Page 6 of A Fragile Enchantment

When she left Caterlow three days ago, her mother had cradled her face and said,The Season is dangerous for a girl like you. If you want to go, a stor, I will not stop you. Just know that our well-being isn’t your responsibility.

Niamh had felt her fingers against her chin, the tips callused from decades of sewing and the joints swollen from hours of work. She’d looked into her mother’s eyes, hooded and blue as her own were, and drank in the premature wrinkles gathered at the corners. It had struck her then as it never had before that Ma was not a young woman anymore.

Of course her family’s well-being was her responsibility. Especially now that she was in Avaland, in the home of the very family who’d left them all to die. A fresh wave of guilt knocked her nearly breathless.

The Machlish had suffered greatly under seven hundred years of Avlish rule. Machland, those early colonizers had said, was lushand fruitful; its bounty could never be depleted. It had grown wild and wicked in the time its people had been left to their own devices, but with the right care, it would surely flourish. But as the centuries dragged on, the Avlish grew greedier. They exported nearly everything that grew back to the motherland, leaving nothing for the people who tended the land. They squeezed and squeezed until there was nothing left to give. The last straw was the Blight.

The Avlish called it a terrible accident. The Machlish called it slaughter.

Carmine magic, the Avlish claimed, made fallowing unnecessary. And so, they forced the land to produce until it could produce no more. One year, the crops withered. And the next year, and the year after that.

Even though his family’s divine blood had tainted the very earth, Kit and Jack’s father did nothing. He watched as a million people starved and a million more fled the island. The ensuing rebellion was bloody and swift. For twenty-five years, Machland had been a sovereign nation. But no one who lived through it had forgotten or forgiven.

Niamh had grown up alongside those ghosts. All her life, she’d wanted to lighten her family’s burdens, to drive away the past that haunted them still. She chose to be happy each day precisely because she knew how much worse things could be. She smiled because she couldn’t bear to let them believe they’d failed her for even a moment.Of courseit was her responsibility to care for them after everything they’d been through. It was such a small thing to try to give them the comfort they’d never had as children.

It was such a small thing to be good.

When she finally exhausted herself, Niamh scrubbed the tears from her face, unlaced her gown and stays, then carefully climbed into the tub. The water sloshed against her calves, almost painfully hot. The steam billowing around her smelled of lavender and rosemary. Tentatively, Niamh sank down to her chin in the water—and wished, for her own conscience’s sake, that she enjoyed it less. It was far more luxuriant than anything she had ever experienced. In Caterlow, she’d only ever bathed with a pitcher and basin, which admittedly might be more practical. Dirt lifted off her body in clouds, but at least some of her tension melted away with the grime. Best not to look too closely at the water.

She retrieved a comb from the cart and began working out the tangles in her hair. It floated atop the murky water, as black as the tide. With a slow-mounting dread, she stared at the strand of silver that ran through it. No change yet, but soon…

No, it wasn’t worth fretting about.

You aren’t sick until you’re sick.

Sighing, Niamh brushed her hair back behind her shoulder so she didn’t have to look at it anymore. She draped her arms over the lip of the copper tub and pillowed her cheek against her shoulder. The metal bit into her skin with cold, but the fire crackling lazily in the hearth warmed her.

In just a few weeks, this would all be over. With the money she earned from this commission, her family could join her in Sootham. Gran might resent it at first, but soon enough, she would see that a better, more comfortable life awaited them here. She would come to appreciate all these beautiful, frivolous things.

Assuming, of course, Niamh could make something incredible enough to enchant even a cynic like Kit Carmine.

Later that afternoon, Niamh eased open the door to her room. Down the hall, sunlight flooded through the window and washed the corridor as pink and watery as a wound.

She had no idea where the kitchens were, but surely, they could not be all that difficult to find. If her friend Erin was anywhere, it’d be there. Long ago, the Ó Cinnéide clan was renowned for theirhealing abilities. They could brew an elixir capable of restoring a man from the brink of death or craft a poultice that could regrow a severed limb. The most impressive thing Erin had managed was a tea that soothed the inflammation in Niamh’s joints for a few hours. Otherwise, she made delicious cakes.

As she made her way toward the staircase, a great sound—a sort of bellowing, if she had to describe it—echoed up from below.

And then, chaos erupted.

A flurry of footsteps thundered against the hardwood floor, and chatter zipped through the halls. Niamh seized the banister and peered over the edge. Far below her, servants hurried through the corridors, carrying plates, trays, and silverware polished to an armor-bright gleam. She couldn’t help marveling at how hectic it all was—and how much easier it would be if any of them possessed an ceird. There were folks in Caterlow who could summon an object to their hand from across the room, and those who could lift three times the weight of an ordinary man. While she’d heard that some Avlish commoners possessed the craft, it was exceptionally rare. How silly that no one doing anythingpracticalhad any magical assistance.

How strange,it occurred to her after a moment,that there are no Machlish servants with the craft here to help.

“What are you doing standing around?”

Niamh startled, wheeling back from the banister. A young woman glared at her, a basket of linens balanced on her hip. Intelligently, Niamh said, “Who, me?”

The other girl hardly seemed to be listening. “The prince regent is in a foul temper, you know. Do you want him to catch you idle? Staring dreamy-eyed at nothing when we’re already short-staffed?”

It was clear that she’d been mistaken for a servant. Niamh bobbed her knees and averted her eyes. “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Go on, then. And look alive.”

Niamh nearly did as she was told, but perhaps she could findout if Erin had been transferred yet. “Pardon me, but is there a girl named Erin Ó Cinnéide here?”

“Erin,” she repeated with a thoughtful purse of her lips. But just as quickly as recognition lit her eyes, her expression darkened. “Yes. She was here, but she left just two days ago.”

Sheleft? That could not be right. “She did? Why?”