Blowing out a breath, I close my fingers around her cold, stiff hand. The chill creeps along my arm and crawls around my throat until I stop breathing. Stop and listen, the magic always seems to say. The old lady’s eyes open to cloudy white irises. I look at her dry, pale lips. They never move. Instead, a sweet, old, textured voice speaks,Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps.
“Bloody saints,” I mutter, pulling my hand away. Another ridiculous riddle, and if I don’t solve it, the incessant ringing in my ear will erode every corner of my brain. My stomach growls; I skipped lunch to be here, and right now, I have very little regard for where the sun and the moon meet.
Behind me, gentle footsteps click on the floorboard. My breath catches into my breastbone. Leaving now would be suspicious. If they ask why I’m here, I’ll tell them I’ve occasionally helped the lady with her garden. “The lady.” I don’t even know her name.
“Subtlety is still not your forte, I see,” a musical voice whispers next to me. “This is the second time this year I find you at a random person’s funeral.”
My lungs relax. Olivia stands to my right, decked out in a light pink sweater and a long white pleated skirt. She looks like a pink peony against the somber room. Now they’redefinitelygoing to know we don’t belong here.
“I don’t work on weekends, and there were no new bodies this morning. I need to expel the magic somehow.” I hook my arm through hers, hurrying us to the door before we run into the family. “You didn’t tell me you were visiting today,” I say. She usually visits twice a year, once during the Pine Festival and the second time during the Midsummer Festival, neither of which is today. When she was at the academy, I used to see her every month, but the institute heavily controls the movement of their mages, so my sister’s visits have become my personal favorite holidays.
“Surprise.” Her lips curve up in a mischievous smile. Then she nods at a picture of the dead woman on the wall in the sitting room. “A riddle, I imagine.”
“How did you know?”
“You cursed.” She lifts her eyebrows. “You never curse.” She pauses, then asks, “What did she say?”
The last words of the dead are sacred. Speak them, and you’ll meet your end.Nan’s warning rings in my head, but I don’t keep secrets from my sister. It’s been twelve years, and I’ve shared the last words of the dead with Olivia more times than I can count. Sometimes, out of necessity; other times, to help me solve riddles. And we’re both still alive. “Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the three people glaring at us from the living room as we walk by.
We’re almost to the entryway when a woman in her late fifties stops us. She looks like a younger version of the deceased. “Thank you for coming,” she croaks. “How did you know my mother?”
“I…” I didn’t.
Olivia lets go of my hand. In two steps, she’s hugging the woman. “We are so sorry about your mother,” she says. Then she quietly adds, “Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps.”
The woman’s eyes widen as Olivia lets go of her. The pause between them gnaws at my insides. I bite my lips, waiting. This can go one of two ways—Albion’s general sentiment around mages is either overt enthusiasm or downright fear. As much as I tell myself I don’t care, it always hurts to see that flicker of terror across their eyes when they meet a mage. It may not be directed at me, but it crushes me all the same. I am not like the other mages, I always want to say. I try to use my magic to help. Still, I cannot blame their sentiment. I do not fear mages. Ihatethem.
“He’s in the treehouse. My granddaughter’s cat. Someone left the dooropen yesterday and Buttons ran out. We thought we’d never see him again.” The woman’s eyes brim with tears. She takes Olivia’s hands between hers. “Thank you,” she says. Of course she would be grateful; their family worships the God of Death. It’s ironic, how much Olivia fits into a world that isn’t her own; she carries magic with pride while I carry it as a burden.
“May Death light her way,” Olivia whispers, and I give the woman a quick nod, my cheeks warm with the thought of a child reunited with her cat. I don’t even notice the lull in my ears until Olivia and I walk out of the house.
“You’re welcome,” Olivia teases as we begin our fifteen-minute walk home. She enjoys everything that comes with being a mage, loves everything I despise. How wicked are the Gods? They gave magic to the wrong sister.
Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, with Nan’s rose garden spanning the front and back. After Nan died and Olivia left, tending to the roses became my only comfort. At first, they were dying, but over time, I’ve managed to grow thirty-three different varieties.
“Olivia,” Mother calls out from the front porch. She runs down the wobbly wooden stairs, down the pathway, her dress brushing along the fresh blooms of a rare hybrid I’ve been nurturing for the last three years. The petals fall to the ground, and my breath hitches.
Mother pushes me aside, taking Olivia in her arms. “What a lovely surprise—I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”
“Mama, I’ve missed you so.” Olivia kisses her cheeks. “I wish I could stay longer, but I’m only here to get a book to study for my promotional exam this week.”
“I can’t believe you’ll be promoted to High Magus soon,” our mother says, holding Olivia’s face. “I am so proud of you.”
I share both her pride and her disbelief, albeit for different reasons. I don’t need any reason to be proud of Olivia, but I cannot believe she’s lasted four years at the institute without being caught. When she passes her promotional exam, she’ll be the first nonmagi with a High Magus rank. More importantly, she’ll finally be free to leave Gorhail. After earning my mastery in botany last November, I’ve been counting the days until her graduation.
Leaving me behind, Mother walks Olivia to the house, trampling over the pink petals from my roses. It’s always disconcerting seeing them together.We may be sisters, but Olivia is a mirror of our mother. They both look like they belong here in Albion, with their green eyes, mildly tan skin, and dark brown hair. They even style it the same, loose curls falling mid-back. I share Nan’s golden-brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair. With her gone, I feel like the roses, scattered on the ground, crushed by the boots of a woman who should have nurtured them.
When I walk through the front door, Mother is already pouring two cups of tea. I take off my shoes and dart across the kitchen, squeezing myself between the sideboard and the backs of the dining chairs, and make a beeline for the stairs. Early this morning, the mailman brought two letters bearing the golden seal of DOTS, the Department of the Supernatural, for Olivia.
“Viola, do you not care that your sister is home?” Mother asks quietly. The silent threat between her words dares me to take the first step up the stairs. For a split second, I consider it, but her sharp inhale pulls me back.
“Of course I do.” My feet drag to the wooden kitchen table covered in a gaudy pumpkin-patterned tablecloth, where she placed two steaming cups of tea next to each other at the head of the table. I settle in the seat farthest from them, although it makes no difference because any room with my mother in it feels small. Even smaller when Olivia is here.
“How is work?” Olivia’s eyes wince in apology. She slides her cup toward me even though I’m too far to reach it, but I shake my head. Mother’s tea is as bitter as her tongue.
“Good,” I reply. I know Olivia’s trying to include me, but the less I say, the fewer opportunities Mother has to ridicule me.
“You’ve been at that funeral home for four years now.” Mother takes a sip. There we go. “It’s not a forever job.”