“Looks like some kind of bird has been living here,” I said. Turning on my heel, I quickly perused the other walls. They were free of splotches. I stepped closer to the back wall and noted the staining began about a third of the way up. There was a reddish cast to these stains. Flakes lifted away in spots, like the edges of dead rose petals. I all but did a face-plant against a particularly thick spot when I realized my nose was an inch away from a patch of dried blood.
I faltered, stumbling backward onto Alabastair’s foot. “Breathe,” he said, steadying my upper arms, “and sit down. Let me help you.”
My legs gave out. The necromancer helped me to the floor until I was lying on my side. From a distance, I could see the entire back wall if I squinted slightly. Magical threads, thin and pearlescent white, quivered around one splat in particular as though they were trying to show me something. A meter high, the irregular shape had been left by something large and bloodied where it hit the wall.
Mom?
A wave of nausea sent me rolling away from the unfolding scene. My face met the hem of Alabastair’s cloak. He crouched, which made the cloak puddle on the floor, creating a tent. I wanted to pull the lush, heavy fabric around me and burrow deeper.
“Clementine, can you sense the dead?” he asked.
I grabbed the velvet and pressed it to my eyes. I was about to put into words something I’d never shared with anyone. Lucky Alabastair. “I can sense things that happened in the past. It’s like there’re these loops in my head. Loops and loops of gossamer threads—story threads—with clusters of tiny, tiny knots. I tend to get lost in the knots.”
Loosening my grip, I rolled again to face the wall and forced myself to open my eyes and expand my magical sense. Story threads often appeared fluffy-edged, like the downiest part of a feather. What I could see and sense embedded into these magical threads—like insects caught in ancient amber—was my mother’s abduction.
I couldn’t tell when it happened or if it was tied in any way to her death.
I traced the movement of the threads with my fingers. “Something grabbed my mother, something large, with wings. The creature lifted her. She hit the wall. There was a struggle…” I lifted my gaze higher and pointed, following the upward sweep of the bloody streaks to the broken window. “I think whatever grabbed her took her out through the window.”
Feeling nauseous, I again sought refuge in the folds of Alabastair’s cloak. His fingers were cool as he touched the side of my face and cleared my hair out of the way. “Your aunt should be here,” he said. “She witnesses things most of us cannot see, on an almost daily basis. She would want to help you, Clementine. And be of comfort.”
“But it’s late,” I said, wishing for the warmth of my favorite blanket, my dog’s thick, soft fur, and the ignorance of the first half of the day.
“She prefers to work well into the night.”
With that, Alabastair encouraged me to get off the floor.
“Rosey, Beryl?” My sisters were clustered around the desk with Kostya and the water mage. I had to raise my voice and call them a second time before they heard me. “Can you come here?”
Beryl raised her wand as she strode toward me, coaxing the flame-shaped light bulbs on all of the chandeliers to increase their wattage. Alderose stuck a finger in the belt loop on the back of my jeans and drew me against her side.
I took a deep breath. “I want to show you something.”
“What’d you find, Sissy?” Beryl asked.
“Clues to something that happened to Mom in this room.” My sisters crowded closer. I gestured to the wall and listed the things we could all see—the water stains, the bird droppings, and the streaks of blood. I explained what they were before adding descriptions of the bits that only I could see.
“Are you sure the blood is human or Magical and not animal?”
“Yes.”
“And what makes you think it’s Mom’s blood?”
My rib cage began to tremble. “As long as I can remember, I’ve seen these things I call story threads and they never seem to be about the living. They’re always tied to those who have passed over,” I said, peeling away the protective wrapping I had stretched over my gift. Or my curse. I searched for words to explain what it was like when my magic activated.
“Do either of you see threads floating in the air? Threads that make up…sketches, like what Rémy showed us when he painted the air downstairs and we all saw Mom’s hand and the ring?” I asked.
Alderose shook her head and Beryl let out a short, “Nope.”
“Water acts as both a magnifying lens and a memory-keeper.” Rémy’s sudden appearance at my back startled me. I shuffled closer to Alderose and craned my neck to watch the mage as he spoke. “Every natural element has the capacity to retain memories. Mages like myself spend years developing the ability to extract memories from our element—in my case, water—without damaging or altering the memory. Ethics discourage us from editing or interpreting the information to suit whatever outcome would most benefit us.
“What I did downstairs was use water to draw forth pertinent memories from my meeting with your mother.” Rémy’s gaze as he looked down at me was almost sympathetic. Almost. “You are obviously not a mage, but it appears you have been blessed by my goddess, Mnemosyne. I am curious to know what it is you see.”
“I smelled the rain first,” I said, sweeping my arm back and forth to encompass the wall and the window, and the hole in the glass.
“Ahh, the trigger,” Rémy murmured. “Continue.”
“Then I noticed the broken glass and the
