By now they’d reached another small terrace bounded by a low wall that ran along the edge of the cliff. Beyond were jagged rocks intermittently drenched in waves. Natalie boosted herself onto the wall and turned, so her feet dangled over the lake below. Emma sat down on the wall next to her, keeping her feet on the landward side.
“Was anyone ever charged with the crime?” she asked. “The poisoning, I mean.”
Natalie snorted. “The Wizard Council ran things at that time. No way they were going to investigate themselves. Anyway, all the adult witnesses were dead, so it was hard to figure out who to blame.”
“But—but the police—”
“Because the poison killed by damaging Weirstones, it’s not toxic to the Anaweir. So involving the police wouldn’t really help, and it would raise questions that nobody wanted to answer. We were foreign guests in Brazil, remember.
“There wasn’t a lot of pressure to solve the crime, anyway, not from the mainline guilds. Most guildlings viewed the people at Thorn Hill either as radicals or starry-eyed fools. The consensus was that we got what we deserved, and that we should be put out of our misery.”
“But . . . you weren’t.”
“Some of us were, actually,” Natalie said, her voice catching. After a moment, she continued. “Then Gabriel Mandrake came along.”
“Gabriel Mandrake? Who’s that?”
“He’s the founder of the Anchorage, the school I attend. And the major donor to the foundation that supports us. He’s a sorcerer who didn’t view us as throwaways. In fact—” Natalie seemed to catch herself again. “Sorry. I don’t mean to go on and on. The bottom line is, technically, we’re no longer mainliners—members of the original guilds. I guess you could say that our abilities are highly variable and focused. No two of us are alike. For instance, I’m a healer. Most sorcerers are skilled at making magical tools and compounding powerful potions, and remedies. I have a special gift for diagnosis and healing through touch.
“There’s a cost, though. Savants seem to decline, over time. We call it fading. Quite a few of us have died in the past ten years, and some of the survivors are in really bad health. That’s why I asked you if you were having symptoms. A lot of us depend on drugs to keep us alive.”
“But I’m not magical,” Emma protested. “To tell the truth, I’m a mess. I’m not gifted in any way. It seems like I have more
“Hmm,” Natalie said, nodding as if this confirmed something. “Isn’t there anything—even
“Well. I’m a luthier. I’m good at building guitars. Like my grandfather.”
A grin broke across Natalie’s face. “Really? You build guitars? Do you play?” Emma shrugged, kicking her feet against the wall. “I play a little.”
“I play drums,” Natalie said, as if happy to have established that natural connection between musicians. “I’m in a band. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Fault Tolerant?”
Emma gaped at her. “That’s why you look familiar! I saw you! I saw you play at Club Catastrophe. You were the drummer.”
They slapped hands. “That is so cool,” Natalie said. “Like this is fate or something. See, music is really big at school, because of Gabriel’s interest in it, and because it seems to work well as a therapy for some of the students who can’t be reached any other way.” She paused. “These guitars you build—I’d love to see one.”
“I’ve sold a couple,” Emma said. “There are two more back at my house.”
“Are they . . .
“Magical?” Emma snorted. “How can a guitar be magical?” A memory surfaced, of afternoons in the back of Sonny Lee’s shop. Blues players, young and old, shaking their heads, smitten with what her grandfather could do with maple and mahogany. Sonny Lee’s guitars could make a bad player sound good, and a good player make magic.
But Emma had the feeling that Natalie was talking about something more than this.
She looked up to find Natalie studying her, her lower lip caught behind her teeth. “You know, I don’t know what your plans are, but the Anchorage would be a good fit for you. And Gabriel has pledged to accept all survivors.”
“Why does he do it?” Emma said. “Is he some kind of saint?”
Natalie laughed. “Oh, no. He’s a music promoter, so you know he’s no saint. He helped found Thorn Hill . . . he still owns the land in Brazil, so I guess he feels a commitment to us. Much of the money that supports the foundation comes from gemstone mines on the property.”
Emma looked for the guards who had been tailing them. Seeing that they’d stopped moving, they had taken up a position at the far end of the terrace. She could see the glow of their cigarettes through the gathering darkness.
She fingered the ring of blisters around her neck, left by Burroughs’s fingers. It was now or never.
She leaned in close to Natalie. “Speaking of plans, I need your help. I need to get out of here.”
Natalie nodded, still staring out at the lake. “Go on.”
“They mean to keep me here until they’ve wrung all the information out of me that they can get, then they’re going to kill me.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Natalie said, a bitter edge to her voice.
“When you leave here, could you notify the police?”
For what seemed like forever, Natalie didn’t answer. Then she said, “I doubt that would do any good. Anyway, what makes you think they’ll let me leave?”
Emma stared at her. “What? Of course they will! They have to.”
“No. They don’t,” Natalie said. “Why would they? You’re a very important property. They see you as the break they’ve been looking for. Oh, Gabriel will kick up a fuss, but they’ll stand their ground. They have to. They’ll say I left here to return to the Anchorage, and something must have happened to me on the way. End of story.”
“So you help them out and in return they murder you?”
“That’s wizards,” Natalie said.
“Well, then, we both have to escape,” Emma said.
“Easier said than done.” Natalie stared out at the nowblack waters of the lake, the only side of the property that wasn’t fenced in. “Can you swim?”
Emma shook her head. “Not a lick. Not many chances to learn in downtown Memphis. You?”
Natalie shook her head. “Me neither. Listen, I’ll tell them I need something from the Anchorage. A medicine or a treatment. Maybe they’ll let me go. Or at least send a message.”
“But . . . what good would that do?” Emma asked. “If the police can’t help, then—”
“I think I know somebody who can.”
When they walked back to the house, Rowan was waiting for them on the terrace. Emma had the feeling he’d been watching them for some time.
“You’re looking well,” he said to Emma, standing aside so they could enter through the French doors. “Are you nearly back to normal?”
“Yes. Pretty much,” Emma said, without thinking. “I’m glad to hear it.” He put his hand on her arm, and she flinched away. His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps, tonight, we can talk more about what you remember about the night of the murders.”
Was there a threat implicit in these words? Emma wasn’t sure.
As soon as they passed into the hall, Emma stopped short. Natalie’s small suitcase and backpack were sitting by the door, with all the rest of her belongings. Natalie saw it at the same time. They both swiveled to stare at Rowan.
“Since you’re doing so well, I don’t see any reason to take up any more of Natalie’s time,” Rowan said. “We’ll keep working on the memory loss on our own.” He gripped Natalie’s arm. “Let’s load up the car, and I’ll drive you back to the Anchorage.”
Natalie’s eyes widened. She looked from Rowan to Emma, then tried to pull away, shaking her head. “I—I . .
