possible the gowns Kyra had once worn here.
“So magic isn't what the Bishop says? And the wizards—are they anything like old Tibbeth? I mean, the way old Tibbeth seemed…” Alix had gone over to the dressing table to prick up the wick of a candle that had been burning too long, so she did not see how still Kyra had become, holding the pink robe before her.
“You know,” Alix went on as she tweezed the wick straight, “I really did like old Tibbeth. It must have been awful for you to have to testify at his trial.” A small line appeared between the perfect brows as she clipped the charred wick off short, the flame outlining her fingers in fragile threads of glowing rose. “And Papa couldn't have made it easier. He was terribly hurt when you told him.”
Kyra frowned. “Told him what?”
“That you were going to join the real wizards—I mean, that you were going to take the Council vows. I mean, as a dog wizard like Tibbeth, at least you could have stayed with the family, and there wouldn't have been a scandal.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Alix raised her head, looking at her in surprise. “He said you'd told him you were going to leave and become a wizard. That's when he packed us all up and we left for Aunt Sethwit in Mellidane.” The brown eyes regarded her, wide and troubled, puzzled by the down-turned corner of Kyra's square-lipped mouth.
“Ah,” Kyra said softly, and swung the robe around her, stepping clear of the jet and jonquil heap of satin around her feet. “Drat those skirts,” she added, remembering how she had been precipitated into her prospective brother-in-law's arms. “No wonder the first thing nouveaux riches do is get their daughters dancing lessons. You need to be a dancer not to break your neck.” She went over to give Alix a reassuring hug. “To answer your question, some of the wizards are a bit like Tibbeth in that they're terribly untidy, and they all keep things—rocks and crystals and books and pressed flowers. And speaking of Tibbeth,” she added as Alix, with a relieved smile, settled herself on the edge of the great, white-curtained bed, “have you ever been into the old schoolroom where he and I worked? Or did Father have that cleared out?”
“Father just locked it up,” Alix said. “I've never been in it since… er… since you left. I don't think anybody has.” She looked worriedly up at her sister while Kyra gathered up the black and yellow dress, shook free the petticoats from their skirts, and draped them over the end of the bed the two girls had once shared. “Kyra, you weren't… you weren't implicated or anything by testifying at Tibbeth's trial, were you? That isn't why you had to join the Council wizards, is it? Just so they'd protect you from the Inquisition? I mean, Papa would have…”
Kyra was silent a moment, remembering Tibbeth's voice, startlingly small and gentle coming out of that big, bulky body, that mobile pink face. The smell of wood smoke and incense came back to her, of herbs drying, linked forever to the soft deftness of his huge hands, showing her the passes to make, the signs to draw, to call light from darkness, to make a pebble look and smell and feel like a rose in her palm.
She remembered, too, the blast of the fire's heat against her face, its greedy roaring and the horrible stink of charring flesh, the thick buzzing of the flies in the garbage underfoot. The stench of the crowd. The sound of screaming.
“No,” she said hollowly. “No, I wasn't implicated. That wasn't why I… sought out the Council.” She tied the pink robe more closely about her, interested to note that despite her more fragile appearance, Alix had grown to precisely her own size through the rib cage, breasts, and shoulders.
There was silence once more. Through the open door Kyra could hear the voices of the maids complaining as they carried flowers and refreshments, now and then punctuated by the laundry woman's tired whines and the mild,
“So magic isn't what the Bishop says? And the wizards—are they anything like old Tibbeth? I mean, the way old Tibbeth seemed…” Alix had gone over to the dressing table to prick up the wick of a candle that had been burning too long, so she did not see how still Kyra had become, holding the pink robe before her.
“You know,” Alix went on as she tweezed the wick straight, “I really did like old Tibbeth. It must have been awful for you to have to testify at his trial.” A small line appeared between the perfect brows as she clipped the charred wick off short, the flame outlining her fingers in fragile threads of glowing rose. “And Papa couldn't have made it easier. He was terribly hurt when you told him.”
Kyra frowned. “Told him what?”
“That you were going to join the real wizards—I mean, that you were going to take the Council vows. I mean, as a dog wizard like Tibbeth, at least you could have stayed with the family, and there wouldn't have been a scandal.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Alix raised her head, looking at her in surprise. “He said you'd told him you were going to leave and become a wizard. That's when he packed us all up and we left for Aunt Sethwit in Mellidane.” The brown eyes regarded her, wide and troubled, puzzled by the down-turned corner of Kyra's square-lipped mouth.
“Ah,” Kyra said softly, and swung the robe around her, stepping clear of the jet and jonquil heap of satin around her feet. “Drat those skirts,” she added, remembering how she had been precipitated into her prospective brother-in-law's arms. “No wonder the first thing nouveaux riches do is get their daughters dancing lessons. You need to be a dancer not to break your neck.” She went over to give Alix a reassuring hug. “To answer your question, some of the wizards are a bit like Tibbeth in that they're terribly untidy, and they all keep things—rocks and crystals and books and pressed flowers. And speaking of Tibbeth,” she added as Alix, with a relieved smile, settled herself on the edge of the great, white-curtained bed, “have you ever been into the old schoolroom where he and I worked? Or did Father have that cleared out?”
“Father just locked it up,” Alix said. “I've never been in it since… er… since you left. I don't think anybody has.” She looked worriedly up at her sister while Kyra gathered up the black and yellow dress, shook free the petticoats from their skirts, and draped them over the end of the bed the two girls had once shared. “Kyra, you weren't… you weren't implicated or anything by testifying at Tibbeth's trial, were you? That isn't why you had to join the Council wizards, is it? Just so they'd protect you from the Inquisition? I mean, Papa would have…”
Kyra was silent a moment, remembering Tibbeth's voice, startlingly small and gentle coming out of that big, bulky body, that mobile pink face. The smell of wood smoke and incense came back to her, of herbs drying, linked forever to the soft deftness of his huge hands, showing her the passes to make, the signs to draw, to call light from darkness, to make a pebble look and smell and feel like a rose in her palm.
She remembered, too, the blast of the fire's heat against her face, its greedy roaring and the horrible stink of charring flesh, the thick buzzing of the flies in the garbage underfoot. The stench of the crowd. The sound of screaming.
“No,” she said hollowly. “No, I wasn't implicated. That wasn't why I… sought out the Council.” She tied the pink robe more closely about her, interested to note that despite her more fragile appearance, Alix had grown to precisely her own size through the rib cage, breasts, and shoulders.
There was silence once more. Through the open door Kyra could hear the voices of the maids complaining as they carried flowers and refreshments, now and then punctuated by the laundry woman's tired whines and the mild,
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