Foxheart

Chapter Twenty-One

Esme was in the spare room, gazing out at the fall sun with worry. It had been a long time since Fox left her to go scout; long enough that she had finished watching Cuckoo putting together his small wind-up clock and swept the downstairs. Now she was in the spare room, claiming tiredness, as the she felt the fox-curse stir with the setting sun.

She scrunched up her eyes as she watched the few people walking below and her gaze flickered over the winding roads and sloping rooftops. Heat-waves no longer warped the air above the tiles and cars and a cool wind was settling in as the windows of the houses and the lampposts burst into light one by one. But even as she observed every person, watched every nook and cranny, she still couldn't see Fox.

'Where is he Absolon?' Esme muttered to herself as the Sprite danced happily in the breeze outside.

She didn't want to admit she was concerned about him, not after how rude and un-likable he was, so she convinced herself it was simply worry that he had up and left her and fled the blackmail, not that she was troubled about his person at all.

She knew there were White Wizards out there. She'd seen one roam by the shop, forcing her to hide, but luckily he didn't come in. He passed without entering the clock shop. But what if Fox wasn't so lucky? He wasn't disguised and they were looking for men with red hair. Despite red hair being a common colour and he could probably slip through a crowed without raising any interest, it still concerned her.

As the worry started to churn in her stomach and making her a little sick, Esme slapped her face and rubbed her cheeks.

'Enough of that.' She said firmly.

Fretting wasn't going to help Fox right now. He would return, she was certain. Cuckoo was too. And Fox wouldn't leave her in the shop of a Fence of his guild. That would be stupid. So he was detained somehow and would return with that stupid smug expression before long. In the mean time, she could scrub up on her magic.

Esme turned and glanced at the tiny bed where their pack lay. She hadn't done any magic in a long time. Maybe a year. She gave up hope of ever being able to do anything decent with what little spells she had but, right now, her Grimoire was her only defence. She toyed with the whistle around her neck nervously before shuffling across the room.

She unclipped the bag and pulled out her Grimoire nervously. Holding it softly in her small hands, Esme stared at it. The bland cover was the same and, despite being dunked in water and shoved about, it was immaculate. It made her think of Cassandra's Grimoire. Was it safe? Were the spells being unwoven or were they being claimed by Suellen? The thought caused a stab of hot anger sear her chest. If Suellen touches Cassandra's dearest spells of gods and spirits after killing her so cruelly, it was just going to add salt to the betrayal. Suellen didn't deserve those spells. No one did.

Sucking in the stuffy room's air, Esme held one hand above the closed book. She had to practice. She had to become good enough at magic to survive the journey to Logan Lithgow. She had to bring her aunt justice.

Summoning what little power she had in her, she called to the first spell in her book; the light spell. Absolon drifted to the windowsill to watch and sang curiously as he felt what little power stir within her. The book at first didn't move but, slowly, it left the palm her her hand and began to float. It wrenched itself open and flicked through to the first page. She placed her fingers against the centre of the page and slowly the ward of intricate design, drawn by a twelve year old Esme painstakingly for six months, began to glow. It was a white light that slipped through every deep black line, lighting it up like a slow, lazy sunrise. When every stoke was alight, Esme called to the little dormant light Sprite within and pulled her fingers away. A light so thick it was almost water-like was pulled away with the motion. It stuck to Esme's fingers, dripping and stretching as she pulled it from the page until, finally, she had a glob of light in her hand no bigger than a golf-ball.