Fallen Magic

I hold myself as still as I can and watch Lauren for any sign she knows I'm there. She gives none; she's mostly looking at the rest of the group, though her gaze occasionally drifts upwards. The conversation has become less ordered, and I'm only able to pick up snippets:

"Don't understand how we're supposed to – "

"Should try and find – "

"Send someone to the City – "

"The Temple – "

I really want to know what they're talking about. But more than that, I want to get this note delivered and get out of here. I inch forward a few more shuffling steps.

"Can we trust Carling?" someone asks. I think it's the first man I heard, the one who reassured Lauren about the clarity of the signs.

Does he mean Ariana Carling, incoming leader of the Parliamentary opposition?

"Why in stars' names would you want to do that?" spits another woman. "We tell someone with power and all this becomes theirs. As it is at least we have control over what we do next."

"And that control does a fine lot of good without the power to do anything – "

"At least Carling's a Reformist – "

They do mean her. Stars. Whatever Lauren has seen, I'm getting the impression that it's big.

Not my problem. Another few steps, and I'm only feet from the group – and from Omar's stall. The next few moments are going to be crucial.

"I say we wait until she's actually proved herself. For all we know she might sell out to the establishment now she's got some power."

"Why don't we have Lauren ask the stars about her, as well?"

"It's not that simple," says Lauren distantly. "The stars don't speak the way we do."

"If they did, anyone could do your job."

"Lauren knows what she's doing," the first man says sharply.

I inch forward another step or two. I'm next to Omar's stall now. Just a question of slipping the note inside and then making it to the other end of the row. It sounds easy, when I put it that way, but I know it won't be. I'm not sure how much more of this either my aching legs or my focus on the veil can stand.

"Without Lauren, none of this would be possible."

Lauren herself doesn't seem to react to the praise. She's staring up at the stars again. I wonder if she's reading the patterns in them. If they're telling her something.

Then she collapses. Her legs suddenly crumple beneath her and she falls to the ground.

The first man begins giving orders, practiced ones, as if this is something that's happened before. "James, support her head. Cara, Max, hold her legs down. Anna, have some water ready for afterwards."

I'm a little worried for Lauren, but they seem to have things under control. More importantly for me, this is the perfect distraction. Quickly, before anyone can look away from Lauren, I pull myself just upright enough to tuck my note to Omar into the gap between two wooden slats.

Then I make my exit. It's not elegant, and I'm thankful no-one is watching my half-crouched half-run, but it's far faster than the shuffling motion of before. Maybe it's risky to move this quickly, but they're distracted, and I can't bear the thought of continuing to shuffle past any longer.

I keep going all the way to the end of the row, knowing a more distant movement of shadows is far less likely to be noticed. There are no sounds of pursuit or indications that they've noticed something.

I make it to the end, duck into the mouth of the neighbouring (thankfully empty) row, dismiss the veil, and collapse. Never again, I vow. Or at least, not without becoming accomplished enough with veils that I can actually walk upright like a normal person.

Once I've recovered enough that the thought of moving isn't enough to make my poor legs protest, I wonder what to do next. The sensible answer is "go home, sleep, and pretend this escapade never happened". But… I really want to find out what Lauren saw and what these people intend to do about it.

I'm not going back into that aisle of stalls. No sense in pushing my luck. But maybe I could hear from a neighbouring row? Or hide in one of the stalls? I wish I'd thought to crawl inside Omar's stall earlier.

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I'll walk back along the aisle I'm in now, I decide, and listen out as I go. And if I don't hear anything, I'll just go back. So that's what I do. My legs still don't like me, but they accept my orders to walk in a normal fashion with only mild complaints.

I don't encounter anything of interest on the way back. The drunks are no longer gathered outside the inn – too late, I suppose, for the innkeeper to want them there. And it's only a few more minutes before I'm back at the apartment.

I pause on the step and stare up at the stars for a minute. I'm mentally already curled up in bed, so my thoughts are vague and dreamy: is Lauren looking at the stars now and seeing the future in them? Do the stars really know the future? Which of the Temple doctrines is right about how they choose to show it?

And there's a certainty that I'm on the edge of some new understanding, only it's just out of reach. Maybe it's something I'm not meant to know.

After a while, I shake my head and let myself into the building.

I'm careful to be quiet, so as not to wake any of our neighbours. Or, for that matter, my dad. But when I poke my head inside, he's fast asleep. It feels wrong watching him sleep, so I creep past and safely into the bedroom.

I change quickly and quietly and collapse into bed. I'm asleep within seconds.

"…lulah?"

I blink. Oh. I'm awake. I wish I wasn't. I make a sound I hope is intelligible.

"Breakfast is ready." That's my dad's voice. I must have overslept. No wonder, after last night.

"Mm."

"If you want to eat it before we go, you should probably get out of bed."

I don't want to do that. But, as my dad says, I probably should. With an effort, I disentangle myself from the duvet and swing my legs round to the side. "Thanks. Morning. I'll be there in a minute."

Stars, I want so much to just roll over and return to sleep. But after all the effort I went to last night to make sure I could work with Tara today, that would be the height of foolishness. I sigh and get to my feet.

I feel a little more awake by the time I've washed and dressed myself. And breakfast is still just about warm.

"Are you okay?" my dad asks. "It's not like you to sleep so late."

I shrug. "Guess I needed to."

"…how late were you up reading last night?"

I mentally thank my dad for giving me an easy way out. "…probably later than I should have been. I'll be fine, though."

"Try not to make a habit of doing that."

"I won't," I promise, trying not to think of how many nights I've done something like that, even if it's not the problem this time. To be fair, I don't intend to make a habit of sneaking out to deliver notes at night either.

I do wonder, though, what I should do about what I discovered last night. If Lauren does really have some oracular power, and if what she saw is as important as she made it sound, that seems like the sort of thing that someone ought to know about.

But the only person I could go to is Lord Blackthorn. The problems with that are obvious: not only is his method of dealing with it likely to end very badly for everyone in the group from last night, I'd have to explain what exactly I was doing in the market that late.

The alternative, I suppose, is to investigate it myself. Which is a spectacularly bad idea and not one I should even be considering. But stars, the temptation is there.

I eat breakfast more quickly than I'd like, but such is the price of oversleeping. I'm ready to leave at the usual time, and that's what we do. The morning is a cold one, but at least not quite as cold as last night – and at least I can safely cast a warming-spell now.

I'm relieved to note my casting feels as smooth as ever. Maintaining the veil for so long was probably the most powerful magic I've used, so I was a little concerned I'd pushed myself too far. But with no symptoms of magical burnout, I can safely assume I didn't.

Despite the spell, the cold air is refreshing, and helps me feel less asleep. I feel properly awake by the time we reach the office. My dad disappears as soon as we're inside to focus on preparing for client meetings later this morning.

I don't mind that. His work is important, and he shouldn't have to sacrifice it for me. I just wish it didn't leave me alone with Jamie.

Since his attempts to make me unwelcome failed, he's been ignoring me as much as possible. That's a lot better than how it was before, but it's still awkward to be alone in a room with someone determined to pretend you're not there. I wish I'd thought to bring a book or some work or anything to distract me from the silence.

Instead I stare into space and try to think of the project rather than last night. What will we need to do? How best to respond to Electra's message?

I want all the help she can give me, but I also don't want to make it seem as if I've forgiven her for what she did. I haven't, even if the apology helps a little.

I stare at the clock that hangs on the wall opposite the chair I've claimed. Tara isn't late; my dad and I were early. The thought that I could have had an extra few minutes of sleep hurts a little. I might feel fine now, but I know from experience that I'll be exhausted well before bedtime tonight.

Time ticks by, painfully slowly. I'm tempted to practice some simple magic, just for something to do, but all too aware of Jamie's presence and his likely objections to that. No sense in antagonising him any more than I already do by existing in the same room as him.

But he already knows I'm Malaina, and if he has any understanding of what that means he'll know that casting small, controlled magics is hardly close to an active episode. Then again, quite possibly he doesn't understand what that means.

I wonder if there's a way to change that. And not just for him, for the thousands of people who haven't encountered Malaina outside of scare stories about mala sia in the papers and copper-tales and don't understand that we're still human.

Could I use the publicity this project will inevitably generate for that purpose? If I can, that would make it all worth it.

Except my dad doesn't want me to be caught up in that publicity. Then again, I'm not sure if his withdrawal from the project changes that. I don't quite know how to talk to him about it, and I don't intend to interrupt his work to ask.

The door swings abruptly open, letting in a blast of icy wind. I dismissed my warming-spell when I got here, so the cold is an unpleasant shock. I'm relieved to see that it's Tara who finally enters. She's wrapped in a thick coat, and I note her scarf: it's a lovely pale blue colour and its flower pattern reminds me of the scarves sold by Omar and his son. Is that where she got it?

"Morning, Tallulah," she says, sounding as cheerful as ever despite the cold. "Shall we get to work?"