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We shared a glance. I’d been the one to answer yes. Her jaw clenched and I shrugged. “Fine,” she whispered, although I had the feeling that later I’d hear more about this little disagreement.
A gust of wind hit the house hard enough to make the windows rattle. Perhaps the Ferox Cor was stirring things up as a way of delaying our conversation. “Before we left San Francisco, we were warned about rumors linking Martin to a magical object called the Ferox Cor.”
A partial truth, but enough for now.
Rafe’s grimace made me glad I hadn’t revealed our true mission. Della, however, simply looked sad.
“Those rumors were true,” she said, pausing when another gust shook the windows, followed by a crashing sheet of rain.
“What the hell?” Margaret spoke softly, but with enough concern that I grew tense. Something was wrong.
Della plowed ahead, oblivious to the storm. “He stole the amulet, unaware of its true properties.”
An amulet in a jeweled box. My memory provided the details. “So, why did he want it? What can the Ferox Cor do?”
“It can do whatever the amulet’s holder wants it to,” Rafe said tersely. “He wanted it so he could play god.”
I glanced at Margaret, profoundly disturbed by Rafe’s claim, but her attention was fully on the window.
“This storm is not…right.” She rose, headed for the front door. “I need to get to the tower.”
Without stopping for anything as common sense as a coat, she ran out into the storm.
And I followed, even though I was the little brother, I’d always tried to protect my older sisters. Even though none of my real sisters had reached out to me after Father sent me away. I hadn’t expected them to, not really. They couldn’t, not if they wanted to find good husbands, and I would never have soiled them with my stigma. But Margaret gave me another chance at being a good brother, and I intended to watch out for her if I could.
Waves crashed on the beach, tendrils of water swirling around stones and broken mussel shells. A sudden gust of wind caught me off-guard. It came from the north, carrying an arctic chill. Salt spray splashed against my face and soon I was drenched to the skin. The wind died away, only to be followed by another gust, this one even stronger.
All around us, evergreen branches thrashed and crackled, and I raced up the stairs after Margaret, frightened by what had been unleashed.
She stood with her back to me, facing out over the ocean. The wind buffeted her, dragging strands of hair loose from her twist at the nape of her neck and sending them flying. She gripped the railing, and though she was standing still, her shoulders rocked as if she was breathing hard.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Can you stop it or not?” Rafe asked as soon as he reached the upper level.
Margaret waved a hand to shush us. “I’m trying to sort that out. Someone sent this.” She raised a hand, sketching a sigil in the air. “Careless. Dangerous.” She flicked her fingers. The wind died down, only to start up again even stronger.
“If you don’t stop it—” Rafe began.
She cut him off. “If I can’t stop this, all the world will be affected.”
Her tone was grim, and the next sigil she sketched was almost bright enough to see. It blew apart, streaks of scarlet carried on the wind. She tried again, breathing hard. This symbol persisted, black marks that were impervious to the storm.
The wind faded. Margaret trembled, evidence of how much effort this cost her. Another sigil, this one more like handwriting in the air. She stroked the air, massaging the invisible currents into place.
I’d never seen a weatherwitch work, but from our conversation on the train, I recognized the way she prodded and cajoled, alternating magical signs and simple persuasion, to bring the weather in line with her wishes.
“There,” she said finally. Her shoulders sagged, and, elbowing my way through Della and Rafe, I got an arm around her waist.
We shared a glance. Margaret’s eyes were heavy, her cheeks sunken, and her face a pale grey. “Back to the house,” I announced, daring the others to argue with me.
“Do you need help?” Rafe asked, sounding uncertain.
“We’re fine.”
He and his mother went down the stairs. Margaret and I followed more slowly. She required enough support that I should probably have allowed Rafe to help. The tired smile she gave me when we reached the bottom, though, made me glad I had not.
I trusted Della, for the most part, and Rafe some of the time. Margaret, though, was a friend, and I didn’t have many of those.
