“You need the practice,” he repeats. “Your control is still lacking.”
Celia leaves the room without a word, holding her wrist and biting back tears.
“And for Christ’s sake, stop crying,” her father calls after her.
It takes her the better part of an hour to set and heal the shards of bone.
*
ISOBEL SITS IN A RARELY OCCUPIED ARMCHAIR in the corner of Marco’s flat, a rainbow of silk ribbon twisted around her fingers as she attempts in vain to form it into a single elaborate braid.
“This seems so silly,” she remarks, frowning at the tangle of ribbon.
“It’s a simple charm,” Marco says from his desk where he sits surrounded by open books. “A ribbon for each element, bound with knots and intent. It’s like your cards, only influencing the subject instead of simply divining its meaning. But it won’t work if you don’t believe it will, you know that.”
“Perhaps I am not in the proper mood to believe it,” Isobel says, loosening the knots and putting the ribbons aside, letting them cascade over the arm of the chair. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Help me, then,” Marco says, looking up from his books. “Think of something. An object. A significant object that I cannot possibly know about.”
Isobel sighs but she obediently closes her eyes, concentrating.
“It’s a ring,” Marco says after a moment, picking the image out of her mind as easily as if she had drawn him a picture. “A gold ring with a sapphire flanked by two diamonds.”
Isobel’s eyes snap open.
“How did you know that?” she asks.
“Is it an engagement ring?” he counters with a grin.
She clasps her hand to her mouth before she nods.
“You sold it,” Marco says, picking up the fragments of memory attached to the ring itself. “In Barcelona. You fled an arranged marriage, that’s why you’re in London. Why did you not tell me?”
“It is not exactly a topic of proper conversation,” Isobel says. “And you hardly tell me anything about yourself, you could have fled an arranged marriage of your own.”
They stare at each other for a moment, while Marco tries to come up with an appropriate response, but then Isobel laughs.
“He probably looked for the ring longer than he looked for me,” she says, glancing down at her bare hand. “It was such a lovely thing, I almost didn’t want to part with it but I had no money and nothing else to sell.”
Marco starts to say he can tell she received quite a good price for the ring, but then there is a knock on the door of the flat.
“Is it the landlord?” Isobel whispers, but Marco puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head.
Only one person ever knocks upon that door unannounced.
Marco waves Isobel into the adjoining study before he answers.
The man in the grey suit does not enter the flat. He has never entered the space since he orchestrated the transition, pushing his student out into the world.
“You will be applying for a position to work for this man,” he says without greeting, taking a faded business card from his pocket. “You will likely need a name.”
“I have a name,” Marco says.
The man in the grey suit does not inquire as to what it might be.
“Your interview is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon,” he says. “I have handled a number of business matters for Monsieur Lefèvre of late and I have put in a strong recommendation, but you should do whatever is needed to secure the position.”
“Is this the beginning of the challenge?” Marco asks.