l’s glassy disdain and see the angry ripples spread out under his face.
It also felt like a huge political mistake.
Sena traveled from Crow’s Eye to Null Hill.
She was accompanied from all directions by a throng of black ghostly shapes that crossed roads at night, heading unerringly for the heavy, thick-walled buildings of Skellum whose tiny panes of glass twinkled dissolute and golden. By the fifth, all of them had reached the ancient town.
Sena arrived midmorning and went straight to parliament, passing an enormous sledge newt tethered at the gates. It hissed while its collection of slippery black eyes glinted in the sun.
From there, she passed into the garden where statues swam amid white rosebushes. Large sapphire-tinted butterflies nuzzled the blooms and fornicated indiscriminately.
Sena saw a woman in a lavish costume wandering the yard. On her head was an incredible crown that started as a band at the back of her neck and rose behind her ears, completing its loop at the very top of her forehead. Blades of deep blue metal fanned back as stylized feathers, spreading like an array of ornate knives. The front of the thing sloped down into a graven mask accented with bits of lapis. It obscured everything but her eyes from the cheekbones up.
Haidee had been in the Sixth House only weeks ago; now she was wearing the ceremonial headgear of the Seventh. She returned Sena’s greeting in Withil. “Clea’s bird brought word that you had gone to Sandren rather than Tue. What happened?”
Sena dropped N
s, sensing that perhaps something was wrong. The cat immediately began chasing butterflies.
Sena had known Clea would inform on her and had been constructing a feasible lie based on the Sisterhood’s existing paranoia. “I was following a lead. I think it was the Cabal.”
“Really?” Haidee was looking at Sena’s hair. Sena had dyed it black.
“It washes out. I needed to cut a low profile getting out of Sandren.”
“Yes . . . I think we’ve all heard about the stonemason’s body. That’s amusing, the Seventh House using that kind of street thief charlatanry? Why not just carve your eyes?”
Sena snorted. She didn’t like Haidee’s cool smile or the way she carried herself: perfectly erect under the extraordinary costume.
“I don’t blame you,” said Haidee.
“What?” Sena looked startled.
Haidee clarified. “I don’t condone your flagrant abuse of the Sisterhood or your disregard for coven law but I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do. It would have been hard all those years, standing in her shadow, having her correct your every move, having to live up to some unattainable mark. Still,” her chin dipped indicating a mild reproach was on the way, “I think your lifelong rebellion against Megan is childish—no matter what was done to your mother. Megan didn’t—”
“You can stop there.”
“All I’m saying is that Megan acted indiscriminately—”
“You’re right. Setting your friend on fire is pretty fucking indiscriminate, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” said Haidee. “I should have said impartial. Coven law protects us . . .”
Sena whirled. “What are we doing? Why do we need to be protected? What is our goal anyway? Kill off or seduce anyone with the ability to challenge or discover us? For what? What are we preparing for?”
“We empower women—”
“Oh gods, stow that shit! I’m so sick of our diagrams of self-actualization at the expense of others. You and I both know the Sisterhood’s philosophies are just a means to an end. What is it? What is Megan planning?”
“If you had been around more . . . instead of . . . mucking about in the Highlands of Tue, you might already know.”
“I was doing research.”
“You were supposed to be spying.”
“What is Megan doing?”
Haidee’s smile leaked across her face, serene and supercilious. “Preparing for war.”
“With whom? The Duchy of Stonehold?”
“The Wllin Droul, you artless scut. Don’t you know anything anymore? You and I used to talk before you left for Desdae with that foot-licking wine peddler from Sandren. Megan may be naïve enough to believe that you didn’t give him something in return for your tuition but I’m not. She might even call it pårn if she found out—”
“Which would be correct . . . if it were true. I haven’t seen him since I graduated. He was nothing to me.”
“So you’re saying you went to school for the Sisterhood’s benefit? Pårn is for the good of the whole not for the good of the one. Megan should have seen through you long ago—”
“And why is that?” asked Megan.
Both girls whirled. The Shrdnae Mother stood within arm’s length, curiously obscured until that very instant, positioned at an angle just outside peripheral vision. Haidee went white. Sena simpered.
But her simper deteriorated instantly when she saw the look on Megan’s face. Like the look of a pet hound, Sena had expected familiarity regardless of Megan’s mood. But this was something else, the look of an animal that had unexpectedly turned on its owner: quiet, uncertain and lethal.
The Shrdnae Mother wore a ceremonial robe. It was much simpler than the attire of the Seventh House because Megan, even as Coven Mother, resided only in the Sixth. Her robe’s shoulders did not curl up but the fabric had been stitched with shiny threads of metallic blue in an arabesque pattern. Hemmed in black satin, the sleeves fell partly past her wrist, making her fingers look like paws.
Haidee did not try to make excuses. Her apology came quickly and with convincing sincerity. Sena said nothing.
Megan took a drink of something brown and iced and set the glass on the portico railing. She walked toward Sena and embraced her rigidly, leaving an unspoken question floating in her eyes.
“So nice to see you, Mother,” Sena cooed.
Megan plucked Ns from where the cat crouched, licking butterfly guts, and began stroking him as if he were hers. “I can’t believe the mess you made, Sienae.”
“The Cabal—”
“Shht—not here.” Megan glared. She touched Sena’s hair like a granger examining blight.
“You grow away, Sienae. It’s not good to live outside the Circle as long as you have.”
Megan set Ns down.
“It’s temporary. It comes right out.”
Megan snorted. “At least it isn’t blue or purple or whatever they dye it in the city these days.” Megan clucked. “Sienae, you would look charming if you had no hair at all.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
Haidee rolled her eyes.
Megan moved back to her sweating drink.
“Come with me, Sienae.”
Her request dismissed Haidee at the same time it left Sena no other choice. Sena saw hatred crawl beneath Haidee’s lovely cheeks.
Megan opened a door off the portico and ushered her into a complex of chambers, cool and dim as a cave.
Statuettes stood in nubile poses, gazing across music rooms or onto languid staircases that flowed like syrup from the second floor. A terror bird’s head was mounted on one wall. Most of its skull was a six-pound beak, rosy pink fading into dirty white. Fleshy blue skin ringed a set of glassy golden eyes. Sena plopped down in a stuffed chair beneath the trophy.
“How was your trip?” asked Megan.
“Abominable. Muggy—”
“I thought you had a horse . . .”
There was a squat iron canister on the floor fitted with tubing and a tight lid. A chemiostatic cell supplied power. It hissed as Megan unlatched the lid and scooped out a glass full of ice. She poured Sena one of the tall cinnamon drinks and topped it with a straw.