Insidious. Dawn Metcalf
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emphasize the word choice—was to join this world. And you have—or you will—when the change is complete.” He lifted an enormous, fluted glass filled with water in two hands. “Those are the rules, Miss Malone, not guidelines or suggestions—they are the very words that created this world. They are.”
“Rules can be changed,” she said. “Rules can be broken.”
“Not by you,” Graus Claude said dangerously. “And not by me. Nor by anyone on the Council or anyone in this world—and they would all tell you the same.” He huffed like a sneeze. “Human laws can be changed, Miss Malone, minds can be changed, fates may be altered, and fashions might fall out of favor, but the rules that created our world were the ones that cleaved order from chaos, light from darkness, and forged rational thought out of the wild abyss. They are absolute. They cannot be changed.” A contemplative quiet passed over his features, which faded as he set down his glass. “Even the human world recognizes the power of words that set the wheels of life into motion. Do not presume that you are an exception.”
“I’ve been one before,” she said, which earned her a darker glance. “Even you admit that my circumstances are unusual.”
The Bailiwick’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. “I can hardly contain my astonishment that the word unusual would be closely associated with your person, Miss Malone. In point of fact, during our brief association, I find that adjective to be most appropriate.” He sat back in his chair, which settled with its familiar, wooden groan. “But not this time. Despite circumstantial evidence, it would seem likely that you will follow the pattern woven into the very fabric of life in the Twixt. Best accept that inevitability as the choice you have made.”
Joy sputtered but couldn’t help remembering Ink’s advice when she’d first encountered the Bailiwick. Respect him. Always. She counted to ten in her head. Then upped it to twenty, clamping her fingers under her armpits to keep herself still. She could buy a glamour if she had to, right? She could look the same. But she would know the difference—she and all the Twixt. She couldn’t imagine looking into a mirror and seeing an unfamiliar face any more than she could imagine looking into a mirror and seeing nothing at all.
“What is going to happen?” Joy asked. “What about me is going to change?”
Graus Claude sat back, his ire abating as he wove his double set of fingers over his chest. “The changeling acclamation can affect any number of characteristics, depending on one’s genealogical source,” he said. “Once you adopted your signatura, you placed yourself within the magics that make up the Twixt, the last vestiges of magic on Earth. Just as you accepted the Twixt, now the Twixt must accept you.” He leaned forward slightly. “You must adjust yourself and your expectations to the rules that bind our world—the rules that will shape and govern the rest of your life—and that, I suspect, will be the thing that will change you the most.”
Joy tried to follow the implications of his pretty speech. “I’m becoming magic?”
Graus Claude looked askance. “You are magic, Miss Malone,” he said. “All humans and places who have a modicum of magic are the very people who are chosen by the Folk and thereby claimed under an auspice, subsequently marked by one of the Scribes. You were marked by Master Ink, therefore it is no wonder that you should have originally possessed some of that magic in the first place, having been one with the Sight, and now that magic has been activated, either instigated by his hand or by your own actions during your latest display in the Council Hall.” His browridge quirked. “Indeed, given your history, we should have expected something like this.”
Joy marveled at the ever-widening definition of something like this.
There was a knock at the door, and Kurt entered bearing a silver tray with a single calling card. The Bailiwick wiped each of his four hands on cloth napkins before taking it primly in his claws. Graus Claude squinted at the words, and two hands pushed against the arms of the chair as he heaved himself up, still staring at the piece of card stock. One hand folded the napkin over his plate as the fourth brushed crumbs from his suit.
“Let him in,” Graus Claude said.
Kurt bowed and departed. The Bailiwick eyed Joy, who had stopped eating.
“Remember what I told you,” he said quietly.
Before she could reply, Kurt opened the door and Sol Leander walked in.
Joy’s stomach flipped as he strode across the room, his sunken eyes sharp and ferret-bright beneath his dramatic widow’s peak. The cloak of starlight wheeled about his legs in a haughty sweep, and his arms were tucked into bell sleeves that made him look like a rather severe-looking monk or a vampiric Jedi knight. He bowed to the Bailiwick, who inclined his head in return.
“Welcome, Sol Leander,” Graus Claude said magnanimously. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
The Tide’s representative stared right past Joy and rendered what he must have thought was a smile. It looked like it hurt.
“I am pleased to find you both here,” he said. Joy privately suspected that he had spies watching her and had known that she was here all along. When he spun to face her, she flinched. “I came to bid you welcome, on behalf of the Council.” He raised his hands in grandiose greeting. “Welcome, Joy Malone. Welcome home to the Twixt!” He slid his hands together, tucking them once more beneath his sleeves. Joy was surprised that his voice held not a hint of mockery. Sol Leander was very, very good at this game.
She, on the other hand, was new at it. Dangerously so. Joy could feel the Bailiwick’s eyes on the back of her head. She’d just written this down. Respond with grace, with thanks and in kind.
“Thank you, Councilex Leander,” she said with a bow.
“Very good,” Sol Leander said as he turned to her sponsor. “She can be taught! You are to be commended, Graus Claude. Proper manners and etiquette will, of course, be essential for her upcoming debut.”
Graus Claude’s left eye gave an infinitesimal twitch.
“Debut?” he inquired politely. “What debut?”
“Why, the one to welcome Miss Malone, of course,” Sol Leander said as he produced an envelope from one sleeve, signed in elaborate script. He handed it to the Bailiwick. “You were right, Councilex Claude—this is a rare and exciting opportunity that should not be challenged, but celebrated! It’s been far too long since we welcomed an addition into our world, and we have suffered far too much loss as of late—don’t you agree?” His smile was reptilian. “What better way to revive our community spirit than a gala?” He gave a small nod to Joy, who stood transfixed by the exchange. She had never seen Graus Claude struck speechless before. “I am here to extend a formal invitation to yourself and Miss Malone. The festivities will be in your honor, of course,” Sol Leander said to Joy. “You are to be presented to the Council and then to your people, the entirety of the Twixt, in order to take your place among them.” His eyes flicked over her shoulders and knees. “Proper attire is required. Masks are optional, although there will certainly be no need to hide your face—” his dark eyes glittered “—you are the reason all of this is happening, after all.” The pointed double meaning wasn’t lost on Joy. She pressed her fingers together to keep them from twisting into childish knots.
“I see,” Graus Claude said softly, his tone hinting that he comprehended far more than what was actually being said.
“Yes,” Sol Leander said. “I imagine so.” He gave a bow to the Bailiwick and then to Joy, his eyes hard. “The gala promises to be an event that will equal your esteem.” He inclined his head. “Formal attire. In your honor. In three days’ time.”
“Three days?”
Joy wasn’t sure whether she or Graus Claude said it first. Sol Leander looked mildly surprised.
“Naturally the Council wished to make immediate reparation for the unfortunate circumstances