Page 11 of Wicked Endeavors

This time, she felt the blood leak from her new nose, tasted the rust on her tongue before her magic extinguished. A wave of nausea bowled her over, one arm wrapped around her stomach. Her vision doubled, tripled, then snapped back to normal. Magic, it seemed, did not agree with her.

All the more reason to destroy it.

Caya forced herself to straighten. To wipe her face once more.

“Again,” Ruiz said, as though nothing had happened.

Night came slowly. Caya spent long hours adjusting her face and body, her height and weight, at one point losing so much blood that she awoke on the floor with no idea of when she’d fainted. Ruiz had gone back to his book, but he lifted his eyebrows at her over it, as if to say, You’re conscious now, so do it again. He gave her no time to rest and recover, and she found that somewhat comforting. It meant he knew she could do this, no matter how many times she failed in front of him.

And she did it. The stars had overtaken the sky, the moon had frosted the curtains in silver and pearl, and the floor beneath her feet had gone brown with dried blood, but finally she could feel the transformation magic holding. Settling. Ruiz circled her with a thoughtful sound and withdrew a small mirror from his pocket, his book abandoned on the cushion. Caya took the mirror from him, her lips parting in surprise as she met her own reflected gaze.

A stranger stared back at her. Before, she had been beautiful. Now she was striking. She had created a face that would make people stop in their tracks, all dewy skin and doe eyes. Her linen dress strained against her new curves and cleavage, and her high cheekbones and long neck lent her a ballerina’s grace.

The shock of it made her magic flee again, revealing her true face. Her mahogany skin and eyes, her thick nose and full lips, her heart-shaped face and loose curls. She had made herself thinner and her curves more defined, but, even without those enhancements, she had always liked the way she looked. Today, however, the girl in the mirror looked wan and haunted. The ghosts of her past gathered in her present, and it would soon be time for her to face them.

“We’ll practice your endurance, but that girl who you created is who you will be from this moment forward,” Ruiz said, taking back the mirror. “I want you to wear an illusion every second of every day, until that appearance holds without your concentration.”

“Who is she?” she whispered, tracing the bridge of her nose and the swell of her cheeks before she was forced to change them again. “Who are those people in the portrait you gave me?”

“That is the only known portrait of the Vinyet family, one of Domingo’s most reticent political dynasties.” Ruiz eased back into his chair, placing his open book on the arm of it instead. “They’re powerful and private—and you’ll be posing as one of them for next year’s Coronet.”

“Do I want to know why you had that?”

“Despite being one of the most influential families at court, the Vinyets didn’t help fight against the witches. In fact, they’ve rarely been seen since—though, of course, I’ve kept tabs on them.”

“Ah,” said Caya. “The king wants them dead, too.”

There was no mirth in his expression. “It doesn’t matter who they are. It matters who you are. Cataleya Donant is your past. Lady Marisol Vinyet—that is your future. Do you understand?”

Caya nodded once, her spine straightening with a steely resolve.

“All right, then.” Ruiz smiled, and this time it was as warm as the first rays of sunrise. “Let’s truly begin.”

TWO WEEKS PASSED, DURING WHICH CAYA SPENT EVERY day at Ruiz’s manor house learning to become Marisol Vinyet. After breakfast in her own house, a carriage took her across town, where she’d be quizzed on the Vinyet family tree, on Domingan high society, on culture and politics and etiquette. While she struggled through rote memorization, Ruiz would try to scare her into dropping her disguise. The first few days were an embarrassment: a sudden noise was enough to startle her into losing her grip on the magic, and she couldn’t go five minutes without staining her clothes with the blood of overexertion.

Now she could remain in character even with her mind distracted and her heart racing—but if she fainted or fell asleep, she reverted. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for today.

As a practice run, she would be watching a Coronet regatta—a series of boat races—as a guest instead of an interloper. She would be on a lord’s arm instead of stealing glances from the shore. And, according to Ruiz, the event was an easy place to disappear into a crowd if she made a mistake.

“Every year, the Trident draws lots to decide which House is hosting when. There’s one event every two weeks from the second week of summer onward, and they do different kinds of events every year,” Ruiz explained as the carriage carried them toward Soltura Harbor. “This year, the opening ball was followed by a charity art exhibition hosted by House Muerte and a joust hosted by House Vida. Today’s regatta, hosted by House Cambio, will be the final chance to socialize before new witches receive their coven marks at the closing ceremony.”

“Why even get a coven mark?” Caya asked, pretending to check her makeup in her small mirror. She was really making sure her magic hadn’t faltered outside the safety of the manor, but she didn’t want Ruiz to turn the carriage around. “Unmarked witches can use their magic for everything, right?”

Ruiz chuckled, a deep, pleased sound. “I’m glad to see you taking your studies so seriously. Yes, a young witch’s magic is broad, but it’s also both dangerous and weak. Often, by accident, they achieve one effect while trying to do another. Once they choose a House, their general magic may be limited, but their chosen magic becomes much more powerful and strengthens the entire House.”

Caya slid the mirror back into her bag. The House system still confused her because it hadn’t existed before the coup against the Seawards. Before, all witches in Coventry had been born with one of the three types of magic, and they didn’t separate themselves from other witches. Ruiz had theorized that the singular magic was an illusion, a lie believed because very few had tested their limits. But the witches who fled Domingo wanted power. And if what Ruiz said was true—that chosen House magic was stronger than general magic—then the diluted abilities of an unmarked witch would never have been enough for them.

And so the Magisters—the top leaders of the rebellion against the Seawards—had founded the Trident, and the High Houses that formed it promised strength and safety in exchange for control. Witches had allowed themselves to be chained to the Trident, because that protected them from the numbers of the welks. The Criterion, then, was a cautionary tale of what could happen if witches were weaker, divided—a splinter cell that could grow into a movement if Coventry’s nonmagical population wasn’t kept powerless.

Caya couldn’t wait to see how things would change when everyone was a welk. When magic was gone, and power was redefined.

But first she had to master her part.

The carriage eased to a stop near the docks. Ruiz leaned forward before their footman could set aside the reins and open the door. “Prince Tomás and Sebastjan Arroyo are already aboard the ship. Remember, you are my ward, visiting for the Coronet. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, maintain your cover and say as little as possible.”

“Yes, yes,” said Caya. “Would you have a little faith?”

The door opened. She lifted her hand delicately for the footman to take as he helped her out of the carriage. Her smile was soft and ladylike. Her new dress fit perfectly over her new body: a vermilion gown with detachable sleeves, a square neckline, a slit down the front beneath the bodice that revealed the patterned gold petticoats beneath. Her hair was in a single braid down her back, decorated by pearled netting. She had put her silver dolphin pendant on a chain and hung it around her neck.