from travel) all the way down the remaining dank hall, up the stairs at its far side, and all the way to him as a proper lady should when faced with the knowledge that someone’s comeuppance was due.
The room was large and filled from floor to ceiling with books, their shelves sporting stormlight lanterns so there was no spot wanting light.
With no introduction, the first instructions came. “Remove her accessories.”
The Wardens made quick work of it, taking her shawl, plucking her bracelets and even the fan off her hip.
The man giving orders looked up from behind a desk where he tallied the objects she’d come in with. “Gloves, too,” he reminded a moment before the Wardens peeled them off her arms. “Leave the necklace.”
Jordan would have worried about the proceedings were she not certain everything would be handed back (in a most apologetic manner) momentarily. Besides, she still had her butterfly wing necklace, the paper star, and Rowen’s heart to remind her of who she was.
The man behind the desk could not have been more than a dozen years her senior. Golden-haired, he had barely looked up from where he was scrawling notes in a journal when Jordan had entered the room flanked by two Wardens. She gathered her wits, gave a disdainful little sniff and a rattle of the leather manacles and metal links connecting them that they’d again placed her in for her appearance.
A towheaded little girl appeared from behind him, sipping from a cup, a stuffed toy with long ears tucked in the crook of her elbow. She blinked at Jordan. And then she smiled.
“Go on,” the man urged the child. “I need to return to my work.”
The child looked back at him. “Is she a—a—abom…?”
“
The child’s eyes grew wide and she obeyed, giving Jordan and her Wardens wide berth.
Bran looked up at Jordan then, brow wrinkling. “Name?”
“It doesn’t matter, as you will not need to enter it in whatever that book of yours is,” she assured. “I am no Weather Witch. I cannot be Made.”
Bran drew in a deep breath and tapped his pen against the inkwell’s lip. “Name?”
“Are you deaf or daft?” Jordan retorted. “I am no Witch. I cannot be Made. You must set this horrible situation to rights before we have a problem.”
Bran’s eyebrows rose on his forehead and his mouth turned up at its very ends. But his expression hardened. “Do you know how many times I hear that on a Reckoning Day?” he asked, stepping around his desk to better make clear that he was the dominant force in the room. The pen still in his hand dripped once on his boot, leaving a mark like a black teardrop. He was unfazed. “Cooperate and things will go easier on you.”
“But—”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Hold her.”
The Wardens clamped their hands around her arms and dragged her closer to him.
“Name,” he repeated.
She opened her mouth to refuse him again, but saw something spark in his eyes and thought better of it. “Jordan of House Astraea,” she whispered.
He stepped back around and brought his journal forward. “City?”
She again tried to protest and was again shut down by a look from his sharp golden eyes. “Philadelphia,” she replied.
“Excellent well. And”—he dipped the nib of his pen into the ink and tapped it off again—“when did you first discover your affinity for weather and storms?”
“I have no affinity for either,” she said, her tone sharp.
He shook his head. “Why do they never simply admit to the fact?” he asked the Wardens.
They remained mute as was their nature.
“If you only admitted to being what you are we could move along with the process. And it would go ever so much more gently.”
“But I have no…”
Putting on a pair of gloves, he slid open a drawer in his desk and withdrew a long needle. “No worries about infection. It is freshly cleaned and as sterile as anything in Holgate gets.” He walked back to where she stood, pinned in place by the cruel grips of the Wardens, their fingers looped into the links binding the manacles and pressed into her flesh. “Now tell me what I need to know or I Reckon we’ll get it out of you the hard way.”
“No,” she whispered, struggling. “I can’t … I’m not…”
“Jordan of House Astraea, ranked Fifth of the Nine, your rank is forfeit, your life is ours, our pleasure your duty, and that duty a great one.” He grabbed her right hand and turned it over so that her palm was face up. It trembled like a frightened animal, independent of Jordan’s will. “Say the words,” he urged.
But her brows arched over the delicate bridge of her nose and she shook her head as tears welled up at the edges of her eyes.
He sighed and dug the needle into the tip of her finger until she screamed. Sparks flared all along the beautiful embroidery of her dress, and danced across her bare skin as she screamed again.
“Thank you,” Bran whispered, tugging the needle free. He held the journal open before her. “Please sign.”
Whimpering, she asked, “A pen?”
He chuckled and grabbed her bleeding finger. “Not necessary. Sign with your internal ink, please.”
Quivering, she signed his book in blood.
“You may take the Witch away.”
And although she had walked proudly to her Reckoning, Jordan of House Astraea, Fifth of the Nine, had to be dragged most of the way back to her Tank.
The moment they dumped her inside and slammed her door shut, she plunged her bleeding fingertip into her mouth. Tears ran down her face and filled her mouth so that around her white and perfect teeth the tastes of saltwater and blood mingled.
Such a seemingly small pain, and yet it was as if something within her had died.
The stormcells glittered along Lady Astraea’s neckline, like three dozen stars strung together. Laura swallowed hard, watching the way her ladyship reached a trembling hand toward the fine collar of crystals. “Why do I not remember this necklace?” Lady Astraea asked the servant girl, her eyes catching on her reflection. “And these bracelets … truly, is one on each wrist a necessity? It seems quite garish. Especially over long gloves…” She reached for the clasp of one to undo it, but Laura’s hand was on her own, the girl’s voice thin but insistent.
“Milady, it is quite in keeping with the style in France. I do recall you mentioning having read so in one of the more popular journals before you ordered your own,” Laura assured. “I believe you said the style now is all a matter of balance of design. Which, I may only presume, is why even your shoes are thusly adorned.”
Lady Astraea raised her skirts modestly and stuck out the toe of one shoe for examination. “That seems quite wasteful. Who will ever see my shoes? I have not once danced a dance so immodest as to show off my feet and certainly never”—she blew out a little puff of air—“my ankles, for heaven’s sake.”
“Perhaps milady might yet find something about which to kick up her heels,” Laura suggested, carefully adjusting the smaller crystals threaded throughout her ladyship’s hair.
“I truly doubt I will have much of anything to celebrate now that my daughter is stolen and my good name is sullied.”
“They might yet make amends,” Laura whispered.
Lady Astraea snorted at the idea. “The Council? Make amends? You are so very young, dear, aren’t you?”
Laura blushed. “If by young you mean naive … I suppose so, milady. But I have discovered much to assuage my naivete in just these past few days. And much of it is far less than I ever wished to discover.”
“Life is full of disappointments,” Lady Astraea agreed, rubbing slowly at her gloved wrists. “But it is still life —still something we are expected to muddle through.”
