Illusions of Fate

Finn slams the book shut, huffing in frustration. It immediately poofs into a mess of feathers, Sir Bird cawing angrily and jabbing his beak at Finn’s fingers.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I forget you’re both.”

“Take better care of my friend,” I say, trying not to laugh at their equally grouchy expressions.

“I feel so limited.” Finn scowls. “I can’t keep tabs on Lord Downpike like I used to.”

“Why not?”

“Oh.” He gets a look on his face that settles there when he does not wish to tell me something. “I’ve never employed familiars. They’re less than dependable, no offense to present company. Lord Downpike can store magic in them and have them act semi-autonomously, but, as demonstrated by Sir Bird, giving magic to a creature with a mind of its own is not foolproof. As far as I can tell, when Sir Bird severed the connection, he also cut off Lord Downpike from all these spells. He’ll have to start over from scratch on any that he was storing. Which makes me very happy.

“But I digress. No familiars, but my mother taught me to have an unusual degree of control over my shadow. In the past, I’ve sent my shadow on errands, used it for ears or eyes. Shadows can get away with a great deal. No one notices them, and there are so many dim places to hide.”

I frown, a memory tickling the back of my head. “The day we first met. When

I got back to the hotel, I could have sworn I saw two shadows where only mine should have been.”

Finn is suddenly absorbed in looking at his own fingernails. “You asked me not to follow you home, and I didn’t. Exactly. But I had to make certain you got back safely.” He glances up, face defensive as though he expects me to be angry.

“So that’s how you knew where I lived.”

“And probably how Lord Downpike discovered you. I hadn’t suspected he would be watching me so closely. We’ve been playing political cat and mouse for two years now, and I was too relaxed. But if you noticed my shadow, no doubt he did as well.”

“We’d only just met! Why did you care enough to send your shadow?”

He gives me a shoulder shrug of a smile. “You make a first impression.”

A clock, buried beneath a pile of books on the mantel, chimes the time and saves me from the blood rushing to my face and demanding I answer him. “Oh, that’s me late. I promised to call on Eleanor today. She’s been lonely at Lord Rupert’s house.”

“I will—” He pauses. “Would you like me to come with you?”

I smile and shake my head. “No, you keep up your studies. The sooner you find something to use against Lord Downpike and tip the scales in favor of peace, the sooner we can let poor Sir Bird take up permanent residence in his feathers instead of constantly dwelling as a massive book.” I am tired of being on the defensive against Lord Downpike. I can’t imagine what Finn must feel like after two years of trying to subvert Downpike’s schemes. “Would you show me how it works? When I return, I mean.”

“How what works?”

“That.” I wave my hand at the bird-book and then sweep it to gesture to the bookshelves. “All of this. I know I can’t do it, but I would like to understand how it is done. It is a part of my life now, too, and I refuse to remain ignorant.”

When I enter Eleanor’s guest chambers, I find her leaning over an ornate desk, expression intent as she holds a flower up to her head.

No, not her head. Her ear. “What are you doing?” I ask.

She straightens with a surprised shriek. “Oh, Jessamin! It’s just you. Well. This is embarrassing.” She smiles guiltily. “I was eavesdropping on the parlor, actually.”

“With . . . a flower.”

“My own spell. Don’t tell anyone. It’s crass to invent new ways to use magic, and everyone would look down on me. But you’ll appreciate this! I gave my aunt a lovely potted plant that I recommended she place in the parlor. A very special potted plant, that allows me to pick a flower and use it as a conduit through which I can hear conversations. I did not gain my reputation as Avebury’s most skilled gossip by chance.”

“You have certainly elevated eavesdropping to new and complicated heights. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just listen outside the door?”

She leans forward. “Here, on my forehead, feel.”

Puzzled, I run my fingers over the spot she indicated. There’s a small indentation. “What is that?”

“When I was eleven, I was listening to an argument between my father and uncle. My father stormed out, and the door hit me so hard it knocked me unconscious and left a permanent dent! So I became more creative in the interest of self-preservation.”

“You are a wonder.”

She beams, lifting the flower again. “I know. Now hush. Uncle is hosting Lord Benton, who has his sights set on a union of the families through Ernest marrying his daughter, Margaret. We hate Margaret, in case you were wondering what our opinion is.”