Page 49 of A Spell of Heart & Havoc

As small as my life here in the manor probably looked to anyone from the world, I did feel increasingly content. There were times, even, that I found myself wishing my parents would never return. That they’d stay in Talon for good, leaving me the estate. We’d see one another at holidays, perhaps, or if I took brief trips into the city for supplies and to visit them. Everything just felt so much easier and, honestly, just better without them here. As guilty as I felt thinking that sometimes.

No Mother harping on me, digging her criticisms into my mind like barbs. No Father hiding in his rooms or his office, avoiding our company except at dinnertime. He’d changed so much since we went bankrupt—quiet, rarely speaking. We all knew that our family’s decline had been mainly his fault, though none of us would ever say it, of course. And ever since, it felt as if Mother’s judgmental moods and need to control me—the norm ever since I could remember—ratcheted up a hundred-fold. She couldn’t criticize her partner, so she directed it all toward me. She couldn’t control how her life had turned out, everything horrible that had happened, so she controlled me instead.

And it only got worse when I discovered my gift. Suddenly, I became the answer to our problems. Father was able to use an old merchant contact in Talon to sell the jewels I created, trading them across Kurriel and overseas so the market in our region in the Midlands wouldn’t get too saturated and suspicious. In this, he had a regular job and a way to help our family. I’d taken over running our finances and most of the estate—I’d put my foot down on this with my parents, and they’d conceded. But it was as if every time that I stepped toward independence, Mother found a way to counteract it with a word, a look, a manipulation. This issue with hiring a bodyguard and wanting me to stay on the estate was just the latest and most extreme example.

My magical ability kept our family and the estate afloat now. Everything relied on me, and Mother seemed determined to keep her asset secure. What could I do? My own life was so closely tied to theirs, in every way. And despite it all, I did love them. What, was I going to run off and leave them to fall into financial ruin again without me? Leave Choia, and this manor I loved, and everything I held dear? Try to sell the jewels on my own in the city, likely getting robbed or outing my gift in the process? No.

Well. At least they both seemed in better spirits with this invitation from the Tongs, and I had to admit that I was much happier too, without them here. I’d spent a little time reassessing our assets, and if I continued transfiguring my jewels like normal and mailing them regularly to my parents, that could work. Potentially. If they lived within their means—which was a big if—they could save up and buy a modest place there.

Or perhaps, a part of me thought, we could sell off some of our land to pay for a city house and have enough left over for them to live off for years. Maybe they could be self-sufficient, with luck and some effort.

And I wouldn’t need to magic a jewel for them every day. I could stop. Not have this suspicion, this worry about someone discovering our secret or attacking me for my power. I wouldn’t be the thing keeping them from descending into poverty. I could just… be their daughter again.

I shook off these dreamy thoughts as Maerryl and I entered the stables and got our horses, teasing each other about our respective riding skills. What I needed to focus on right now, here, should be the children. My time at the priory, being a good art teacher, and helping the kids feel like kids again.

We mounted up, and I leaned close to Lightning’s ear, whispering. He surged forward, bounding down the lane away from the manor, and I threw a wild grin back at Maerryl as she gave chase.

“And that, class, is what happens when we mix all the colors together in a muddy old mess! Say it with me now—”

“BROWWWWNNN,” the children chorused together, cheerfully splashing their brushes into dirty water cups at the end of our day’s lesson.

Somehow, some way, this mad idea of the prioress’s was working. Part of me thought I’d show up this morning, and the orphans wouldn’t be here, hidden away to avoid lessons with me. But no—when I arrived in their quarters, each child was accounted for, waiting not so patiently for me to get here and begin with our painting again. Or, as Susu yelled at me as I took too long removing my cloak and unpacking the supplies: “Let’s get this show on the road and paint, moneybags!”

Orinno had chuckled at that, while Maerryl had snickered none too kindly. But once we’d gotten them all settled and started the lesson—or, more accurately, the paint-smearing spectacle—the children really seemed to enjoy themselves. Incredible to see all their little faces so delighted with a rainbow they drew, or an animal, chattering amongst themselves as they painted. The shadows of grief that touched all of them lifted as we went, and my heart swelled again to watch it happen. Somehow, I’d never really understood that the feelings I experienced when I worked on a painting at home—joy, peace, satisfaction, catharsis—could be felt by so many small humans. Children who’d hardly even held brushes before. They loved it.

I found myself growing very fond of them all, and I couldn’t help but think about what happened after I left. What were the rest of their lives like here at the priory? I knew they were all well cared for, and the kind acolytes and clerics like Orinno were doing what they could, but surely this wasn’t an ideal place to live for a child. Surrounded by mostly adults, so much meditation and praying, sharing a big room all together instead of having their own spaces. Susu had so much energy and feistiness—I’d bet she’d benefit from something like horseback riding lessons to redirect all of that. And how could little Sadie come out of her shell without calm, quiet care? Alwin’s face always dropped and clouded over when it came time to end our lessons, and I knew he’d paint for hours upon hours each day if he could.

More and more, I found myself thinking about how massive and empty the estate seemed. Such a waste really, and it took Maerryl’s unfortunately correct criticisms since she arrived for me to see how ridiculous it was to have so much space for just my small family. What if I changed things for once… repurposed the manor into an orphanage for these children? I spent part of our lesson turning the mad idea over, examining it from all angles. Getting increasingly excited, hopeful, by the possibilities.

Maybe I could actually do this. Maybe.

Now, Orinno and I transitioned to helping them at the washbasins, instructing the older children to assist the younger ones too. As I scrubbed little Alwin’s hands, helping him to get a particularly stubborn bit of yellow paint off, I suddenly spotted Maerryl slip from her spot on the wall and out the door. For a split second, I paused, about to move on to washing the class’s paint palettes.

But the way she moved—there was a studied stealth to her steps. She didn’t draw attention to herself. And if I hadn’t been so attuned to Maerryl, constantly drawn to her now, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed her slipping away.

Muttering some excuse to Orinno about visiting the washroom, I dried my hands on a cloth and followed Maerryl out the door. Already far down the curved hallway, she hastened to a wide archway. As she turned to check behind herself, I ducked into an alcove and held my breath. Why did I suddenly feel like a spy tracking someone? I had no need to hide.

At that thought, I straightened and reentered the hallway. Maerryl had disappeared. Moving to the alcove, I went through and just caught a glimpse of her dark form as she turned another corner. Doubling my pace, I followed.

At the end of a bright hallway, filled with midday light from glass windows on either side, I found a tall, draped double curtain of a doorway. Deep plum-dyed cloth in a thick weave that I held tightly in my grip for a minute.

What was she doing here? Did I need to know?

Yes.

I held the curtain aside, just enough for me to slip through, and entered a wide room with a soaring ceiling. Sunshine filtered through gently flapping linen curtains. Two rows of simple wooden cots filed along the length of the long walls, most of them empty except for crisp, light sheets. It was quiet but for the low murmuring of a couple acolytes moving about. And Maerryl, seated under a window, talking to someone lying on one of the beds.

Stepping closer, I tried to keep my footfalls quiet. She faced away from me and seemed deep in conversation with whoever lay on the cot.

One of my steps caught on an edge of the stone flooring, and I stumbled.

Maerryl leapt up and swung around, hand reflexively going to one of her daggers. When she saw me, she froze. We locked eyes. Alarm and panic crossed over her face, before finally settling into resignation.

“Dove,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

I stepped closer, moving to the other side of the cot. A young dwarf boy, no older than thirteen, lay asleep on the white sheets. He wore a soft-looking linen robe and a peaceful expression. His hair was a familiar thick, deep brown.

“Who is he?” I whispered, trying not to wake him.