Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

T he warm feeling in my chest caused by the failed spell lingered for the rest of the day. It was not painful, exactly, it might have even been pleasant—like the afterglow of a strong drink—except that I didn't know why it was happening .

Even if I'd messed something up, the spell should have failed without causing any side effects. Unless I'd misjudged the potential of the amplification combined with Grimm's already considerable power. Perhaps I would wake up the following day with eyes that constantly shifted color, or the blue of my irises would stretch to cover the whites of my eyes and stick that way.

Like I'd told Grimm, cosmetic charms could be surprisingly tricky.

Sleep eluded me even more thoroughly than usual that night. When a bottle of wine and an hour of playing violently depressing songs on my violin wasn't enough to soothe me, I sighed and rearranged my fingers on the strings to play a lullaby cantrip.

I did this sometimes, setting words in the old language to music instead of writing them down. Usually magic consumed paper, but it seemed just as happy to eat the notes I played for it. I would never be a caster, but spellsongs made it possible for me to push the boundaries of what I was normally capable of. I'd tried it with a charm once and nearly passed out, but cantrips, when sung, only tired me slightly. I'd often wondered if other sorcerers would find it cost them less to cast this way as well, but never had a chance to find out. Agnes couldn't hold a tune, and the only time I'd mentioned it to one of my instructors, they'd been horrified.

"It's dangerous to leave magic unfed," they'd scolded, as though music itself could never be a proper meal. "You'll hurt yourself, experimenting with such things."

I nodded and let them think that their words would dissuade me, then kept right on tinkering with my spellsongs in private.

The lullaby tune was soothing, as all lullabies were meant to be. Simple, even. The melody was my paper, and my voice took the place of ink spreading over the page. By the time I let my bow fall, I was winded from pressing too close to the edge of my abilities, but I was also sleepy. So sleepy that it was all I could do to wipe down the strings and put my violin away properly before falling into bed.

The next morning, the warmth in my chest was gone. When I looked in the mirror, no ill effects seemed to have appeared overnight. My eyes were their usual blue, whites only slightly bloodshot. My hair, sleep-mussed and curling around my face, was its usual brown. In fact, all my features seemed to be in their usual place. I decided my anxiety had been unwarranted.

I did not forget about the failed spell, exactly, but it was shuffled to the back of my mind. Past failures mattered less at this point than ensuring such things didn't happen again. I needed to be more disciplined and focused than I had been before if I ever wanted to see my inheritance.

I met with Agnes to run through sword forms. Sat through a soul-suckingly boring lecture on the merits of using rhymes versus iambic pentameter in the old language. Went to the library and hastily memorized two spells before sprinting to my next class, where I proved my recall by regurgitating said spells word for word.

Despite my best efforts to focus, I was twitchy, bothered by the sense that I was forgetting something or that there was someplace I was meant to be. Given that every student at the Fount is plagued by such feelings at one point or another, I did not think anything of it.

That night I shuffled through all my impending assignments, in case my subconscious was trying to warn me of something I'd overlooked. But everything was in order (or at least as much order as I was ever capable of maintaining).

The feeling persisted the following day. And the next.

"It's the pressure," Agnes said when I couldn't stop pacing the length of her room. We were meant to be studying, but I couldn't sit still long enough to read more than a few words. "You've never had to work this hard before."

"I have, in fact, put in some amount of effort over the past four years," I said indignantly. "Otherwise it wouldn't have taken this long for them to threaten to kick me out."

"Some effort, sure, but you didn't care before. In fact, you acted like you were allergic to caring about your academic standing. Now you're just like the rest of us."

This was said with a certain amount of satisfaction. Agnes had always been brilliant, but it was a hard-won brilliance. She was used to sacrificing hours and days to maintain her reputation as a promising young sorcerer, while I had always proclaimed that too little freedom made my mind feel like it was shriveling up into something the size of a walnut.

With this in mind, I went out that night, trying to reclaim some of my previous nonchalance. But when I woke the next morning, hungover and bleary, that same itching sensation of unease was back, worse than ever.

I wanted something. I just didn't know what.

Normally I lazed in bed for as long as possible to make up for my late nights, but I couldn't stay still, not with that prickling, aimless hunger chasing itself across my skin. I dressed and stepped outside just as the sun rose high enough to wash the Fount's pale halls with blush-touched gold. It was far too early for breakfast to be served in the refectory, so I settled for slipping into the kitchens and stealing an apple. Then I went for a walk around the gardens, hoping that the combination of food and movement would quiet the gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach.

The Fount grounds were lovingly maintained and absolutely massive. If you ignored the faint sounds of the city in the distance, and the Fount bell tower occasionally tolling out the time, it was possible to pretend you were someplace else entirely. The farther I walked, the more something inside me seemed to loosen, like a flower unfurling its petals to the warm sun. We were nearing the harvest, and it showed in the golden hues around me—nature's windfall.

I ate my apple and strolled toward the pond on the south side of the grounds. Fading water lilies dotted the water's surface, and on the far side was a stone pavilion with a dock running out from it. Upon walking closer, I realized I was not the only one up and about at this hour. A figure was just visible through the open, arched windows of the pavilion, running through the paces of a sword form. His coat and sash had been laid aside for freedom of movement, but the pale hair and upright posture were recognizable even from this distance.

It was Sebastian Grimm.

I should have left, but something in me rebelled against the idea. Agnes had accused me on more than one occasion of not knowing when to just let things be, and Grimm brought that tendency out in me more than anyone. Our animosity was like a scab, itching to be picked. I couldn't resist trying to draw blood.

I ducked inside the pavilion to watch Grimm run through his sword form.

It had been a long time since we had been in the same combat class (after a rather heated exchange in first tier, our instructor had wisely decided it was best we learned such skills separately), but I could still remember how haltingly he'd moved through the forms after first arriving at the Fount. Like many of the other sorcerers, I'd been tutored in the blade since childhood. Grimm obviously had not and had just as obviously been bothered by his own lack of skill. But he seemed to have put that frustration to good use. There was no hesitance in his movement now. Forms were designed to condition your body for fighting, but there was art to be found in the ritual as well. Grimm made it look effortless the same way a dancer would have. If I hadn't known he had once struggled, I would have thought the skill came naturally to him. It was beautiful to watch.

Seeing Grimm like that, alone and unbothered, completely in his element, made something reckless rise within me. Agnes was right, I could never let things be.

I drew back a step, half-hidden in the doorway. Then I sang a few words in the old language under my breath. It was just a tiny cantrip, but when I was finished, my hands trembled and my stomach felt hollow, even though I'd just eaten an apple. But the cost was worth it when I saw the spell begin to take effect.

A butterfly swooped into the pavilion and settled on Grimm's head. The bright blue of its wings stood out markedly against his pale hair. Next, a yellow butterfly drifted in and landed on Grimm's shoulder. Then a dragonfly settled on his back.

This continued for several moments without Grimm noticing anything was amiss, until a large orange butterfly landed on his hand. He paused mid lunge, the most delightful expression of confusion on his face as he realized he was inexplicably covered in tiny wings.

I chuckled, and Grimm immediately turned toward the sound, sword raised.

"Who's there?"

"Hullo, Grimm," I said, stepping into the light. "Lovely morning for a stroll, isn't it?"

Grimm's face reorganized itself at the sight of me, shifting from wariness to outright displeasure. "Did you cast something on me?" He sounded almost shocked, though I wasn't certain if it was me being capable of such a thing that surprised him, or just that I had dared cast something on him .

"It was only a passing fancy," I said, watching the butterflies on his shoulders flap their wings gently. They looked like dots of paint splattered on his dark coat. "No harm done."

Grimm's expression darkened further. "Get rid of them," he said.

It was the work of a moment to sing out a reversal, and I did so quickly. The winged things perched on Grimm rose up in a cloud and drifted away, back to the water lilies and meadow flowers outside. I frowned a little as they went. I hadn't intended to drop the spell so easily, but something in Grimm's tone had compelled my acquiescence.

"It's impolite to cast on someone without their knowledge," Grimm said. "And a bad idea to distract someone holding a blade."

"I'm not that worried. You were moving so slow I would have had plenty of time to defend myself." This wasn't actually true, but I was disgruntled by my own cooperation and found myself searching for sore spots to press against in retaliation.

"I was focusing on precision," Grimm said through gritted teeth.

"If you say so," I responded blithely. "Hey, we should spar sometime."

"We should not."

"Don't be that way." I smiled, as though I couldn't feel the hair's edge that Grimm's temper was balanced on. "You could use the practice."

Grimm's eyes flashed and his hand flexed—as though, for all his protests, he would have very much liked the chance to raise his blade against me. "Go jump in a lake, Loveage," he snapped. "I don't need your help."

The venom in Grimm's voice contrasting against the tameness of his words rendered the whole thing more amusing than threatening. But another, more insistent part of me seemed to say, Well, if that's what you want .

There was no lake, but there was another body of water conveniently close by.

I turned away from Grimm and walked out of the pavilion and onto the dock. The water stretched out before me, sun-dappled and serene in the cool morning air. It was a pretty sight, but I didn't pause to take it in. There was something I was meant to do.

I walked to the end of the dock and threw myself in.