Anna, he said. Not Miss Arden. I should have been pleased by the intimacy, but all I heard in it was farewell. “Wait.” And before I could let myself weigh the consequences, I threw my arms around Gábor. He smelled of sunshine and grass, and I wanted to hold him forever. But Noémi watched, and already his family gathered, waiting for us to leave.
“Thank you for trying to help me,” I said.
“I wish I could believe I had helped you,” he said, holding out one hand. “May you find every happiness.”
Trying to ignore my falling heart, I stripped off my glove and took his hand. I wanted to feel the slow burn of flesh against flesh. I held his hand for as long as he would allow me. My fingers were strangely weightless when he let go, as if I had lost an anchor.
I watched Gabor walk away, memorizing the long, lean line of his body and the easy grace of his stride. Regret tasted sour in my mouth. I should have kissed him.
Noémi linked her arm through mine. “I am sorry, Anna.” The understanding in her eyes nearly undid me. I blinked against tears and lifted my chin. We marched toward the meadow.
Then I stopped. Noémi’s horse grazed alone, lifting her head as we approached, her great limpid eyes indifferent to the upheaval we’d left behind. Starfire was missing.
A Romani man stood near Noémi’s horse, his arms folded across his chest.
“We’ve taken back our horse,” he said in accented German.
“What? But she was mine—my cousin bought and paid for her.”
He continued to stare at me, his gaze uncompromising. Realization swept over me, and I sighed. Likely Mátyás had not paid anything at all, only purchased her with a promise.
“I’ll walk back with you,” Noémi said, picking up her trailing reins.
As we headed toward the road leading to the village, I glanced behind only once.
Gábor had already vanished.
I wrote to Papa that evening, smoothing the paper beneath the fitful glow of the lantern. The pen wanted mending, but I hadn’t the time or means at the moment. I wished I’d thought to borrow one of Papa’s new steel pens before I left England, and hoped he could still decipher my wretchedly scratchy penmanship. I chewed on the feather tip, uncertain. My heart ached at the events of the day. I wanted to ask Papa about the baby, if it was possible I had indeed stolen part of her soul, and if so, what would happen to her. But I was not sure I could bear the answer.
I could not tell him of Gábor, since I could not tell myself what I thought of him, and even Papa with his liberal notions might not welcome my involvement with a Romani.
Instead, I told him of Noémi’s healing, as I knew familial magic lines interested him. I described the rides I’d taken and the way the smell of the linden trees filled my room in the morning when I wakened. I sent well-wishes to Mama and Catherine, and asked for word of James. In all, my letter might serve as a model for a dutiful daughter in a conduct manual.
The words were true, but the letter was a lie—it hid the truth of my life. And then I added a question no dutiful daughter would raise because it could only invite trouble, as I knew the scholar in Papa could not refrain from answering: Papa, what is Sárvár? I heard mention of a spell gone wretchedly awry….
An uneasy quiet settled over the village and the palace in the days and weeks following our expulsion from the Romani camp. Noémi spent much of the time in her room, recovering from her spell-casting. Word reached us that the Romanies had packed up and disappeared.
I spent hours rambling through the disintegrating gardens at Eszterháza, the ragged shrubs and tangled paths a fitting reflection of my tumbled thoughts.
I wondered what I ought to do next, since I could no longer learn Romani magic.
I wondered if I would ever see Gábor again.
The aching sense of loss would fade, I knew, as Freddy’s loss had. But the very existence of that ache meant I had begun to care for Gábor more than I knew. More than I wished to.
Sitting in the window seat of my room, I read Papa’s letter through once, then twice, frowning. He said nothing of my question about Sárvár, only mentioned a few mundane bits about the family estate and his research. Mellow afternoon light pooled in my lap as I turned the letter over in my hands. Then I saw it: a tiny imprint of our family crest—a phoenix—buried in one corner of the paper.
Papa had spelled the letter.
I pressed my finger to the imprint and waited for the spell to recognize my blood.
Papa’s voice filled the room, and tears pricked my eyes at its familiarity.
Of course I know of Sárvár. It is believed Countess Báthory attempted a blood ritual there. Historians such as myself are still not entirely certain of her aim—to break the Binding spell, or merely to access it herself and circumvent the Circle. Whatever its aim, the spell created a kind of bridge—a way station—between our world and the dimension where the Binding holds our magic. The Circle have tried repeatedly to dismantle her spell, as it creates a weak point in the Binding, but have been unable to do so, in large part because they are unwilling to re-create the blood magic she used to build her spell. Indeed, it’s a curious spell, one I have often wished to study from a closer vantage point.
There was a long silence, and I had begun to think the charm was finished, when Papa resumed speaking.
You already know I am a heretic. I believe the Binding should be abolished and magic should be allowed to run free, for use by all with a knack for it. When Charlemagne convened the first Circle and cast the original Binding spell, no doubt he believed it was a good thing. The Binding was crafted to protect spell-casters: too many magicians were dying because they misjudged the power required for their spells and burned themselves out. The first Circle decided to create instead a reservoir of magic all magicians might draw from, limiting that power only to those trained for it, thus protecting the untrained from using a spell beyond their capacity—and everyone else from the ruins of their spells.
But whatever good was begun with it, the Binding has ended by perpetuating injustice. Those with magic began to use their power to promote themselves, restricting the use of magic not to those with training but to those with powerful bloodlines.