Mortemagi (n)—Death magic practitioner.
Death magic is intuitive, but it takes more than it gives.
YSENIA FARO,DEATH MAGIC FOR BEGINNERS, CHAPTER 1
one | viola
MAY 2, 1927
I was ten the first time I touched a corpse.
Nan died in her sleep a day before her seventieth birthday. When I went to pay respects by her casket, she grabbed my wrist and whispered,The last words of the dead are sacred. Speak them, and you’ll meet your end.
Of course I screamed. The softness of her hand, which used to stroke my hair as I fell asleep, was now a stiff palm with icicles that dug into my tender skin, and her mouth, which used to tell me stories, had doomed me with my worst nightmare: magic.
Mother pinched her lips, her reprimand only a breath away, but my younger sister, Olivia, clutched her throat with feigned disgust. “There’s a roach in Nan’s casket.”
It didn’t work.
Mother knew us too well, and she knew that at least one of us had inherited Nan’s peculiar affinity for the dead. Later that evening, as we sat around a lukewarm casserole of macaroni and cheese, she asked Olivia and me if one of us had thegift. I stuffed my mouth with food.Gift. What a cruel way to describe the magic that killed our father and left her without a husband.
Olivia set her fork down and gave me a look that was halfway between“forgive me” and “don’t stop me.” Then she wore her brightest smile, held her head high, and said, “It’s me. I have magic.”
The moment I realized what she was doing, the half-chewed dough in my mouth became like glue. Years of late-night talks under the single ceiling light of our bedroom, telling Olivia how much I hated magic because it killed our father, culminated in this moment: my sister, the light of my life, was going to lift that burden off my shoulders. I didn’t need to forgive her, and I was never going to stop her. It was selfish, but I would never lean into the magic that destroyed our family. Mother was a nonmagi; no one would question that magic passed to only one daughter.
At her declaration, Mother shot out of her chair, hand on her heart. She looked at Olivia like she had won a prize, made a fuss about how she was destined for greatness. “A mage inmyfamily,” Mother squealed, fawning over my sister.
It was no secret that Nan could see the dead. Rhea Corvi was revered around Albion. The townspeople often came to her to confirm their loved ones had moved on, and now that she was dead, they would come see… us. We’d probably inherited Father’s magic after he passed, but Nan was the first dead body we witnessed. And if I couldhearthe dead, it probably meant Olivia couldseeNan’s ghost. Was this why she was fixating on me with furrowed brows, her throat bobbing every time Mother exclaimed she was a mage? Could she see Nan next to me?
But when my sister reached to hug our mother, the angry red skin around her fingernails brought me pause. She only picked at her fingers when she was lying. That’s when I knew that Olivia didn’t possess an ounce of magic.
“We’re enrolling you at Gorhail Academy tomorrow. My beautiful girl is going to the most prestigious secondary school.” Mother cupped Olivia’s cheeks with tears streaming down her face. My sister’s smile froze on her lips; her eyes wouldn’t leave mine.
Gorhail Academy stood tall on the cliffs of Gorhail, the town west of Albion. Set in a separate building on the same premises, it was the younger arm of Gorhail Institute, a university where Nan had been the dean until her death. Both were magic schools, where mages traded their lives to further their magic. The academy taught the fundamentals, their curriculum overlapping much of what we learn in nonmagi schools. The institute was a different story; Nan used to say it forged the best and the worst of mages.
Lying about magic was one thing. Mother knew the basic rules of magicalbirthright. She wouldn’t give up until one of us admitted we inherited Father’s magic, and I was never going to. But willingly walking into a school of mages when she wasn’t one was reckless. Surely Olivia would tell Mother that she was joking, that she didn’t have any magic, that she wasn’t going to break the promise we’d made when she’d turned five. I had held myself back a grade so we could start secondary school together next year. I didn’t want us to be separated, didn’t want to grow up without my sister.
“Don’t leave me,” I whispered as we lay in my bed that night, watching the Albion sky twinkle. She knew I would’ve followed her anywhere but there. She knew what magic meant to me. She knew what it did to our father.
Olivia reached for my hand, squeezed it, and promised, “I will never leave you, Vi.”
Then she did.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1939
Twelve years later, I know more than I care to about Gorhail Institute of Magic, the mages who go there, and the dangers lurking on the outside. I loathe it for taking away my sister, but if I’m honest, I’m jealous that she chose Gorhail over me.
The dead still talk to me in riddles that I spend too much time deciphering. Sometimes, their last words are as simple as a confession. Other times, they have me run errands across town. As I stand before this old lady’s open casket in a stiff dining room, I know today’s an errands day.
The dead woman’s white hair is meticulously combed. Sapphires in her earrings, necklace, and ring tell me that this family is superstitious, probably devout followers of the God of Death. It’s ironic to me that nonmagi uphold mage traditions when their spirits go to Orga—the afterlife for the nonmagical among us. It doesn’t matter how much jewelry they bury with their dead. The God of Death will never let a nonmagi cross into the Underworld.
My hand hovers over hers. It reminds me of Nan’s, frail and wrinkled from decades of years well lived. I don’t know why I hesitate—maybe because this is a private viewing at someone’s home or maybe seeing all the love poured into preparing her body for burial makes me feel like apredator. It would have been a different story had they sent her to Dearly Departed, the funeral home where I work; I would’ve felt less guilty about encroaching on a family’s grief. But death magic cares little about privacy. It rings in my ears, demanding to be quelled—and I, an unwilling servant of Death, like my sanity intact.
Ten minutes have passed since I walked through this small house. Instead of hurrying, I am questioning my morals. The quiet chatter of mourners drones in the adjacent room; they’re gathered around the kitchen island, most of them holding steaming cups of tea that they’ll drink to honor the deceased, a typical funeral custom in Albion. I hope I’m not expected to join them after I pay my respects.
My pulse rises. I’ve been here too long.
Someone will question my presence, and I will have to leave without releasing my magic. But this woman deserves to have her last words heard, her final wishes fulfilled. And I suppose that’s how I manage to live with this despicable magic: I tell myself I am helping.