“With . . . a flower.”

“My own spell. Don’t tell anyone. It’s crass to invent new ways to use magic, and everyone would look down on me. But you’ll appreciate this! I gave my aunt a lovely potted plant that I recommended she place in the parlor. A very special potted plant, that allows me to pick a flower and use it as a conduit through which I can hear conversations. I did not gain my reputation as Avebury’s most skilled gossip by chance.”

“You have certainly elevated eavesdropping to new and complicated heights. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just listen outside the door?”

She leans forward. “Here, on my forehead, feel.”

Puzzled, I run my fingers over the spot she indicated. There’s a small indentation. “What is that?”

“When I was eleven, I was listening to an argument between my father and uncle. My father stormed out, and the door hit me so hard it knocked me unconscious and left a permanent dent! So I became more creative in the interest of self-preservation.”

“You are a wonder.”

She beams, lifting the flower again. “I know. Now hush. Uncle is hosting Lord Benton, who has his sights set on a union of the families through Ernest marrying his daughter, Margaret. We hate Margaret, in case you were wondering what our opinion is.”

I nod firmly, sitting on a velvet couch to watch as Eleanor reacts to things I can’t hear. Much eye rolling follows, along with a few sighs.

“Politics,” she mouths, yawning dramatically. But then her eyes narrow and she presses the flower closer to her ear. Her expression changes to one of alarm.

“What is it?”

She shushes me and I wait impatiently until she finally sets down the flower, twisting it distractedly and tearing off the petals. “Well. I do wish I hadn’t heard that. It would seem that Lord Benton, who has long been an advocate for peace along with Uncle, is switching allegiances.”

“He’s supporting Lord Downpike? Why?”

“He didn’t say. But he very strongly urged Uncle to either do the same or step to the side and avoid any position at all.”

“And what did the earl say? Surely he disagreed.”

Eleanor shakes her head sadly. “He said perhaps it was time for him to take my aunt on a long holiday and let things happen however they will.”

“So he’ll allow Downpike to have his own way. Who else stands against him?”

“Other than Lord Ackerly? Fewer and fewer, I’m afraid.” She sits on the couch next to me, and we stare in troubled silence at the tiny flower that delivered such frightening news.

Twenty-five

“SO YOUR CANE FUNCTIONS AS A CONDUIT?” I ASK. We spent the last few days dissecting what Lord Benton’s defection might mean, but until Finn can get more information, it’s an exercise in madness. He’s been teaching me about magic, instead.

“Mmm.” Finn nods, checking over the sequence I’ve copied out of one of his father’s books of magical knowledge. I’m beginning to grasp the specific language of magic. It’s a lot like mathematics. A shorthand way of expressing much larger concepts. Though I can now look at most of the spells and understand what they accomplish, I can’t do any of it. I don’t know how to feel about that, but I do enjoy researching and learning. Though both Finn’s and Eleanor’s lack of knowledge about the history of magic—where it came from, how it started—annoys me a great deal and makes me reconsider my distaste of studying history. I may have to delve into this instead.

“The cane is a shortcut. I do the work beforehand and funnel it into the cane, and then when I need something quickly I can pull it from there. It is impossible to memorize every spell. I consult my books constantly, with only a handful of spells I can manage without advance preparation. The cane makes me far more capable of pulling up magic at a moment’s notice.”

“Like tapping a menacing fellow on the head to make him forget he wanted to harass me?”

“Yes, exactly like that.”

“I had a knife, you know.”

He smiles. “I did know. It was the first thing I liked about you.”

“Show me something.”

“What would you like to see?”

“Anything. Dazzle me with your boring, practical Alben magic.”

Sir Bird preens next to me, tucking feathers into place with a low noise in his throat almost like he’s talking to himself. A slow smile spreads across Finn’s face as he rubs his knuckles—black and blue with several bruises from Sir Bird’s beak.

“Let’s see,” he says, flipping through his father’s book. “Here! I’ll need some water in a shallow bowl . . . ink . . . yes, I think this is everything.” He gathers the items, then reads over the entry several times, eyebrows knit in concentration. Dipping his pen in the ink, he whispers strange words while writing on the surface of the water. The ink drips down, elongating the form of the symbols that still hover where he wrote them. I recognize one—change. But the rest I haven’t learned yet.

Then, without warning, he lifts up the bowl and dumps the whole thing onto Sir Bird.

Only instead of getting wet, as the water washes over his body, Sir Bird’s feathers turn . . . blue.

Bright, brilliant, shimmering blue.

Squawking in outrage, Sir Bird hops and flies around the room, frantically shaking his feathers. He lands on the desk with a scrabble of clawed feet, then begins trying to bite off the color.