Chapter One
Josette
It all happens in a split second. My ankle twists, my foot slips out of its slipper, and my big toe plows into the stone step. A blinding pain explodes through my foot. I bite back a curse as the bell tower releases twelves deep bellows that echo through the empty square.
Midnight.
A legion of dark clouds hangs low over the island city of Cara, snuffing out the moon and casting down a thick cloak of black. Only the bluish light of the alchemy streetlamps pushes back against the darkness, trying to hold the line until dawn. Little pink petals from the cherry blossoms that line the square litter the cobblestone streets, drowned and trampled from the evening’s storm. It is not a welcoming night to be out.
I might rush on, leaving the shoe behind in my haste so some handsome prince can stumble across it, track me down, and ask for my hand in marriage. But I’m no damsel and this is no fairytale. I cram my foot back into the heeled slipper, my toe still throbbing something fierce, hoist up the ridiculous skirts of my gown, and continue my charge up the stairs.
I still can’t believe my mother put me in this dress. It’s truly obscene—a pink so bright, so lurid that it couldn’t possibly exist in nature unless it was marking some noxious creature, a warning to all predators to BEWARE. Not to mention that its bustle is big enough to seat two for tea or that it’s adorned with an inordinate amount of lace, ruffles, and tiny rosettes. The neckline slopes off my shoulders, exposing my ample chest (though, there really is no hiding it) and leaves my arms to be covered by my matching evening gloves. My jewelry is sparse, just diamond studs in my ears, my black velvet choker with the starburst charm at my throat, and a few sparkling pins in my golden hair.
The gown isn’t even in fashion, but that is the point. The dress is an experiment of my mother’s, you see. She likes to run these experiments every so often to see if I have enough influence to make such a dress the fashion. Honestly, I hope I don’t. Every dance, every dinner party would be like looking into the sun for too long, the whole city will go blind from the fluorescently colored gowns. And the poor women who’d have to don them wouldn’t be able to rest their tired feet, for there is no chair, sofa, or chaise in existence that could accommodate such an extravagant bustle—I would know; I haven’t sat down all night. Mother designed this bustle to be stiff and unpliable, unlike traditional bustles that fold in on themselves like accordions when you sat. However, if the gown did take high society by storm, they just might start making specialty chairs and sofas to accommodate the outrageous bustle. A whole line of furniture inspired by my garish gown at the Governor’s Ball. Wouldn’t that make Mother crow?
I am supposed to care about having influence. And I do—just not over fashion. Mother doesn’t really care about the latest dress trends either. She says it’s just an easy needle to gauge my ranking. We both have ambitious dreams for me.
A hand grabs my elbow.
“Josette, slow down. You’ll break your neck,” Father admonishes. He cuts quite the dashing figure in his charcoal frock coat, a black tuxedo with tails beneath it, both finely tailored to his tall, lithe frame. A top hat sits atop a crown of salt and pepper hair, a mustache to match bristling under his nose. He has tucked his walking stick neatly under one arm.
“Just a toe and I’ve already done that,” I respond but do reduce my pace. It’s my excitement, it’s gotten the best of me. While we were at the Governor’s Ball, Father received a message that he was urgently needed at the Library of Keeping. He could have put me in a carriage and sent me home, but he approves of my fascination with magic, so he has permitted me to accompany him. Unlike the Library of Reading or the Library of Amusement, the Library of Keeping is not open to the public. In fact, only very few people ever get to browse its shelves, and tonight I am to be one of them.
Cara is one of the most magnificent cities in the world. It boasts some of the greatest universities, art, and architecture. Grand stone buildings, patina domes on our government buildings, golden spires on our temples. Decorative portals with arches to defy gravity and bridges that stretch physics to their limits. The Cara City Courthouse—where the Library of Keeping is housed—is no exception. A mastery of stone work, it sits atop a flight of stone steps, colossal columns supporting a five-story portico, and an ancient bronze dome turned green over the centuries.
An alchemy lantern hangs above the entrance, casting a ghostly glow. However, the windows are dark and the doors locked. “Someone should have been here to meet us,” Father frowns.
Wind gusts, sending a wave of gooseflesh careening across my exposed skin, a chill shuddering through me. I regret leaving my wrap behind in my haste.
It’s not until he’s about to knock again that we hear footsteps and see the faint light of a lantern.
I expect the lamp to belong to a security guard, but it’s a magician in long, cobalt blue robes and a matching muffin hat. He’s short and serious-faced—of course, all magic types are. You’d think having magic and being able to do a million impossible things would bring one joy. It would have brought me so much joy. Even now, part of me still can’t quite believe that I don’t have magic. As a little girl I had been so certain I was destined to be a sorceress; there wasn’t a doubt in my mind. Neither of my parents are magic workers, but that doesn’t matter; there is no evidence that magic is hereditary. Then the examiners came to my school when I was eight and declared that I possessed no magical ability. To say I was inconsolable would be an understatement. I howled like a wounded beast. Refused to eat, to leave my room. It wasn’t pretty. Then I got it into my mind that I did have magic and set about to prove the examiners wrong. My mother always says I inherited my father’s stubbornness, and he says that I inherited hers. We are a stubborn family, I guess. I began reading about magical theory and memorizing the certified magical sigils. But as the years went by, there was no denying it; I had no magic. I accepted it and moved on.
Mostly.
“Secretary Kissling?” the magician asks, but he’s side-eyeing me.
Father just nods. “And my daughter, Josette. She will be accompanying me.”
The magician looks unsure about my presence, but he’s not about to contradict the Secretary of Order. He locks the door behind us then leads us down a long hallway, the chandeliers dark above us. My heels click loudly against the marble floors and echo down the empty halls. My toe still throbs, but I pay it little mind. This all feels so secretive and exciting—urgent messages, dark halls, nervous magicians. All I know is that Father was summoned because something was wrong with a book. Even he does not know more than that.
The magician guides us to a well-lit chamber. Conversation halts and all eyes turn to us upon our entrance. The room is finely furnished with a large mahogany desk and several supple leather chairs, though none of the gathered officials take advantage of them. None bother to hide their surprise—or disapproval—at my presence either. Or maybe it’s just my ostentatious gown they are frowning at.
“Secretary Kissling, sorry to pull you way from your evening, sir,” a tall Black woman apologizes. She dresses in trousers, a waistcoat, and jacket, all in the deep verde of a summer forest. A delicate pair of reading glasses dangles from a chain around her neck. Her gray hair sits atop her head in a voluptuous bun. She does not smile. By the heavy frown lines around her mouth, I doubt she ever does.
“Warden Cordova.” He shakes her hand.
“Good to see you again, Rupert,” a portly man says. I’ve never met him, but I recognize him nonetheless. Magician Leon Dimitri, head of the Council of Magic and magical advisor to Prime Minister Davia Navarro. He essentially oversees the regulation of magic as well as the creation of new magic, and has been behind several historical magical advances—book magic just being the latest. He dons the black robes of a magician of the highest ranking. “This is my associate, Dorian Blackstone.”
My eyes go wide at the name. I’ve read all about Dorian Blackstone. He is the youngest and most powerful magician the world has seen in at least a century. Rumor is that his magic emerged at age four when he accidentally conjured a tornado by waving pinwheel about during a summer solstice celebration. By age eight, when most kids are getting tested for magic, he was already attending the University of Sorcery and Alchemy (affectionately known as S&A) right here in Cara. At twelve he graduated, and by fourteen he had earned his black robes. At sixteen he was elected to the Council, their youngest member on record. The university and the Council try to keep his work top secret, but it is whispered that he’s experimenting with magical transportation and making more progress on the subject in his short years than other magicians have in decades. He’s only nineteen.
Nineteen but looks even younger. Dorian is petite—only a few inches taller than me and as slim as a sapling—certainly not the vessel you’d expect to house such enormous talent. Most magicians wear their robes loose and flowing, but Dorian has tailored them to his lithe body. It’s a good thing too, or else he’d look like a small child playing dress up. His hair is black, wavy, and deeply parted to one side. His eyes are a blue so deep and dark that they nearly appear black as well. His face is pleasing, a sort of forgettable handsome, and I suddenly feel an unexpected rush of sympathy for him.
Mother often tells me that I am pretty, but that pretty is a dime a dozen in the circles we run in—and she’s not wrong. My lips are not thin, nor are they full. My nose is just a nose, there is nothing button-esque or hawkish about it. My eyes are the color of brown sugar and only stand out because I have a small wine-colored birthmark at the corner of my right eye. It is the size of a button on a pair of dainty gloves. I have longed wished that it was the shape of a star or crescent moon or even a pineapple, anything at all to make it special, but alas, it’s just a small splat of red, nothing more than an oversized freckle. In other words, I’m a forgettable pretty.
“A pleasure,” Father says formally, shaking each of their hands. “My daughter, Josette. She was at the Governor’s Ball with me when the message arrived.”
Dorian offers me a smile. It’s a memorable smile, and I find myself returning it.
“Sorry to spoil your evening,” Magician Dimitri apologizes to me. It’s the kind of apology made out of politeness and not sincerity.
“You haven’t. Quite to the contrary, you’ve made my evening,” I assure him.
“My daughter has made a study of magical theory, even though she is not a magic worker,” Father says proudly.
“Not many without the talent bother,” Dimitri tells me.
“Only one more reason my daughter stands out from the many,” Father boasts.
“Perhaps every student should be taught a basic magical education, along with their reading, writing, and arithmetic,” Dorian ponders.
Dimitri lets out a guffaw of surprise. “In all the heavens, why?”
“Non-magic workers have long aided magicians and vice versa. Doctors and healers often consult each other. Chemists work alongside alchemists. Book magic wouldn’t be possible without the bookists. Think at all the advances we could make if non-magic workers aided with magical theory, formulas, new sigils, and such.” He speaks as if Dimitri is his equal and not as if forty years lie between them. It makes him seem much older and . . . not larger necessarily, but somehow taking up more space. Mother has the same quality. Her presence can fill a room. She’s tried teaching me, but I’m afraid it’s a quality that might not be teachable. “Josette, what do think?”
A smile rises to my lips. I should be offended that he used by given name without invitation, but I like that he has asked for my opinion. Magicians have a tendency to look down on us non-magic workers. “I don’t see why we couldn’t. Imagine theoretical physicists working on transportation magic. Meteorologists and geologists studying elemental magic. Just because they can’t practice magic, does not mean they cannot understand it or even expand it.”
“Is that what you wish to do? Work alongside magic?” Dorian asks.
I want to be a bookist. While my parents encourage my interest in magic, they have made it quite clear that becoming a bookist would be an admirable hobby, but not a career.
“When she’s a Member of Parliament, she will be writing policy on it. You just wait,” Father boasts proudly. University of Cara to study law and political science. Perhaps a stint in local government before a place in Parliament, and if my parents have their way—which they usually do—I will become Prime Minister at some date to be determined later.
“Yet another reason non-magic workers should learn magic,” Dorian says. “If they are to regulate it, they should understand it.”
“The Council regulates magic,” Dimitri snaps.
“In accordance to the laws of the United Provinces,” I can’t help from adding, a sweet smile on my face.
Dimitri’s smile, on the other hand, is rather sour. “Chemists, bookists . . . non-magic workers will never understand magic, not like magicians do.”
I frown. “That’s like saying a person can’t understand music because they are not a musician. Or that a diner cannot not enjoy a soufflé because they are not a chef.”
“You’ve gone from chemistry and physics to music and food? I do not think you are helping your cause any,” he laughs.
“And you have yet to mount a logical argument as to why non-magic workers can’t contribute to the advancement of magic. You declaring something true does not make it so.”
Father clears his throat. “Perhaps we can bookmark this debate for another time. We have more pressing matters at hand. Where is the book? I’d like to see it.”
“It’s in the Library, of course,” the warden says. “The books never leave the Library.”
“I can show you the way,” Dimitri offers, opening a door on the other side of the room. I go to follow the group, but the magician stops me. “Your daughter can wait here,” he tells Father.
I’ve had about all I can take of this man. He is pompous, pretentious, patronizing, and I’m just about to tell him so when Father speaks up.
“She comes with us.”
“The Library of Keeping is not the place for a child.”
A child?! I am not a child!
“Also, this is a matter of the utmost discretion,” he continues.
“She is coming with us,” Father states firmly. He is used to giving the orders, not taking them—unless they are from the Prime Minister herself, of course. This is perhaps a once in a life time opportunity to learn and observe and be in a room few are privy to and interact with important people; my father does not want me to miss out.
The Council Leader’s face is set as if he’s preparing for a battle, but suddenly he acquiesces. “As you wish.” But I see the hard resentment in his dark eyes and the filing away of a grudge.
Father doesn’t miss it either, but he gives the magician a nod of appreciation. Father is a master of playing politics, emotions always in-check. Despite my parents’ plans for me, I often wonder if I have the temperament for such games.
We are led into another hall, the lights dimmed. The warden unlocks a door to a large, spiraling staircase of checkered black and white and polished oak. Without speaking, we descend. Down, down, down, as if we’re going all the way to the center of the earth. We’re not, sadly—I would very much like to visit the center of the earth. We are, however, well underground.
Dorian offers me his arm to ensure I don’t lose my footing. I gladly accept after my earlier debacle.
“I think we could be quite good friends, you and I,” he announces in a conspiratorial tone.
“Oh?”
“We already have a love for magic and challenging authority figures in common. I imagine critiquing music and food as well.” He lowers his voice a bit more. “And I would very much be interested in your thoughts on magic. Perhaps we can meet for tea or dinner some time?”
The most powerful magician in the world wants to meet me for tea to talk about magic?! Of course I say, “Yes!” My voice echoes down the stairwell, earning an annoyed glance from both Dimitri and Father. I lower my voice. “I mean, I would like that very much. Is there a day next week when you might be free?” Some might say my forwardness is unattractive. I find it effective.
“There is a little bakery just off campus, The Bailey Street Bakery. Exquisite pastries. No music, though the Uni district has several talented street musicians. Saturday evening? Eight?”
I open my mouth to say, It’s a date, but we have reached the small chamber at the bottoms of the stairs and the Warden gives the command, “Unlock the door.”
A guard in a gray uniform and a magician in cobalt robes safeguard a set of large, thick wooden doors. The words The Library of Keeping are carved into the stone above them. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as my entire body breaks out into gooseflesh.
The Library is under physical as well as magical protection, and it takes both the guard and the magician to unlock it. First, the magician draws a series of complicated sigils with his finger on the door. I see no more than a shimmer of magic with each stroke. Then the guard takes two large brass keys off his belt, sticks on in each of the doors and turns them at the same time. I hear a click and the doors slowly swing open.
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