“Why? I was a street urchin,” said Ilsa a little defensively. “I meant the part about Hester stepping down. What’s that got to do with me?”
He hesitated. “Nothing, yet. It’s just that there’s a line of succession to being alpha. It was your grandfather, and then your mother, and after Gedeon it’s… well, you.”
Ilsa laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was absurd enough that they had plucked her from her old life and transplanted her here, into a dynasty and a mansion. The idea that she could ever be in charge, simply because of who her mother was, was an absurdity too far. Then she thought again of the wolves’ exchange and dread put an abrupt end to her humour. “Wait. No one’s expecting me to actually…”
“Of course not!” said Fyfe hastily. “But it’s come up, that’s all. Stars forbid, if Gedeon never returned… but he will, and in the meantime Hester is just the warden. There’s no rule that says that ought to be you, even if Hester hasn’t… warmed to it yet. She will.”
Ilsa wanted to ask if Hester could be persuaded to remain alpha permanently if there was a need, but the possibility was too distressing to utter. Gedeon had to come back, one way or another; it was the only solution.
Fyfe gathered up his books as Ilsa crammed a final finger sandwich into her mouth before leaving the conservatory.
“Are you ready for your lesson in Whisperer magic tomorrow?” Fyfe said, mischief sparking in his dark brown eyes.
Ilsa came to a halt. “Come again?”
“Cassia asked me to arrange a meeting with my astrology tutor. She’s a Whisperer, and we hope she’ll agree to teach you.”
“Teach me to… read minds?”
Fyfe laughed, his whole face creasing. “To strengthen your mind against intrusion. It’s an essential skill for those who can find a way to learn. Supposedly there are a handful of Whisperers in the city who will teach it, for a considerable fee of course, but Alitz is a friend.”
“Have I got to have lessons for all the magics?” said Ilsa warily.
“If only such a thing were possible. Whisperer magic is unique in that it’s of the mind, and so the mind can fight it. There’s no protection against the other magics except our own.”
It was a reminder Ilsa didn’t need of the new dangers that had entered her life; things her previous fears and defences hadn’t prepared her for. That gut-wrenching, blood-soaked feeling of being out of her depth settled in her stomach. She recalled the feeling of the Oracle leaping onto her back in Bill’s flat. If the only protection was Ilsa’s own magic, her magic needed to be up to the challenge.
“Fyfe,” she said. “I need a really big mirror.”
* * *
The ballroom looked like a jewel. The polished marble floor reflected the summer shades of the ceiling, which was painted to resemble the sky at sunset – oranges, yellows, blush pink. Accents in gold leaf caught the light pouring in from tall windows on two sides. The crystal droplets of the chandeliers dappled every surface with rainbows.
It was so fine, Ilsa wasn’t sure she should be there.
But Fyfe had directed her to the largest mirrors in the Zoo, as requested. They stood either side of the fireplace and reached from the floor to just below the ceiling. Ilsa imagined the ballroom full of dancing couples in their finery, and how the mirrors would create the illusion that the party was twice as grand.
For now, it was just her. Which was a relief, since she was sprawled on the floor struggling to catch her breath.
She had shifted into a wolfhound a dozen times already, and each time she pushed the size of the beast a little further, milking every last drop of her magic, pushing her body to its very limits. Sweat misted her forehead and dampened her dress, every part of her hurt, and nausea was starting to descend, signalling that she had overdone it – and yet the improvements were minimal. She was a couple of inches taller and a few pounds heavier than she had been in the form in Bill’s flat.
It wasn’t enough. She had tried some other dogs – breeds built for power – but her magic couldn’t compensate for their size compared to the wolfhound. With practice, perhaps she could make up a dog’s shortcomings with skill, but she suspected the perfect animal wasn’t currently within her range.
She climbed shakily to her feet, ruminating on the best way to fix that, when she noticed a second figure in the mirror.
Oren stood at the door.
“Are you well?” he said, peering across the ballroom at her through his glasses.
“Fine,” said Ilsa, failing to muster a convincing tone.
Oren hovered awkwardly in the doorway a moment. His fingers toyed with the notebook he carried. Ilsa didn’t know if his hesitancy was out of a wish not to disturb her, or the desire to avoid an encounter altogether, but eventually, concern must have won out, and he crossed the ballroom.
“I was just practising shifting, is all,” said Ilsa by way of explaining her visible exhaustion.
“Ah.” Oren pushed his glasses up his nose and looked her up and down again. “Any form in particular?”
“Some dogs. I’ve been trying to make strong ones. Dangerous ones.” She shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but the memory of fighting for her life still plagued her. Her voice grew quieter. “I don’t want to be a liability if I got to fight someone again.”
Understanding crossed Oren’s face. He nodded. “That’s very prudent. Though I hope you know we don’t intend that you will have to.”
“I know that,” said Ilsa hastily. “And I feel safe here, really I do. It’s… it’s just that…”
“It’s just that everything is different here.”
Ilsa nodded. “So different.”
“And I have always counselled caution and preparation.” He tucked his notebook into his jacket. “A dog is your preferred combat form?”
“My what?”
“It’s a transformation you practise specifically for strength and skill in combat.”
