Let it happen, came the thought scented with amber whiskey and the taste of warm, sweet smoke.
Step and drag, the toe of her boots leaving no visible sign in the crackling brown grass, then step and drag with her other foot, alternating carefully, completing one loop, then a diagonal crossing in the middle, slanted crossroads that sent a spark up her heel, ricocheting along her spine as she crossed it, then another loop, slow and careful, at the other end.
She knew that Gabriel had finished the outer circle, could feel the moment it was completed, an almost audible snap under her own voice, and it was only then that she realized she was humming, a nonsense lullaby one of the girls used to sing to their baby.
“Sweet drop of water, from lake you flow
sweet drop of water, into river you go.
Silver your cup, and medicine your bone.”
Another pass of the loop, another spark up her spine, tingling along her scalp when she crossed the midpoint, and then a third time, until something told her she was done.
Isobel paused at the center point, planting her heels one on either side, and wiped sweaty hands against her skirt. The ground hadn’t cracked open below her; the steam hadn’t burned through her soles or tangled around her ankles. The distant echo of flickerthwack sounded somewhere in her memory, the devil’s hands turning the cards, and she could feel the odds flip slightly in her favor.
Maybe.
The sun had risen enough to be in her eyes while she worked, and even with her hat shading her face, she had to squint, turning to find Gabriel standing on the other side of the circle, watching her, his back to the east so it seemed almost as though the sunlight haloed him.
“Whatever you’re going to do,” he said, his voice low but carrying, “best do it now, before the sun’s too high.”
Dawn and dusk and the high point of noon: that was when a magician’s power was greatest, at the times of winds and transition, a good time for wise folk to be still and not draw attention to themselves.
Isobel grinned back at him. She was about to draw attention to herself in a most significant fashion.
She gathered her skirt in both hands and settled on the grass, letting her fingertips rest on the ground. She could feel something—not the shadowy presence, something deeper, hotter—moving below, pressing against her, but she ignored it, instead focusing on the sigil on her palm, the black lines echoed in the soil around her. The authority of the Master of the Territory, carried within her.
Power was power, Gabriel’d said once. The trick wasn’t what you were given—or how—but how you used it.
The sigil itched, then burned, pale blue flame engulfing her palm for an instant before racing up her arm, down her spine, her muscles twitching and her eyes watering, sparks scraping from the inside out, making her laugh with relief: the bones might refuse her, the boss might not be able to find her, but she still could do this.
Reassured, she pressed her palms into the ground and whistled for the winds.
And they came. Eight winds, four by four, pushing each other like restless colts, hungry cats. They came not because she summoned them but because they chose to, simply because they could.
Magicians whistled for the winds and let them blow through, emptying out what had been and replacing it with . . . She felt the touch of the winds on her and knew, understood, dimly, distantly, the sweeping hunger that could never be appeased, only redirected.
Power fed on power.
The boss and Marie had taught her how to treat power; Gabriel had shown her how to speak to elders; Farron had warned her of the temptations of madness. Isobel held those doors closed, contained herself, allowed the winds to probe and push without giving them domain over her, without allowing them within her. I belong to another.
Amusement returned, tumbling, sly laughter, but they did not provoke her claim. There was no malice in the winds, nor kindness, nor humor, only power, relentless and rising.
Isobel thought of figures gathered together in this space, figures of wind and flesh, then imbued the image with curiosity, a question. Will you share with me knowledge of a thing, free ones?
The breeze cooled, swirled. Power had risen here, given flesh and form, but they cared nothing for the how or why. Nothing of flesh interested them for long.
Thank you for—
She felt the air swirl once more and then fall still before she could complete her thanks. She was flesh and boring.