It’s dark when I wake up. It takes me a long time to realise that I’m awake. Sleep feels so warm and comforting, and the thought of anything else is distant and hard to reach. Has learning magic really been this tiring?
In some faraway corner of my mind I’m aware that that’s not it, that something is badly wrong. But why worry about it when I can just stay here, warm and safe and content?
I can’t, though. I lie there for a while without drifting back to sleep. I remember this feeling: it’s the same as that first morning when my life changed forever, when I first woke after Falling.
The words active episode fall into my mind. That’s a bad thing, I think. What happened?
The memory comes back with only a second’s thought: Mildred, the library, hyperspace, the door not opening. The last thing I remember is the hinges shattering and the door flying across the room.
A very bad thing.
What happened next? What – stars, what did I do? I need to find out.
It’s utterly dark, though, and I don’t know where I am. And the thought of groping around blindly until I find light or a way to somewhere there’s light doesn’t appeal. I’ll have to wait.
No, I won’t. I’m being stupid. I’m a magician.
I push back the bedcovers – I’m in a bed, at least – and cup my hands together. “In the ugly darkness,” I whisper. The silver light comes to me. I was scared that it wouldn’t, that I’d exhausted too much magic in the episode.
But I have light now. Not bright, but enough to see by. I move my hands in a slow arc so I can see each part of the room in turn.
It’s not a room I recognise, just a small bare bedroom. There’s the bed I’m in, a small table beside it, a chair, a clock on the wall telling me that it’s four and five – after midnight, I presume, given the darkness. There’s curtains hanging from the wall on the left which presumably hide a window, and a door opposite and another to the right on the wall behind me.
That’s all I can make out without getting out of bed. I pull my hands apart so that the light is only held in one palm and I can use the other to throw back the bedsheets. I flinch as my bare feet hit the floor: it’s cold stone without even a rug.
Once I’ve adjusted to the icy feeling, I stand. My legs take my weight; my body is still working. I pad over to the curtains first, since they’re closest. They open easily when I tug them, to reveal a window as expected.
It’s night, and the stars hang low in the sky. I can just make out the shapes of trees and lawns arranged in a familiar pattern: the Academy’s gardens. So I’m still there, at least.
I try the door opposite the bed. It’s locked. I tell myself it’s because they don’t want anyone wandering into the room where I’m sleeping in the middle of the night. But really I’m scared that it’s to keep me in.
The other door leads to a bathroom, as I discover when its enchanted light appears as I open the door, nearly blinding me. I extinguish the light in my hand and step inside.
It’s an ordinary bathroom, plainer than the one in my dormitory, but it at least has a mirror.
I don’t know what I was expecting from my reflection. Some visible sign of what happened and how it’s changed me? There’s nothing, just red-rimmed eyes and messy hair. My braids must have come undone at some point.
I set about fixing them, since I have nothing else to do and I doubt I’ll be able to sleep again now. It’s good to have something to do with my hands: the slow methodical work helps me not to think.
Lucy the Fair. She was Richard Blackbeard’s successor; he’d had no children, so she was his little sister. Her reign was a peaceful time, and she isn’t remembered as much as kings who ruled during war or fought bloody battles for the throne. What little I know indicates that she was a good king, though, and that the prosperity of the kingdom during her reign wasn’t merely a coincidence.
It seems so obvious now, but when I needed her I couldn’t find her. It probably wouldn’t have helped.
I’ll never let myself forget her again. Or any of them.
“Charles First-King,” I say to my reflection. “Edwin the Just.”
I keep going until I’ve recited the entire list, finishing with the traditional “King Robert of no name, may history judge him well”: kings are never granted official bynames until they’re dead. I don’t know what his will be; he’s not a particularly remarkable king, harsh though that sounds.
By that time my hair is braided, so I step out of the bathroom and resummon the silver light. I consider sleeping, realise it’s still not going to happen and stare out of the window, watching the stars and wondering if they’re watching me.
I find myself wanting to pray. I haven’t prayed of my own accord outside temple services for years, but if I’ve ever needed the blessing of the stars, it’s now. I kneel before the window as though it were an altar and close my eyes.
“Stars,” I begin, “that have always watched over us and always will watch over us. Stars that light and guide our path through the darkness. Stars that…” I can’t remember the third line of the invocation. Does that matter? I’ve never quite known if it’s the intent behind a prayer that matters or the form and ritual of it.
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“Stars that hear me now,” I continue, hoping it’s the former. “I ask that you hear my prayer and that you lend me your help and your fortune now that I need you.” That’s definitely not the right words. No matter. It’s not as if I have a prayerbook to consult.
“Please,” I say, “please let me not have hurt anyone. Please let me not have destroyed anything. I never wanted to hurt anyone or destroy anything, not really. Please – please – don’t let this change things. Don’t – “
It’s no good. Putting my fears into words, even to beg the stars to not let them become reality, makes them too real. “Don’t – well. You are eternal, all-seeing, all-knowing, so you know what I’m afraid of. Don’t let it happen. Please.”
I stare out at the stars. They give no sign that they’ve heard me. I don’t know what I was expecting. I stand and drag the chair over to the windowsill, then sit in it and stare out at the stars again.
I don’t sleep, but I must fall into a sort of trance. I see the stars begin to fade as the sky turns a pale dawn-grey and the first glimmers of light appear on the horizon. I see the sun rise. It’s beautiful. The light is almost painful; I was used to the darkness, felt almost at home in it. It’s as if now that there’s light to see by, I can’t hide any more.
I press my hands together to extinguish my light and pace around the room. There’s a jug of water on the bedside table; I pour myself a glass and drink it slowly. There’s no food; I’m hungry. It was morning when I was in the library, so I’ve missed two meals. At least two meals, that is; I’m not quite sure what day it is.
I hope it’s only Monday. I don’t want to miss lessons. I glance up at the clock: six after midnight. Three hours until my first class. Hopefully someone will come before then. Hopefully someone will come.
I try the door again. It’s still locked. I wish I knew an unlocking-spell, and then wonder if I’d use it if I did. Not yet. It’s barely morning. Someone will come soon.
I use the bathroom. I consider washing, but I don’t have clean clothes. I’m still wearing the dress I had on that morning. I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. The clock ticks by with excruciating slowness.
I recite the list of kings again, three times. I pace around the room again. It doesn’t take long. I walk in tight circles between the bed and the door, counting my steps. I look out of the window to see if there’s anyone awake and outside; there isn’t.
Time passes, somehow, though I feel as if I’m trapped in a moment and the clock will never reach a time when someone might come.
It’s a few minutes after seven when the door handle turns. I stop pacing and sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap.
The door opens. It’s Electra. I probably don’t keep the disappointment at the fact it's her of all people off my face well enough. It makes sense for it to be her, though: she is an expert on Malaina, apparently. I should have realised.
She’s fully dressed despite the early hour; she holds a tray in her hands and a large object hovers above the floor behind her. “Tallulah,” she says, crossing the room to set the tray down on the table. The object floats through the door without her turning to look. It’s my trunk. “You’re awake.”
I say nothing.
Electra waves a hand; my trunk settles itself just in front of me, and the door swings shut. “I suppose you have questions,” she says, leaning back against the wall.
“What happened?” I ask simply.
“At about eleven after midnight yesterday, Miss Cavendish knocked frantically on my door and told a story that you were chasing her under the influence of a Malaina episode. You appeared less than a minute later and proved that story correct, so I stopped you before you could do any damage.”
“No-one was hurt?” I ask, hardly believing it.
“No. It appears that the library door was destroyed, but thankfully Miss Blackthorn understands hyperspace well enough that she was able to prevent a stability breakdown.”
Oh, stars, that hadn’t even occurred to me. I vaguely remember the door flying off its hinges, and I suppose that no door between reality and hyperspace could lead to all sorts of bad things. I owe Rosie an apology at the very least.
“Do I – do I need to pay to replace it?” I ask, feeling a faint dread at the thought. My pocket money won’t cover a door, especially with all the enchantments it doubtless needs to serve as a boundary between hyperspace and ordinary space. I’ll have to ask my parents. So I destroyed a door because I had a magical breakdown and now I need money. That conversation will not end well.
Electra shakes her head. “The Academy has a policy of not holding its Malaina students liable for damages to its property during active episodes. And I have a few questions for you. Such as: why did I not hear anything about increased episode frequency until the incident occurred?”
Oh, stars. She did say that I was meant to report all episodes to her, didn’t she? And I must have had half a dozen passive episodes I never mentioned a word of to her. Even if I’d remembered, I couldn’t have told her, because that would involve giving away secrets.
Never mind that, how am I going to explain it now? “I…” I have a flash of inspiration. It has a high chance of getting me detention, but I have no better ideas. “With respect, you’re not exactly the most approachable of teachers.”
She laughs a little. “That is true, I suppose, but it does not excuse your negligence.”
“I told Edward,” I protest.
“Edward,” she repeats. “Edward, who is sixteen years old, Malaina and a Blackthorn. Whatever his virtues, he does not have the qualifications or experience to help you – “
“It’s not about qualifications or experience,” I say without thinking.
“What is it about, then?” asks Electra, one of those awful smiles of hers playing across her lips.
“It’s about understanding. We understand each other.”
Electra sighs. “Teenagers,” she drawls. “I’ll never know why you’re like this. I suppose the consequences of your actions are punishment enough for you, and I hope you will learn from them.”
“I will,” I say hastily. “I’ll make sure to tell you whenever I have an episode in future.”
“You’re just telling me what I want to hear.”
Indeed I am. It was worth a try. “No, really.”
She raises a sceptical eyebrow but makes no further comment on that. “Speaking of the consequences of your actions,” she says, “you ought to know that Miss Cavendish has filed a report under the Malaina Stability Law.”
I should know what that means. It seems stupid of me not to have researched the law as it applies to Malaina in great detail. “…and that means?”
“It means that she believes you to be a danger to others.”
“I’m not – “
“There will be a court hearing in two weeks’ time to determine whether that is in fact the case. Until that hearing takes place you will be kept in isolation, with visitors only under the supervision of a suitably qualified person.”
Stars. No. I have to think. I have to know what’s happening. “Suitably qualified person meaning you?”
“I am the only such person on the Academy’s staff at present.”
“And…” I don’t want to say this, but I have to. “What if… if this hearing…”
“Finds that you are dangerous?”
I nod.
“It will not, for the simple reason that you are not.”
If it were anyone other than Electra saying that, I would be immensely relieved. But it’s her, and so I’m not. “But if it did,” I press. I need to know.
“Then the court will have the right to enact whatever measures it deems necessary for the safety of the population.”