The magic urges me toward the East Wing. I put my hand to the half-built turret and feel energy flowing through me, as if the land and I are one. The earth is suddenly illuminated. A series of lines appear in the ground like pathways on a map. One line leads far over the hills toward the workers’ camp. Another meanders through the woods to the chapel. A third snakes off into the vicinity of the old caves, where we first ventured into the realms. But it shines most brightly where I stand. Time has slowed. Light bleeds around the edges of the secret door. I feel its pull. I place my other hand against it, and my body is seized by a rush of energy.
Images whip through my mind too quickly for me to grab hold; only threads remain: Eugenia’s amulet tossed to my mother’s hands, black sands flying past craggy mountains, a tree of stark beauty.
I’m released suddenly, and I fall to the ground. The night is still again, save for the fluttery beating of my heart.
Dawn raises its alarm of pink. Already it creeps over the treetops, bringing a new morning, and a new me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NOW THAT SPRING SEEMS TO BE MORE THAN A FICKLE suitor’s promise, and the days are warming into a happy assurance that winter is on the run at last, Britain celebrates with a bounty of fairs. The morning after I’ve been to see Pippa, Nightwing and LeFarge herd us onto a train, and we chatter animatedly in the belly of the great steel dragon as it storms through the lush countryside, belching a long plume of thick black smoke that leaves cinders on our skirts and gloves. It takes some time for me to woo Felicity from her ill temper about last night, but I promise her we shall go into the realms tonight without fail, and all is forgiven. And once Felicity forgives me, Ann soon follows.
We disembark in a small town, and picnic baskets in tow, we amble along in the happy company of villagers, farmers, servants on holiday, excitable children, and men in search of work, coming at last to a large green, where the fair has been established.
The outdoor marketplace spreads over nearly a half mile. Each stall offers some new temptation—crusty loaves of bread, milk with the cream hard on top, delicate bonnets and shoes. We take it all in with longing, granting ourselves a taste of sharp cheddar or a peek into the looking glass when trying on a new scarf. Everyone has come in her Sunday best in the hopes of an afternoon’s worth of dancing and merriment. Even Nightwing allows herself to observe the jolly spectacle of a cockfight.
In one corner, several men form a line to hire out as blacksmiths or sheepshearers. There is even a ship’s captain who enlists young men as sailors, promising food and drink and the excitement of the sea. These bargains are struck with a signature, a handshake, and a penny given out as a token of the contract.
Others are here with the purpose of selecting livestock. They mill about the sheep and horse stalls, listening to the assurances of the traders.