Fallen Magic

I know that I'm anomalous, and that that is significant somehow. I'm one of those who came before, whatever that means. "The stars caused the anomaly" is about as plausible an explanation as any other one I've come up with. And I'm reasonably sure that it being active is related to my being a magician. I can't think of a single anomalous incident from before I Fell, and Edward hasn't told me about any either.

So… what if the stars, or whatever caused the anomaly, also needed to make me a magician? What if that's the real reason I Fell?

And – if I'm right – why would it ever choose me?

I don't understand. And I don't like the idea. I don't want what happened to me to be part of some cosmic plan, because then it loses its very mortal meaning. And because, if it is, what are the next steps in the plan? Are they preordained for me? Do I have no more say in my future than when I thought I wanted to be a lawyer like my dad because that's what was expected of me?

I can't even begin to grapple with this realisation. The best thing I can think of is to pretend it never happened and make the choices I believe to be right and at least pretend I have free will, even if I don't.

I've lost track of the sermon again. Sister Millicent is saying something about resolutions now, but her voice seems distant and far away, almost as if –

Charles First-King. Edwin the Just. No. Not here. Not now. Not with this many people in this small a space. I cannot have an active episode right now.

At least this time I've caught it soon enough that I have sufficient presence of mind to remember trying to fight a Malaina episode with sheer force of will is a bad idea. But then I realise that this isn't something I can talk over with my dad, especially not in public, and that there's no-one I can turn to for support with this except Electra who I can't trust and Edward who isn't here –

And that makes it worse. Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender. Eleanor the Bold.

I try to breathe, try to calm my racing heart and thoughts, but all I can think of is that I can't leave, not now, not without having to answer questions there are no good answers to, and I'm trapped here, and –

And I have an anomaly that I know can save me from Malaina, because it's done that before.

That thing put me in this position, it can get me out.

It's just that I've never deliberately summoned it before. I don't know how. It's not as if I can mentally yell in the direction of whatever corner of my mind it lurks in.

Despair and frustration. Ironically, the hope that knowing it can help gives me might be the very thing preventing me from receiving its help. I can't call on it, but I can't have an active episode here. I can't –

I'm not going to. I'm better than that. I am stronger than Malaina.

Those are, some distant part of my mind notes with giddy relief, very anomalous thoughts.

Someone tugs on my hand. I return to some semblance of reality to see that Sister Millicent is kneeling in prayer, and the congregation too is falling to its knees. I blink gratefully at my dad and stumble off my seat and into a kneeling position.

Why am I kneeling to the stars? What have they done to deserve my prostrating myself before them like this, begging for their aid?

Those thoughts, too, are anomalous, whatever part of me is still me notes. The anomalous part of me has quite the ego. That amuses me, for some reason.

I don't know what I'm supposed to be praying for, so I pray that the stars will help me work out what this anomaly is and how to use its powers while remaining myself. Because that does not feel like something I can do on my own.

This is counterevidence to the theory that led to all of this. If the anomaly comes from the stars, would it really be so resentful of kneeling to them?

Maybe the thought that it isn't is scarier. Because then I don't have any idea what it is.

My mind gradually returns to a normal state over the rest of the service. I can't tell you what happened during it; I have only fragmentary memories of Sister Millicent's voice, and later those of the two monks. Of priests and priestesses walking around the temple, lighting the candles held by each family. I could have done it myself by magic – if I wasn't afraid that casting right now would be a very bad idea – but tradition dictates otherwise.

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We walk home again. It's brighter now, but still cold, not helped by my hesitance to cast a warming-spell until I'm certain the anomaly has faded. My grandmother holds the candle in her cupped hands. It must be enchanted, I realise, to stay lit despite the breeze. That would explain how expensive it was.

My dad is whistling as he walks, which he never normally does. I recognise the tune as a carol, if only because I remember hearing it around this time of year before, but I don't know the song. He's surprisingly tuneful, though, and I like the sound.

And then we're back, and climbing the stairs, my grandmother moving carefully to stop the candle from falling. Once we're inside she sets it down on the mantlepiece again. "Well," she says, smiling. "Happy Holy Days."

"Happy Holy Days," I agree, and my dad echoes us.

We're looking at each other slightly awkwardly: so it's Holy Days. Now what?

The Ship's Day doesn't have as many rituals and traditions associated with it as Esteral or even the Day of Gifts. I know that in ports and coastal cities across the country, new ships are being named and setting sail on largely short and symbolic first voyages, but Crelt is far from the sea and the river a mile or so from the city is far too treacherous to sail on.

So there isn't really a script for us to follow about what to do with the rest of our day. Especially since we don't have our own family traditions either, because it's never been the three of us before. Because this is the first time I've spent Holy Days without my mother.

I'm surprised by how much that realisation hurts. I thought I'd adjusted to her not being part of my life by now, but… it's supposed to be a time for family, for togetherness, and we're still apart.

I remind myself firmly that this pain is far better than the pain of spending five days with her would be. I'm not really missing her. I'm missing a version of her that only exists in my head, the mother who'd love and accept me no matter what.

My grandmother suggests some party games, but neither my dad nor I are that enthusiastic about the idea. Those tend to work better with more people, or with louder people. We compromise on more of the cards we played a couple of evenings ago: it'll be much more interesting and evenly-matched now my dad and I actually understand the rules. Or so he insists, at least.

In practice, my grandmother is still better than both of us, but it's a lot closer than it was to begin with. I'm not used to seeing this jokingly competitive side of my dad, who claims with a laugh that if we keep playing for the rest of Holy Days he'll be just as good as she is. Me, I'm happy just to be playing at all.

That keeps us occupied for a couple of hours, and then my grandmother declares she's going to make us a proper Ship's Day lunch and flatly refuses our offers to help. I wonder if she just doesn't like cooking with other people; I can't blame her, if so.

I decide to just spend the rest of the morning reading. The alternative would be trying to work out how to make an enchanted light without waiting for Edward's reply, but after what happened at the service I don't want anything to do with magic for a little while.

So, as usual, I escape into the past for an hour or two.

When I emerge from history, I find a spectacular lunch waiting for us. It's roast goose with salad, but the carrot slices have been carved into tiny ships and the lettuce leaves folded into the same. No wonder it took my grandmother so long to prepare. I could never bring myself to pour that much effort into something that's only going to be eaten in a couple of hours.

I can't quite find the words to express my feelings, seeing it. I settle for "thank you," though it feels inadequate.

It also feels like sacrilege to eat the carrots and lettuce, but I do it anyway. They don't taste any different – I didn't really expect them to, but it felt a little as if they should. The only complaint I have about the meal is that there's too much of it for my small appetite and I'm forced to leave leftovers.

And that I'm too full to move by the time I finally admit defeat, which makes washing up even more miserable than it usually is. I still do my share, though, too stubborn to complain. I promptly stagger over to the sofa and collapse afterwards.

I'm not quite sure where the afternoon goes. It seems like one moment I'd just picked up my book and the next it's time to start cooking dinner. I'm still not in a fit state to contemplate more food, not to mention that half my mind is several centuries away, so I don't manage to be any more coherent than a grunt at first. Then I manage "Sorry. I'm still full from lunch, but I can help cook if I need to?"

"It's fine," says my dad. "I'm making soup. I'll get you a portion, but if you don't want it then that's okay."

"Thanks," I say, and return to my book. Once again it seems like only seconds before the soup is ready. The idea of food isn't quite so horrifying by that point, so I drag myself over to the table and eat soup. I gradually return to reality as I do so – its delicious taste probably helps – and apologise if I've been rude this afternoon.

Neither of them have a problem with it, though. My dad says he's just glad to see me finally relaxing. Besides, I haven't exactly missed much. My grandmother has been sewing and my dad also reading other than the time he spent preparing the soup. A quiet day. It surprises me, how much I like quiet. Maybe it's just the contrast with the many not-quiet days I've had recently.

The little voice in my head that's always wondering what's going to go wrong next is still there, of course, but it sounds quieter than normal. I can ignore it if I want to, and pretend that I'll have as many quiet afternoons like this as I want. Pretend that I'm not going to return to my other life in less than a week, and that things won't be completely different once I do.

It's quite a nice game of pretend to play, until I realise how much I'd miss. Learning new magic. Living in a literal palace. The friends I've made there. Edward. Not-quiet days are an acceptable price to pay for that. Aren't they?

I tilt my bowl to get the last of the soup onto my spoon. It surprises me how much of an appetite I've managed to find for it. Maybe my dad's soup is just that good. He smiles as he watches me, which makes me smile too.