nyctasia was disappointed to learn that the Windhover never sailed out of sight of land. She had never been on a ship before, and once she’d recovered from her seasickness she was eager to learn all the workings of the vessel. She drew diagrams of the rigging in her commonplace book, inquiring the name and purpose of every part of the ship.
Corson was far too familiar with ships to share Nyctasia’s enthusiasm, and she was more bored than ever now that Nyctasia was taken up with this new-found interest. The sight of Destiver was a constant goad to her temper, and the crew continued to shun her, taking their lead from the captain. She took to spending more time in the cabin, brooding and trying to puzzle out Nyctasia’s books.
For a time, an illustrated herbal took her fancy, with its detailed drawings of leaves and brightly inked paintings of flower petals. She read: “The leaf of the Wolfhead Yarrow, when seethed in water or wine yields a tisane which may be taken against the catarrh, and when crushed in a mortar is most profitably employed in the preparation of a poultice for staunching of blood and the other humors of the body, for it possesses certain beneficial properties which make the flesh to draw together in such manner as may aid in the closing of wounds and the healing of purulence and suchlike maladies.”
Corson yawned. She passed over the lengthy instructions for the preparation of the poultice, and turned to the next picture, which showed a thick-stemmed plant with large, dark purple blossoms. Here, as elsewhere in the book, a dry, faded cutting was pressed between the pages. This was Royal Swinebane, Corson learned, and its juice was so deadly that even its touch was dangerous. When it was set afire it gave off evil fumes that burned the eye and choked the throat. It was not safe even to smell the thing.
“Poisonous little witch!” Corson muttered. She closed the herbal, being careful not to touch the flattened Swinebane, and took up the last of the books, which was so small it fit in the palm of her hand. It was closely written in a minute script that Corson read with difficulty in the dim light of the cabin. But, as she began to decipher the text, she found to her dismay that it was a long, ponderous treatise of Vahnite philosophy, even more dull than Wolfhead Yarrow.
Corson paged through chapter after incomprehensible chapter of Influences, Reflections, and Balances until she came at last to something that looked like poetry. Here, a note in Nyctasia’s handwriting read, “Debased Version of the Fourth Reflection:”
See in this enchanted mirror
All things from afar draw nearer
Till yond is nigh, and all is here
For nothing is lost, as shall appear.
Pierce if you please the shining’s seeming Wake if you will the sleeper’s dreaming
Learn of lover, reck of foe,
Find thy friend, thy rival know.
Lift, if you like, the veil of distance
Dare to deny its false Resistance
Set at naught a thousand paces
Recall thy steps, erase thy traces.
Corson read the verse again, then the brief precepts that followed. The spell made no sense, but it seemed simple enough to do-all that was needed was a mirror. “Learn of lover?” she repeated. It would be underhanded of her to spy on Steifann, of course, but no one would be the wiser, and no harm done.
Nyctasia had warned her to leave the books alone, and she herself distrusted magic, but the temptation was a powerful one for someone as jealous as Corson.
She looked around guiltily, undecided, then quietly shut the door of the cabin.
Fetching the mirror from her pack, she unwrapped it slowly, half hoping that Nyctasia would return and catch her out.
The cabin seemed to grow closer and smaller than ever as she knelt beside the book, clutching the mirror in one clammy hand. Her own voice sounded strange to her while she recited the words of the spell, and the mirror felt suddenly heavier. She glanced down at it, then remembered that she was not to look at it yet, and turned away. Had she seen something move in the glass just then? Corson resolutely shut her eyes, whispering Steifann’s name, then waited for the space of twelve heartbeats. It was time-but Corson still hesitated, seized with nameless forebodings. Then, steeling herself, she opened her eyes wide and stared into the mirror.