But she couldn’t hide the fact that she hadn’t always followed Anglion ways. No, she was a free witch. Unhampered by custom. Her hair wasn’t the rich red of the royal witches, deepened by their contact with the earth. It was a color closer to flame, licked here and there with threads that were near black. Sophie wondered exactly what powers she had dallied with before coming to Anglion to achieve that color and whether she thought Sophie herself should aspire to a similar shade rather than submit tamely to the fate decreed for her by tradition.
Though to do that, she would have to leave Anglion. The keepers of the goddess’s temple did not truck with anyone practicing those arts that had been forbidden on Anglese soil. And they expressed their displeasure forcibly. Having hair like Madame de Montesse’s was a sure path to trouble unless, like Madame de Montesse, one could claim to have given up the habits of her homeland. If she was being less than truthful about that, then no one had ever proven it.
“Do Illvyan ladies not learn Anglion?” Sophie countered.
Madame de Montesse nodded, the gesture almost approving. “Some do. Those who have . . . need.”
Need? Those who did magic, perhaps? Those who would end up with hair like Madame’s?
Sophie tried to shake off the thread of speculation. There was no certainty that her hair would ever be any different from how it was now. If her power didn’t manifest at her Ais-Seann, then it would remain nondescript brown. And if she did, there was no way it would end up any shade near Madame de Montesse’s. It would be the same as all the other earth witches. Earth red. Deeper if she was stronger. Just a hint—like her mother had—if she were not. She had tried and failed to imagine herself with hair the color of Eloisa’s—a red so rich it drew the eye like rubies. It suited the princess’s milky complexion, but skin like Eloisa’s was a rarity in the court. It cropped up now and again in the royal family, a reminder that they had both ties to the north and, though it was scarcely admitted to these days, links to the paler-skinned Illvyans as well.
But Sophie’s skin was the usual golden shade of most Anglions. She couldn’t help feeling that red hair might just make her look like an unstruck matchstick.
The lieutenant produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and started reading out a list of herbs and other supplies that were at least familiar to Sophie from her studies. His words drew Madame de Montesse’s attention back to him, her smile and fluttering eyelashes firmly directed at him as she started to fetch things from the shelves.
Sophie turned back to her study of the cabinets and shelves, carefully clasping her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t break anything delicate or touch anything dangerous. Illvyans didn’t limit themselves to the three arts of Anglion magic. And even in Anglion, some of the ingredients used in magical workings were dangerous. Safer to look and not touch.
Just as Sophie had nearly decided that the tiny skeleton in a jar just out of reach on one of the higher shelves must definitely be a conar lizard, the lieutenant called her name, making her jump and bump the shelf. Jars rattled, but luckily nothing came crashing down around her ears. She put a hand out to settle the last of them back into place, willing the blush that had sprung into her cheeks to leave before she turned. “Sir?”
“Come and see this. The princess would want your opinion before I spend her money.”
On the opposite side of the counter to him, Madame de Montesse didn’t look overly pleased at the insinuation she’d sell anything that wasn’t worth the high prices she charged.
Sophie hid a smile—it was nice to know that the lieutenant could annoy others as well as her—and joined him. Laid out on the counter was a supple leather roll, currently unfurled. The length of rich brown hide gleamed dully under the light coming through the window. On it lay a variety of smaller leather pouches, two slender silver knives, and a length of gold chain, held in place with thongs sewn into the roll. She’d never seen anything like it before, though it was clear that it was intended for a witch.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Sophie reached out and stroked the leather, her finger slipping across the softness easily. Yet it had the sheen of waterproofing. “It’s lovely.”
“High quality?”
She looked up at him, trying to see whether he was joking. “You’re the mage here. You tell me.”
He shrugged. “This is witch magic. Warriors don’t use this stuff. I barely know mandrake from marjoram.”
“I’m sure you understate things. The Red Guard trains its mages well.”
“Yes, the ones who have strong talent. I’m average at best. Basic defense spells. Nothing requiring herbs or silver.”
Madame de Montesse arched a dark brow at this but stayed quiet.
“You’re a royal bodyguard,” Sophie protested.
“Princess Eloisa is stronger than I’ll ever be. I serve her best with my sword, not my magic.” He looked uncomfortable, perhaps because he was discussing such a subject in front of someone not of the court.
“I see.” Sophie untied the thongs wrapped around one of the knives and picked it up, trying to see if it evoked any response. It was more a dagger than a knife, really. The hilt was chased with runes and fit her hand well. It had the heavy sheen of good silver, but otherwise she sensed nothing. Likewise the chain. The pouches were a little easier. She could at least recognize the contents by sight and smell—a wide array of herbs and other ingredients for spells—but she didn’t know how to judge their magical strength. She wouldn’t be able to tell that until her own powers showed up. If they did.
“Milady?” The lieutenant interrupted her thoughts.
She sighed and slipped the knife back into the loop designed for it. “It looks perfectly fine to me.”
“Good. If you please, Madame.” He nodded at the roll, and Madame de Montesse busied herself repacking the roll, adding it to the pile of packages on the counter in front of the lieutenant. Eloisa must have sent him with quite the list.