Warrior Witch: Book Two, page 8
Her nose wrinkled. “Just a little proud, then?”
Doyle rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Crouched near the hearth, his finger shaped runes in the soot there.
The magic that favored the novice smelled like bread loaves. She could taste the yeast on the tip of her tongue. Marnie sniffed at it. “How long have you been studying for the priesthood?”
He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes downcast. “It’s my first year.”
“Beg your pardon, Brother,” Marnie said, “but your young man here doesn’t belong with the Cloth.”
The novice goggled at her. “Don’t say that!” The nostrils of his prominent nose flared.
“You belong at the academy, Mr. Bechtold,” she said. “The best priests are weak witches, with low connections to natural magics—no offense intended, Brother. Magic has feelings, Mr. Bechtold. What favors you doesn’t seem to like that you’ve been ignoring it.”
Brother Doyle grunted. “She has a point, Mr. Bechtold. This ward here is fueled by more than the Spirit Sidra. It’s what made it so powerful.”
“But I . . .” His mouth gaped like a fish, then shut with a snap. He yanked on his hair. “Brother, I swear I’m not trying to use my natural magics.”
Doyle looked over his shoulder at him. He tapped his nose. “It’ll be our little secret, Bechtold. Don’t panic. You’re still learning, after all. If you’re dead set on becoming a priest—”
“It’s the only way for me!” His hands formed into fists at his side. “I’m a masterling to the Bechtold estate. I am not a witch. I cannot be, or my grandfather will leave the estate to my cousins!”
Marnie frowned at him. “The academy would still do you good. Even if you are hell bent on ignoring natural magics, you’ll need to learn more about them first to successfully quiet them.”
He shook his head. “That’s not the way of the Cloth. If I go to the academy, I’ll bring disgrace on my family. I’ve a lot to make up for because of my uncle Alastor.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I just thought you deserved to know.” She tutted at him. “Really is a shame, though. You have a lot of potential. The magic that favors you feels enthusiastic.”
“There we are,” Doyle said, rising to his feet and dusting his hands off. The wood of the door shuddered, and the smell of citrus dissipated.
Bechtold rushed for the threshold, eager for freedom.
Marnie knew she should let the matter drop, but she stopped him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Denying the natural magics that favor you would be like walking around with your eyes covered, intentionally blinding yourself. The world will feel incomplete, colorless. I too once tried to quiet such things with lies to myself. I buried it under a blanket of my shame and fear. It was very unpleasant for me.”
“You should hear the Sophia out, Mr. Bechtold,” Doyle said. “You are currently in the presence of the greatest magic-user of our time. You’d be a fool to let such a chance slip through your fingers.”
Marnie blushed.
The novice made a derisive noise in his throat. “You approve of natural magics, Brother?”
“Approve is not the word I would use. Organic magic is not without its risks.” Doyle pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “I’ll say I do not find them to be inherently evil, in and of themselves, and the pursuit of knowledge is one of the Cloth’s sacred tenets, as valued as faith in God and the preservation of family. That’s what you would be doing at the academy—pursuing knowledge.”
Bechtold stared at her for a time. Then his mouth sagged into a frown. He abandoned the room without a word.
Ren stood in the sitting room with his arms folded, smoking a pipe when Marnie joined him. “All set?” he asked.
“Mr. Bechtold is free to come and go once more, and the building is no worse for wear,” she said, eyeing his pipe with longing. It had been a rough day of spinning formulas and configuring equipment. “Is that tobacco from Brother Doyle’s family farm?”
“It is.”
She crossed to him, wetting her lips. “If we are going to be friends, then I think it best we are honest with each other in all things.”
His brow furrowed. “Of course?”
“Friends should also share, I think.” She took his pipe from him, grinning at the surprise on his face. “No one does tobacco better, in my humble opinion, than Doyle’s family.” She puffed on the mouthpiece, smoke rolling off her lips.
Ren chuckled, green eyes sparkling. “You continue to surprise me.”
“It’s my specialty,” she quipped, “shocking priests.” She took another long drag, then returned it, blowing a white fog out the corner of her mouth.
“Care to accompany me on a walk?” He offered his arm.
Her gaze dropped to her feet. “About that . . . I think we should talk first. I didn’t mean to, Ren, but I fear I’ve accidentally led you astray. The emperor and I—”
His face fell, stealing the light from his bright green eyes. “You don’t need to explain. I overheard some of your earlier conversation with your mother.”
It surprised her how much his disappointment affected her. Marnie’s fingers went to her hair, searching for a loose bit to play with, but her mother’s work was too effective. Left with no other choice, she intentionally pulled free several strands, watching her fingers wind into the curl. “I’m so sorry, Ren. I never meant to confuse things between us. Our partnership is so new, and I fear I’ve already let you down.”
“I’m no stranger to the broken heart, Marnie. I give mine away too freely,” he teased.
“And break many others, I’d wager.” Bishop Ren Boaz was a flirt, she realized. A big flirt. It altered her perception of his compliments, his touches, made all of them seem less intimate, less intimidating. “You haven’t been on the island long, but I suspect there are already a good many broken hearts with your name on them.”
He gasped in mock horror. “There are not . . . many of them, that is.” He blew a ring of smoke, the corner of his lips turning up coyly. “Either way, it’s not your fault I heard exactly what I wanted to hear the last time we were in this room. I’ve a bad habit of that. Come on a walk with me, Marnie. As my friend.” This time when he proffered his arm, she took it with enthusiasm.
***
The park across the street was full of spitting fountains sculpted into spirit runes. Ren guided Marnie along a grassy pathway that knotted around a bed of vibrant flowers, leading them to the first fountain, Arseno’s harp. Water pooled in a white stone basin that was coated in vines and dotted with lily pads.
“The gardens here aren’t as impressive as those you have at the manor, I’m sure, but . . .” He leaned forward and inhaled deeply through his nose. “The scent of magic is something else.”
“You smell magics?”
“Just like you.” He sat on the edge of the fountain. “Go on. See for yourself. The magic that favors these lily pads reminds me of yours, actually.”
She leaned forward and breathed deep. There was a sweet peppery scent there. She tasted it on her tongue. “Like me, you say? I’ve never been able to smell my own organic magics.”
“May I?” he asked. She placed the palm of her hand in his. His thumb roved, stirring up the magic on her skin. She could hear it humming. He lowered his nose to her wrist and inhaled steadily. “Yes, very similar. It’s quite pleasant.”
When he released her, she sniffed at her wrist and shrugged. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” She cocked a crooked grin. “Look at you, dabbling with natural magics.”
“I don’t have to use them to enjoy the way they smell . . . the way they make me feel.”
Marnie was no longer certain they were talking about magics. She worried her lip. “Ren, about before. I’d hate myself if I damaged your relationship with Bran—Lord LaFontaine. He named you as one of the only priests he trusts. I truly feel dreadful about the whole thing.”
He chuckled. It was a wholesome, masculine sound, as infectious as his handsome smile. “Don’t be forlorn. I’m not so fragile, Marnie, but if we’re being honest and sharing things as friends do, you must know my interest in you remains unaffected.” He rose up to stand beside her, his height impressive.
The declaration was flattering. It colored her skin in a dusky hue. “You’re my new friend, and I’m glad for it.” She wove her arm through his, tugging him onward toward further exploration. “But I have very, very strong feelings for—”
“I know, and I’m comfortable with that. Thank you for being honest with me, but you don’t have to explain.” They strolled into a thicket of flowered trees. “I’d like you to consider spending time with me, frequently and publicly.”
“People will think we’re courting.”
“Yes, they will.” He waggled his brow at her in a suggestive way that made Marnie laugh.
“There is nothing wrong with a competitive spirit, I suppose, but I assure you I won’t change my mind or the nature of our relationship. It would be a foolhardy endeavor, and I’m just fond enough of you that I wouldn’t enjoy hurting your feelings.”
“Maybe I won’t change your mind. Regardless, we will be seen together. Loreley’s witches and priests will witness the Cloth’s bishop publicly treating a valued magic user with care and kindness—not flippantly, but as someone desirable and worth partnering with, worth treating respectfully. It will serve witches better than the comments about your affair with the emperor. Would that not also better relationships between our two communities?”
“Then your interest in me is political?”
“To a degree,” Ren said. “Can’t it be both?” He gave her a winning smile.
It was inspiring enough that she felt a grin pulling at her lips in response. “I’m not against the idea of bringing the Church and witches together in more hospitable ways. A great deal of healing is needed there, but it would be naïve to think treating me any sort of way would excuse years of abuses by the Cloth.”
“Years of abuses from a group of ancient witches begot years of new abuses by an old order who enslaved them”—he gestured as he spoke, spinning his free hand in the air—“leading to a retaliation of abuses from witches and the rise of the Cloth . . . It all must end somewhere. Why not with us?”
Marnie stopped abruptly. Her eyes searched his. “What do you get out of all this? At the moment, you’re not one of the abused. You’re one of the powerful. To help the abused, you risk losing a little of that power. Your ideas won’t be popular amongst the Cloth.”
“It is the right thing to do, is it not? My mother was a witch. She deserved better. I could make it better for future mothers, and there are more likeminded people amongst the Cloth than you realize. You’ve met Brother Doyle. He is not so uncommon. Do not let your own prejudices cloud your discernment.”
Doubt had her trapping her lip between her teeth. “I want to believe you, Ren, but you make it all seem too good to be true. You are an ambitious priest. You’d have to be to make bishop so young, and unfortunately you are a politician. So, this cannot be all you want . . .”
He crossed his arms, shifting his weight. Ren chewed on his words a moment. “Academic witches have a wealth of magical knowledge, spiritual as well as natural, more ancient than the Cloth’s. Besides all that, I seek to develop the Church’s academic expertise, and my own along with it. Expanding that successfully will be my legacy as bishop.”
“And that is all? All magic users crave the growth of knowledge. I can sympathize with that. The academy would enjoy sharing it, as long as it wasn’t somehow twisted and used against them as is the Cloth’s habit.”
He linked their fingers and walked on, bringing her along behind him. “I could talk all day of the other benefits of us appearing united, Marnie. Most priests adore a good debate. I’m one of them, so in addition, I get to continue enjoying the company of a lovely, argumentative witch.” He stopped to smell an orchid, a flower which did not produce a scent, motioning her to do the same.
She bent beside him. The magic on the white petals smelled like chocolates.
“And maybe, just maybe,” he said, winking at her, “if I play my cards right, the argumentative witch will decide I’m a better match for her. A safer and more well-suited match. The selfish young man still deep inside me somewhere wants that.” He raised his free hand in pledge when she started to speak. “And that is all of it, I swear.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly would you do with me in public?”
“What any smitten gentleman does with the source of his affection.” His thumb roved over her knuckles, and his lips brushed her cheek in demonstration. “And then we allow the public to draw their own conclusions.”
He smelled like . . . nothing. It unsettled her, tying her belly in knots. “What I said about my relationship with Lord Bran—”
“You’ve been quite plain about that. It’s my fault for getting carried away and making assumptions about the unrestrained nature of witches.”
“I’m not free with myself like other witches. I won’t kiss you, and for the love of God, you can’t feed into any rumors that we are courting or intend to marry. It wouldn’t be right. If the emperor did something similar with a girl, even for the noblest of reasons, I would be beside myself. He would not be safe from me . . . neither would she for that matter.”
“God save them both, should such an impossible thing ever happen.” He chortled, his impressive smile on full display. “I do not think that sort of public exhibition will be necessary. You may keep your lips to yourself. But should you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“Yes, but should such a thing happen and you were to decide you’d like to embrace your witchier nature and do away with exclusivity in your romantic pursuits, please know you have my permission and your mother’s enthusiastic approval.”
“She’s not usually so agreeable.” Marnie frowned. “But you’ve made a compelling point. Society needs to learn how to treat witches with respect, and demonstration will likely be the best teacher.” She extended her mechanical hand to him. “So it looks like we have a deal, Ren.”
They shook on it, then the clouds overhead darkened, and rain surprised them both. Lightning lit the sky. They ran for cover, giggling like school children, and when Ren removed his stole and used it to shield her, Marnie was certain they looked exactly like a courting couple.
***
The following morning brought to the manor a small crowd of surprise visitors. Two notes arrived only moments before they did, so the staff bustled about excitedly to prepare for them, clearing dust, fluffing pillows, making refreshments.
Marnie re-read the first letter delivered by the postman.
Your assistance is needed again. Brother Doyle and myself will arrive just after breakfast. Will explain in full then. Ren.
She read the second note again, this one from her cousin—a woman she still had sour feelings for, despite what Jack had said about her.
Don’t receive the priests without me. Juliet.
Curious and a little baffled, Marnie awaited them at the door in her leather alchemy apron alongside the butler and her mother. If they weren’t going to give her proper notice, they would have to take her covered in stains and smelling like burnt hair—she’d had a mishap that morning with a burner. Ren and Brother Doyle arrived at the manor first in a steam carriage, with Juliet Becker not far behind.
Men of the Cloth liked a good debate, Ren had said, but neither the bishop nor Doyle appeared to be enjoying themselves as they walked up the stone path. Ren and the priest shared a quiet, hurried conversation, disagreeing about something. The bishop’s jaw was clenched, and Doyle’s cheeks flushed. Paul, the butler, held the door for them. Juliet entered last, moving with the energy of a storm, her eyes as gray as rainy nimbus clouds. Her dress matched the silver in her gaze. Marnie and Juliet shared a frown. They tolerated one another only at Jack’s insistence, exchanging their usual terse greeting whenever Juliet came to the house to have tea or coffee with Annette—or a balm for lice. Marnie smirked at that particular memory.
Lady Becker welcomed their guests, curtsying elegantly in a floral shift. She may have been born a kitchen servant, but no one could deny she embodied ladyship quite naturally. The butler ushered them all into the drawing room.
Marnie and her cousin took the nearest armchairs. Lady Becker joined the men of the Cloth on one of the sofas. A sleek cart, clockwork wheels churning, slid into the center of the room full of refreshments: tea, coffee, a pitcher of cucumber water, and assorted chopped fruit. Marnie helped herself to a handful of sliced Achean apples.
Juliet’s intense stare suggested she planned to enact her will over the room with a look, fingers digging into the armrests. A wealthy Becker, favored by most, Juliet had to be unaccustomed to not getting whatever she wished, and it was clear by the stubborn set of Ren’s jaw and the deepening lines around his mouth that the bishop did not intend to oblige her. Marnie’s skin prickled as the silence grew pregnant in the room.
Ren removed a handwritten envelope of fine paper from a pocket inside his silver stole. The seal on it, a prancing red-horned ram, smelled like orange rinds. Curious, Marnie sniffed at the air.
The bishop noticed and smiled. “It has a strong ward. I was impressed too.” He lifted the envelope, shaking it lightly. “This letter is the reason we are here, Sophia. There’s an armband in it for you if you’ll help us get it to its destination.”
Juliet scowled, her pretty face puckering. “There’s an armband in it from me if you don’t help them. That letter was written by a cur who brutalized his wife. You can’t help them, cousin.”
The familial term was spoken with a touch of respect that caught Marnie off guard.
“Hear me out,” Ren pleaded. “I won’t argue that Master Young has behaved like a mongrel. I detest what he’s done, but now I have a husband who wishes to make amends with his wife and a collection of old fashioned Stejin priests ready to back him. I was hoping you’d help us deliver his pleas to Lady Young. Help convince her to speak with him. I’ll supervise the meeting personally. His priest assures me he is earnest in his desire to change and in his love for his wife, but I’d like to witness his resolve for myself before any further action is taken.”
