Mátyás withdrew his hand, but he winked at Izidóra as he did so.
“Not much,” Gábor said. “Enough for small charms only. Our charms are not like Luminate spells in any case—they could not function if they were, because magic will not respond to Luminate spells cast by anyone who has not been Confirmed. Magic responds to our charms only because we have learned to use it differently. Much like water, how you use magic changes its form: water pushed through a mill is different from the steam that runs the new locomotives, though both generate power.”
“Even Luminates are not so powerful. The Circle limits the scope of Luminate magic,” Mátyás said. “Once Europe teemed with firesmiths, necromancers, chimera, time-walkers.”
“And shapeshifters,” Gábor added. “Like the táltos daughter of Rákóczy.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
Gábor glanced sidelong at Mátyás. “You tell her. She was one of yours after all.”
Mátyás appeared oddly reluctant to speak. For a moment he would not look at me, only plucked at the grass growing by his feet. “This is a much-beloved story, about Rákóczy Ferenc, a Luminate who led an uprising against the Hapsburgs and their Circle a little over a century ago.”
“Did he win?”
Mátyás laughed. “It is not the Magyar sors to win battles. He did not win. But we celebrate him as a hero anyway. We love a lost cause, and Rákóczy’s was quite desperate. Austrians and Hungarian traitors were undermining his army, urging his troops to abandon him in return for the promise of imperial pardon and lands. They planned to attack his fortress while he was weakened.
“Rákóczy’s daughter was a táltos, a shapeshifter and traveler between worlds. She transformed into a fly and listened to the plans of the Austrian army. She flew back to her father and told him of the attack, and he was able to escape his enemies.”
“Are there still shapeshifters in Hungary?” I asked.
Mátyás hesitated, tearing a piece of grass down its heart. “Shapeshifters were always rare, even here. Rákóczy’s daughter was one of the last. It is a difficult spell to master, and the Circle doesn’t allow individuals as much power as it once did.”
Something unreadable flickered in Gábor’s eyes. He shook his head minutely, then pulled a small parcel from his pocket and handed it to me. I unfolded the scrap of fabric to find a bracelet of three intertwined strands of silver holding in place a round, polished stone. Thin layers of purples and blue swirled around the stone. The metal was still warm from Gábor’s body. Heat crept up my neck as I slipped the charm over my wrist.
“It’s agate,” Gábor explained. “For protection. The first thing you must learn is to channel magic into your talisman. Once it is full, you can learn to use the power inside it.” He tapped one slim finger against his lips, thinking. “The central difference between Romani and Luminate magic is the relationship between magic and the spell-caster. Luminate magic is about focus and control—about narrowing and limiting the expression of magic through spells and rituals. Our magic is about openness and submission. The way you wield the magic shapes the form the magic takes. Our spells may not be so powerful, but they do not cost as much either, in pain or wasted energy.
“The talismans connect us to other objects, animate and inanimate. To use them, you must be willing to make yourself vulnerable. The charm-caster opens himself to the essence of the thing being manipulated and persuades that object to adapt to his needs.”
It sounded like so much mystic gibberish to me. My confusion must have shown in my face because Gábor blew out his breath in frustration.
Izidóra bent toward her brother, whispering and pointing at my ankle. His frown lifted. “When my sister healed your ankle, she connected with the bone and tissue. She used the power in her talisman to persuade the essence of your body to be more itself—for the tissue to attach itself properly, for the bone to be whole. Romani magic can’t make a thing other than it is, but we can nudge it to shift itself a bit.”
“Fascinating,” Mátyás said, looking, for once, as if it were true.
“But you cannot use your talisman until you can call magic into it. And for that, you need to feel the traces of magic around you, the dji of the living world. Close your eyes. Listen. Feel.”
I folded my hands in my lap and closed my eyes. Having feelings was something I seemed to be particularly good at, but being British, I never quite knew what to do with those sensations except push them away. A twinge of uncertainty brushed through me. I was not sure whether I could undo a lifetime of Mama’s training in order to master the requisite vulnerability and openness.
I concentrated on the pulsing red behind my eyelids. A breeze skittered along my skin. The leaves rustled overhead. In the field, an insect hummed, and some distance away a bird called out, high and sweet. Tu-weet. Tu-weet. Tek.
But of internal feelings? Nothing, save a growing sense of shame.
“Do you sense any magic?” Gábor asked.
I opened my eyes. “No.”
“Perhaps if Izidóra helps you focus?” He translated his request into Hungarian.
Izidóra held out her hand. “Kérem.”
I set my gloved hand in her bare one. I closed my eyes and tried to focus my attention outward. Mátyás’s trousers rustled as he shifted beside me.
There. A faint vibration, as of some giant hand plucking an invisible string.
“I feel something.” I tried to keep my voice steady, not wanting to betray the excitement thrilling through me.
“Try to call the magic into your charm,” Gábor said. “Find the heart of the charm, invite the magic in.”
I kept my eyes closed. All I could feel was the weight of the silver, warm against the band of skin above my glove. I shook my head.
Izidóra whispered something.
“My sister says she pictures the charm-stone as a flower that opens as the magic approaches.”
I imagined the roses in my mother’s garden, the way the petals slowly opened to the sun. The warm buzz of the magic skittered across my skin, but it slid over the charm-stone like oil on water.
“Something’s blocking the magic. Try again. Use a different image this time. A stream bed, or wind sweeping through a ravine.”
I tried each image in succession. Nothing happened. With the final image of the wind, I could not even feel the magic. Gábor asked me to repeat the exercise, with varying images, half a dozen times. Still the same result. I opened my eyes, flinching at the brightness.
“Perhaps Romani magic, like Luminate magic, depends on a Romani bloodline,” Mátyás suggested.