“And bright,” she added. “Not in a bad way!”
“Loud how?” he pressed.
“It’s hard to explain. Like a musical number when it hits a key change? That’s not quite—”
“Yours is like peach fuzz. It’s very summery,” Briar told her. “I’m an aura reader, too.”
She beamed. “Oh, I’ve only met two others! That’s much better than what the last one said. She said I was like sunburn.”
Her name was Abigail. She chatted animatedly about the other two aura readers she’d met, asking Briar about his experiences. What sensations seemed to come up most often? What were the worst auras he’d ever encountered? It took his mind off his apprehension.
Before long, the time had come. Linden appeared at Briar’s shoulder, fussing over his hair and picking a stray thread off his dress.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I’m going to puke,” Briar said.
“Well, I was going to ask for a good luck kiss, but now—”
Briar kissed him anyway. Partly for luck, partly to assuage his guilt.
The tent flap drew back by magic, and they strolled out hand in hand to raucous applause. Night had fallen, enchanted lanterns flitting through the air. Swaths of people thronged the stage and cameras flashed so bright that Briar had to concentrate hard on not blinking.
The noise and burst of applause faded, a hush of shock was followed by whispers as the crowd beheld Briar.
Not all the whispers and exchanged looks were kind, but Briar hadn’t expected them to be. Something like exultant rebellion rose in him, and he lifted his chin.
They’d prepared the speech together, with Linden introducing Briar as a new partner in an exciting project. Briar told the crowd about himself. Where he’d grown up. The challenges of his apprenticeship in Wishbrooke. The beginnings of his placement in Coill Darragh, where his path crossed Linden’s. The tithes were a mark of how far he’d come, how hard he’d worked. His humble origin story. The crowd listened, rapt and devouring.
Linden spoke of the inspiration for their line, then summoned the models.
Enchantments of spring flowers sprouted where the models walked, glowing sparklers unfurling in the air behind them as they swept out in trails of gauze. Briar’s exultant feeling stymied just a little. The outfits were beautiful, but they weren’t his. Crafted by his hands, maybe, but he was not their architect.
Still, it was a bright beginning to a career. He looked at the crowd and ached. His mother would have loved to be here.
When the show concluded, Linden linked arms with Briar, drawing him into the crowd to answer journalists’ questions. They congregated at the foot of the stage, microphones in hand.
“How did this partnership between you evolve?”
“Would you say this line is an equal blend of your styles?”
Every question had hidden layers. It felt identical to speaking with Linden’s parents, parsing the subtext and responding as positively as he could.
“Linden, you’ve never worked with a partner before. Why Mr. Wyngrave?”
Linden chuckled as if the journalist had made a joke. “You saw the show we put together. Just look at him. He’s a vision.”
Briar smiled, but a question followed like a knife point in the ribs.
“We can all agree that you look lovely, Mr. Wyngrave, but care to comment on your flesh tithes? That magic is taboo for a reason. Many consider it a dark sort. What are you trying to say by displaying them on the stage today?”
Briar spoke through the tension in his chest, as honest as he dared. “This magic is no different from tithing a blade of grass—”
“You value a blade of grass the same as your own skin?”
Bristling. “It’s more powerful, but maybe the disdain for those who use flesh tithes has more to do with the divide between who can and cannot afford to buy tithes at a store.”
A herald of murmurs. Linden squeezed his shoulder in reassurance—or warning.
