh, and they all coincidentally despise me.”
“Torres is from Aragon,” Blythe recalled, his impressive magical reputation transcending national borders.
“And Master Torres made no secret of his anti-Empire sentiments,” Tarn added, a mischievous glint in his deep-set eyes. “It’s hardly surprising his pupils would inherit similar views.”
“We’ve been at odds with Aragon for over a century,” Blythe said, unconvinced. “But what do trade disputes and territorial squabbles have to do with you?”
“You’re forgetting the Empress’s recent ban on binding magic,” Tarn corrected, a smug grin spreading across his face. He wiggled a finger, and the soup mug floated back into his hands, spilling only a few precious drops. “Aragon clings to traditional magic—and there are a few binding rituals that come to mind.”
“Marriage, master-apprentice, the unbreakable vow,” Blythe listed. “But those are hardly what Her Majesty is criticizing—”
“You’re from a traditionalist family, Blythe,” he interrupted, his gaze holding hers a moment too long. “And your father was born into the Aragon culture. Your parents completed a marriage bond?”
“Yes, but—”
“To love and obey. I understand your parents are one of the rare few who married for love, but the bond can be completed without such niceties.” Tarn took a sip of his soup, letting his words hang in the air. “In some marriages, binding oneself to the promise of obedience can be a nightmare. My mother never liked my father, but she liked crossing him even less. And while my master was fair, he once commanded me to hold my tongue and forgot about to release the command for three days. It was a moment of frustration, simply an old man tired of listening to the rather…impetuous remarks of his arrogant young pupil.” His eyes dropped, his voice tightening slightly. “Or, if you prefer a more personal example, imagine if your soul had found some other sorcerer’s automaton.”
Blythe pictured the sigils Tarn had painted on her ivory body before her soul possessed it. Markings on the soles of her feet and palms of her hands allowed the humanoid shell to move. But there were other sigils, deeper and more intricate, that bound her body to him. Any command he issued, her body was compelled to obey.
He’d never abused the magic, but she remembered the first time he’d demonstrated its power. Tarn had told her to walk to the marketplace and back without speaking to anyone, daring her to resist. At first, it seemed ridiculous, but by the end, she’d been terrified by the realization of his absolute control over her actions and voice. The memory sent a shiver down her spine, a mix of lingering fear and an unsettling awareness of their intertwined fates.
Blythe inhaled slowly, staring at the remnants of the bronze infuser—the base elements, the empty glass vials, the containers of ground minerals. Harmless now, but she understood the terrifying potential of their combination.
“I never thought about it,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “Before…all this, my plan was simple. Naïve, probably. I’d earn a respectable dowry as a spiritualist, cultivate a few well-regarded patrons, and become a darling of the right social circles. Then, I’d be introduced to some titled gentleman, and marry him in a traditional binding ceremony. Just like my mother and my sister.” Blythe felt the phantom urge to wipe her cheek, but it was the same unblemished ivory beneath her enchanted skin. “Beatrice married a baron’s son. And their child is due in the summer…”
Her sister had married after Blythe’s death. She’d never met her brother-in-law. She wasn’t welcome in her sister’s life. Not after her transformation. She understood Beatrice’s feelings—a stranger’s voice and face speaking her sister’s words. Beatrice, born with the same ethereal sensitivity, had never been comfortable in that world. Her engagement had been the perfect escape, a clean break from anything remotely otherworldly.
“And your plan now?” Tarn asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
Blythe closed her eyes. Her body couldn’t cry. There were no tears to prick her eyelids, but she felt the ghost of the sensation, a hollow ache. “I don’t have a plan. I don’t want to think about planning anything until…” If she let herself, she could slip through the thin veil of normalcy Tarn had woven for her, feel the cold, lifeless curves of her whalebone joints. She was a beautiful, undying doll, frozen in time. How could someone suspended in a perpetual present make plans for a future that might never be?
Tarn took her hands, squeezing her fingertips until she couldn’t ignore the sensation, the phantom memory of skin on skin. “You have a future,” he promised, his voice firm, reassuring. “We get closer with every test. Even if your plan looks different now…”
She pulled her hands away, the lingering warmth of his touch a bittersweet reminder of what she’d lost. She moved to the nearest bookcase, pretending to scan the titles, anything to avoid his earnest gaze. “What about you, Madcap?”
“Mad men have no plans,” he teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “My family had plans. My obedient brother was all too eager to inherit the Viscount title. My elder sister—much like yours—married a baron of acceptable wealth. My kindest sister managed to combine love and wealth, though his peerage wasn’t quite up to my parents’ standards. But they couldn’t argue with a diamond mine. My plan, I suppose, was always to undermine theirs. They wanted me to apprentice under a noble Empire-born sorcerer, so I bound myself to the greatest common-born sorcerer in Aragon. They wanted me in the Empress’s court, so I opened a shop near the bakers and smiths. Whatever comes next, comes next. Plans only get in the way.”
Blythe smiled, a genuine, if slightly melancholic, expression. “That’s exactly the answer I’d expect.”
“How I loathe to be predictable.”
Blythe straightened a few leaning tomes, adding books from the nearest floor pile where she’d carved out a tiny, temporary semblance of order. “So marriage was never on the table? You’ve always preferred the company of dusty books and volatile potions?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I am bound to the only object of my desires,” he said, his playful tone suggesting a secret.
“Your work,” Blythe guessed, trying to ignore the sudden, inexplicable tightness in her chest, a sensation that felt suspiciously like…disappointment…? Ridiculous.
“You know me better than anyone.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her for a moment too long, a silent question hanging in the air.
Blythe looked over her shoulder, pretending to be absorbed by a particularly dry treatise on ectoplasm. In reality, she was studying Tarn. Oblivious to her scrutiny, he sat at his desk, dipping a goose feather quill into the open inkwell. The rhythmic scratching on parchment, usually a comforting sound, now punctuated the tense silence. She approached the desk, peering over his shoulder. His letter was addressed to the Minister of Internal Defense.
“I’ll share my list with Lady Barnes,” he said in a low, even tone. “She’ll know best if my fellow former apprentices have any known or suspected associations with anti-Empress or anti-Imperial factions. If the shoe fits, I’ll arrange a confrontation.”
“You mean a meeting,” Blythe said with a healthy dose of skepticism.
His quill paused, a bead of black ink clinging to the tip. His lips curved into an infuriating half-smirk, a conspiratorial and mischievous expression that made her want to both scold him for his recklessness and, ridiculously, lean closer. His teal eyes, sharp and intense, settled on her, a challenge and a promise that made her unravel in a way she didn’t quite understand. He brushed a loose dark strand behind his ear, but the frayed strand stubbornly refused to stay put.
“I mean a confrontation.”