Nightingale (The Sensitives)

11





The waiting is the worst.

My feet leave a worn trail in the plush carpet as I pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. All night, sleep has eluded me, and instead of tossing and turning, I decided to get up and search for a way to fix this mess.

So far, the best I have is to send Miss Tully away. I’ll beg Mother for mercy on Kyra and Oliver’s behalf. After all, I suggested going to the club. Everything that happened is my fault and I must accept responsibility. She has to forgive Oliver. He’s completely innocent in all of this.

However, the problem with this plan is there’s nothing to stop the State from arresting Miss Tully again. And it doesn’t explain why Kyra didn’t notify the other guards.

I curl into the window seat and rest my head on my knees as I watch the moon sink lower in the sky. There has to be a solution. I only hope I can find it soon.


Annalise pokes me in the rib. “You’re going to be late.”

I blink and stretch. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

“For what?” I ask, stalling for time. If Mother plans on punishing me, I’m in no hurry.

My sister-in-law huffs and I prepare myself for what’s coming next.

“Everyone is waiting for you.”

My ears burn. Is this what Mother has planned? A public reprimand? I suppose it makes sense, considering what I did. But…

If she’s going to do that to me, what will she do to Kyra? I press my lips together and try to still my mind. There’s no way I’m going to show Annalise I’m scared.

“Stop stalling,” Annalise orders. Breakfast sits on the coffee table, but I don’t want to eat it. Not with my stomach flip-flopping. Still, I march across the room and make a show of nibbling a piece of fruit and pushing things around on the plate until Annalise tells me to get dressed. She doesn’t mention what happened or give any clue about what my fate may be.

It doesn’t make me feel any better.

Dawson meets us in the foyer and my two guards lead me, the condemned, to my fate.

The State building is just as crowded as yesterday with members of the Eastern Society still outnumbering all others. Today, everyone openly gawks at me and I wish I could shrink away and hide. A few people shake their heads as I pass, and one woman even clucks her tongue. When I hesitate to move into the rotunda toward the stairs, Annalise latches onto my arm and drags me forward.

Halfway across the vast space, Oliver joins our group and Kyra slinks up behind him. Her curls are pulled tightly away from her face and bags line her eyes. She flinches at the noise around us and appears as if she may faint.

Annalise motions for us to follow her up the sweeping staircase to the second floor toward the State offices. A few steps from the top, my knees threaten to buckle and I grasp the railing to keep from falling.

Oliver offers me his hand. Unlike Kyra and me, he looks well-rested and calm. “Are you unwell?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. Just…” Scared? Terrified? Worried my Mother is going to light me on fire and lock me back in my bedroom? “Tired. I didn’t sleep.”

Oliver’s muscular arm surrounds my waist and I let myself go limp against him. When Annalise glances back at us, she frowns, but doesn’t tell him to let go.

“You can lean on me,” he says gently, before whispering something to Kyra. She smiles weakly and trudges ahead of us.

How is this man so calm when he knows what Mother is capable of? Does he really believe her to be benevolent?

We continue down a long hallway until Dawson stops before an ordinary wooden door. A knot forms in my stomach and sweat dampens my collar.

Without flourish, he turns the knob and steps aside. To my surprise, he says, “Your office.”

I ogle the room. A shaggy, steel gray carpet covers the floor and someone’s arranged wingchairs and a sofa before the fireplace. The desk looks strong and sturdy against the warm green walls, but not at all masculine.

“This is mine?”

Annalise smiles. “It is. My office is next door. Callum’s is a few doors down. And Malin’s is in the far wing with the other top officials, but it’s only a short distance.”

I run my hand over the smooth glass surface of the desk. This is my punishment? To have an office and come to work every day? Kyra stands in the doorway looking stunned. Obviously, this isn’t what she was expecting either.

No one has told me my placement yet, and as much as I want agriculture, if Mother’s punishment is to lock me away behind a desk, I can live with that. It’s better than the alternatives. “What exactly am I to do?”

Oliver scrolls through his wristlet. “Today, you will learn the real history of our Society. Tomorrow, Dawson will work with you on basic Defense castings. The following day—”

I hold my hands up. “Slow down. I’m doing more school? I finished my assessment, remember?”

“Malin feels your education is lacking,” Annalise answers. I try not to laugh. Of course it’s lacking; no one has told me anything about the witch world.

“Great!” I say, a little too enthusiastically. If Mother thought she was punishing me, she doesn’t know a thing about me. There’s nothing I love more than school. “Where do we start?”


The Light witches lied. I am not a failure.

Oliver, who I’m beginning to suspect is more than just good-looking muscle, and I have been making our way through the State’s archives for the past couple of hours. So far, I’ve searched through ancient texts detailing the rise of the United States, firsthand accounts of the Long Winter, and even Caitlin’s private diaries (those weren’t as interesting as I had hoped). All without my tablet or wristlet. Just me reaching out with my mind, retrieving objects.

It’s so much better than anything I tried to learn at Summer Hill.

Oliver hands me a plate of food. My mouth waters in anticipation and my stomach growls. “I’m starving,” I say.

He laughs. “Apparently.”

As much as I want to shovel the green beans and rice into my mouth, I refrain. I can’t forget protocol now that I’m working in the State offices.

“What do you know of our magic?” Oliver asks between mouthfuls of food.

“Only that Dark witches create out of fear and Light witches create out of hope,” I say.

Oliver leans against the edge of my desk. “That’s a simplified version.” He sets his plate aside and with his fingers, he draws an invisible image in the air and blows into the empty space. A glowing circle, divided into two halves takes shape between us. “This is magic, Lark. The Light and the Dark. Two halves of a whole.”

He slides off the desk and walks toward me. “It’s true that Dark magic is enhanced by fear and negative energy while Light magic needs positive energy to thrive. But the fact is, the world needs both.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“How about this: Light witches can create and mend, that’s why they’re healers and farmers. But in order to farm the land, old plants need to die, and storms need to roll through and water the land. Everything that is created must be destroyed so the cycle can repeat.

“It doesn’t mean a Dark witch can’t farm or learn healing. Humans can after all. But it doesn’t come naturally to us and we’d be about as good at it as a human.”

“So what are we good at? Causing destruction?”

Oliver nods his head, as if he’d been waiting for this question. “We are better at those types of things, but again, if a Light witch wanted, they could tap that energy. In fact, you’ve seen that with Eamon.” Chills run up my spine at the mention of that name.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Not my favorite person.” I shrug. “What were you saying about magic?”

Oliver waves his hand and one side of the circle turns white, the other black. “Magic is simply the ability to use the energy of nature. That’s it.”

“And we pull the bad energy?”

“Bad is a relative term. Death, fear, destruction are real things that would exist whether we used them to our advantage or not.”

“But I create destruction.”

He wags a finger at me. “You can do so much more with your magic. Like transport, or locate objects, or turn on the lights in a room.” He smiles at me. “Just because your energy is founded in Darkness, doesn’t mean you’re evil.”

“But the more miserable people are, the more magical I seem to be. I need pain and hurt.”

“No you don’t.” He holds his hands out, palm side up. “We can be happy and still draw on the darker aspects of life. It doesn’t have to consume us or make us bitter.”

I consider his words. “Then why does everyone think I’m going to go crazy on my birthday?”

“You’re not. That’s what the Light witches want you to believe.”

“I am. Even Mother is concerned. It’s why she had me in the restraint when I first arrived.”

Oliver points at my new wristlet. “Malin wouldn’t give you that if she didn’t feel you deserved it.”

I press my tongue against the back of my teeth. All day, Oliver has been answering my questions in a way no one other than Bethina has. I cock my head to the side, debating whether or not to voice my next one.

My guard sits on top of my desk, his long legs braced against the ground. His chin length brown hair curls slightly at the ends. He’s handsome in a quirky, intellectual way. There’s a sweetness about him, or maybe an innocence, that seems out of place amongst the other Dark witches I know, like Mother and Annalise.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Oliver answers.

“The curse. That has nothing to do with what kind of magic I have, does it?”

He stands up. “You’re worried about your birthday, aren’t you?”

“I’m worried about what I’m going to become on my birthday.” And whether or not I’m going to actually try to kill Beck.

Oliver shifts and avoids my gaze. “Your whole family has been mixed. Look at Malin and Callum. She’s Dark, one-hundred percent, despite being mixed. Her attempts at Light magic have been disastrous. And Callum is the same, but opposite. He’s a Light witch. Neither of them are crazy. You’ll be Dark, but I doubt you’ll be crazy.”

“Have you met my brother? He is crazy. And slightly evil.” The memory of Callum on the train platform, laughing at my fear, is still seared in my head.

Oliver grins. “Callum…yeah…he’s not my favorite person, but don’t ever repeat that. Annalise would flay me.” He winks. “But anyone can be evil. It has nothing to do with being Light or Dark.”

“Just like being mixed has nothing to do with the curse?”

Oliver blows out a long breath of air and runs his hand over the back of his head. “It doesn’t and I’m not sure how it works. Malin’s childhood is a bit of a mystery to me.” He collects my empty plate and dumps it in the trash. “To be honest, I assumed she always hated the Light witches, and that the source of the feud was years and years of a family grudge.”

I nod. “Do you hate them?”

My guard fidgets with a strange cylinder I pulled from the archives and left lying on the desk. He keeps his back to me. “My job is to protect you. If that means hurting, or even killing, Light witches, then I’ll do it.”

“Why?”

He turns around slowly. Conflict clouds his eyes. “It’s my job.” With a snap of his fingers, Oliver smiles and says, “Now back to work.”

Even though he answered my questions, I can tell talking about my family makes Oliver uncomfortable.

He taps an antique book lying on the sofa. “Can you decipher this?”

“What do you think?” I sass. Earlier in the afternoon, Oliver taught me to center myself and focus my thoughts. While it was frustrating and difficult at first, the rush of energy flooding my system now intoxicates me and I giggle as I snap my fingers. Invisible magic sparks from the tips and the old book flips open without me touching it.

“What do you want me to find?” I ask.

“What secret alliance did Charles make?” Oliver has resumed his perch on the edge of my desk. His shoes lightly tap against the front.

I focus on the book and channel my energy. With a wave of my hand, old-fashioned words appear on the far wall. Before I can stop myself, I clap my hands in satisfaction. Retrieving physical objects by imagining them in my mind and making them appear from thin air is much easier than uncovering abstract ideas and information. But this…this was surprisingly easy.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Oliver chides. “You have no idea what any of it means.”

A scowl forms on my face. He’s right. It’s like reading a code you half-understand.

“Translate it,” my guard orders.

My head tilts to the side and I study the words, before turning my gaze toward Oliver. “I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do.”

The words taunt me. I narrow my eyes and lift my hand, carefully pointing my finger in the direction of the text. What does this say? I think.

Nothing happens and I purse my lips.

“Find the source of your magic, Lark. It’s there, you just have to tap it.”

I open my mind and like a tsunami, sadness overwhelms me. Someone nearby is crying, and like a starved child, I gobble up the feeling, churning it in my soul. My body hums with magic.

This time, when I swish my hand, the text rearranges itself on the wall.



Charles Channing and Wang Fong formed an alliance to cut the Northern Society from diplomatic channels.



“Why?” I ask aloud. More text appears.

Officially, to preserve the meager resources left after the Long Winter. Unofficially, to force the problematic witches of the North to other societies where they could be better monitored. The answer covers the wall in a delicate script.

Oliver slides off the desk and touches the wall where the words appear. “So, you just ask a question, and if there’s an answer, you’ll be able to find it.”

“But first I have to know what to ask.” I sigh. There’s so much I don’t know.

My office is a jumbled mess of old-fashioned books, weird metal objects, and obsolete technology that Oliver has had me retrieve. A room full of old, useless things.

Things.

“I know that look.” There’s a playfulness to Oliver’s voice and he grins. “What are you thinking?”

“Is it possible to retrieve living things? Like animals or flowers?” Or people, I think.

“No.”

I must look disappointed because Oliver adds, “Be happy it isn’t. Can you imagine if Malin could summon you whenever she wanted? You’d be in the shower and—pop—you’re suddenly in her office, naked, dripping water?” He laughs.

“Uhhh…yeah. I think I’ll pass.” I shudder. “Does it just not work? Has anyone tried?”

“It doesn’t work and I’m not sure why.” He stands and stretches. “Are you tired? We’ve been at this for awhile.”

“Not even close. I could do this all day long.” My lips turn into a wide smile. The more I tap into my magic, the more alive I feel.

“Well, I’m done.” Oliver makes a half-wave motion and the book and the words disappear. “I promised Fio a trip to the symphony tonight.”

“Fio?” I ask.

“My mate, Fiona.”

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Oliver is mated. After all, he works for the State. But for some reason, I have a hard time imagining him having a life outside of being a guard.

“Perhaps I can meet Fiona some time,” I say, politely.

Oliver rubs the faint stubble on his chin, as if what I’ve said amuses him. “I’m sure Fio would be honored to meet you.”

A tight smile stretches across my face. I keep forgetting I’m no longer Lark Greene, student. I’m now a States woman. And an extremely powerful one, at least among the Dark witches. Once I was simply fodder for the gossip feeds Kyra loves, now, people are honored to meet me.

I question their judgment.

“You should go. Before Fiona begins to worry about you,” I say while trying to force my voice to sound upbeat. “I don’t want her to think I overwork you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Oliver says. “Tell Annalise I’ll ping her tonight, will you?”

“Sure.”

Oliver dips his head, steps forward and disappears. A wave of jealousy washes over me. I should be going home to Beck. To our home where I can listen to him tell me about his non-exciting day as a junior diplomat. We’d have tea and maybe watch the wallscreen. We’d be normal like Oliver and Fio.

Instead, I’m sitting alone in my office, waiting for my bodyguards to escort home, where, if I’m lucky, Kyra, Maz, and Ryker will come by to keep me company. Otherwise, I’ll sit alone in my bedroom all night, bored.

Random objects Oliver had me retrieve are scattered all over the room. I guess I should put them away, but he never taught me how to send things back.

I check my wristlet. Twenty minutes until Dawson and Kyra come to escort me home.

To still my nerves, I touch the bare skin where my necklace used to lie. And then a plan begins to take shape.

With my palm turned upward, I stretch my hand forward and clear my brain of all thoughts except one: my necklace. Once, at Summer Hill, Beck helped me locate it after Eamon ripped it from my neck and tossed it into the clutter of a battle-torn room. He told me I found it on my own and Oliver has insisted that he’s not assisting me in retrieval either.

There’s only one way to find out.

My necklace, I think as I envision the way it feels against my skin.

Magic ripples in the air around me, and a warm area rolls over my palm. When I look down at my hand, a long chain dangles from my fingertip. I yank my fist up until the soaring bird is eye-level. Mud is crusted into the crevices, but other than that, it appears undamaged.

As I polish it with a handkerchief, my heart whirls in excitement and I grin. But only for a moment. There’s no way I can walk around with my necklace on. Mother will take it and hide it somewhere beyond my reach.

Still, it feels comforting balled into my fist. Almost, but not quite as good, as holding Beck’s hand. A peace, that wasn’t present earlier, runs like sunshine through my veins.

Clenching the necklace, I sit behind the desk and admire my day’s work.

All these hidden things, half forgotten in the archives. I wonder…

Oliver said he doesn’t know much about Mother’s early years. Plus, Henry said she was different as a child. That he loved her dearly and she was kind. But something changed as she grew older.

Curiosity gets you in trouble, Lark. But I can’t stop the new idea that’s now taken hold of me.

Once again, I hold my hand open, palm upturned the way Oliver demonstrated. “Malin Greene, photos, ages twelve to seventeen.”

The tablet lying on the table beeps and I pick it up. Mother’s name flashes across the top of the page and I scroll through the standard school pictures until near the bottom. My mouth drops open.

Staring back at me, with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders and sunlight casting a hazy, lemonade-like glow across their faces, is a picture of a young Henry, my mother, and…Bethina?





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