Ritual Magic

measure time, my sweet mortal. Tonight I will give you the rest of your instructions. Pay close heed, for after I act I will be too weak for a time to call you to me.”
    Alarm stiffened her. She sat up. “Too weak? You didn’t tell me—oh, beloved, don’t spend yourself too freely and leave yourself open to—”
    “Do not?” he said very softly. All the light and laughter fled as winter rushed into his face, his voice—a chill as absolute as the empty sky above them. “You would tell me do or do not?”
    She hung her head, shame mingling with terror. “I fear for you. It makes me foolish. That’s no excuse, but I . . . I’m so flawed. You’ve blessed me beyond reason with your loving. I should make my life a song of gratitude, and instead I—I spoke as if you weren’t so far beyond me that—”
    “Child.” Not winter in that voice now, but no merriment, either. He placed a hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up. “I will not punish you this time. It would distress me to do so, I admit. Already you are dear to me. But you will remember, won’t you? You must not speak so to me.”
    She nodded, dizzy with fear and relief. She listened carefully as he told her exactly what she must do . . . and what he planned to do. Some of it he’d told her before. Some he hadn’t, and parts of it frightened her deeply, and yet . . . she peered at him out of the curtain of her hair. “You said you must do this in order to wrest the path from the other one, the one
she
wants. You have to—to tip that path toward you before I can act. I know that’s true, but I think it—it’s not the entire truth.” Breathless with daring, she let her own small portion of mischief tilt her lips up. “I think there are many ways you could do that, some of them easier, less costly. But this will be more
fun
.”
    And his laugh rang out merry and full, rewarding her for having risked so much. “It will, oh, it will. I give her all that she wants, or thinks she wants . . . in a way she will surely hate.” He stroked her cheek. “You do delight me. We will make much pleasure between us, you and I, when you are my high priestess and we meet body to body.”
    Heat shivered through her, lust as pure and potent as whiskey, and sweeter by far. They would make love in the flesh . . . surely she would have that much, before he betrayed her. For he would, one day. From spite or anger or simply because that was what he did. What he was. He might laugh then or mourn, just a little, for he said she was dear to him . . .
    “Ah, sweetheart,” he whispered as he stroked her between her legs, “do you not yet know that much about me? I can do both.”

TWENTY

    J ULIA woke up in yet another bed that was not hers. There was a window by this one. It didn’t have any curtains, so sunshine poured in. Early morning sunshine, the kind that looks like it’s been brewed up fresh for the day. On the other side of the glass, birds were making a fuss about dawn.
    Stupid birds. They were used to not remembering much. For them, everything was
now
. They didn’t have much
then.
But she bet even a bird would be really sad if you took him out of his place and put him someplace else, a place where everything was strange and he didn’t know any of the other birds.
    Somewhere a floorboard squeaked. She heard voices, but not clearly. Not enough to tell for sure if one of them was Mr. Turner, but probably so. This was his house.
    Julia didn’t remember coming here, but Sam had told her she’d wake up at Mr. Turner’s house. She’d forgotten so much, but she remembered everything Sam told her, which was funny because it felt like she’d learned those things a long time ago. She knew it was just yesterday, but she felt as if months and months had passed. Sam had told her she would feel this way. She remembered that, too.
    Most of what he’d told her was pretty awful.
    Mama, I miss you so much. I wish you were here.
I wish it a lot.
    That thought was familiar, as if she’d had it thousands of times. The grief was familiar, too, like an old blanket worn thin by use and washing. So was the way her eyes leaked some of her sorrow. There was comfort in that familiarity, like knowing where the cracks were in the sidewalk she walked every day to go to school. Even when a path took you somewhere you didn’t much want to go, knowing where the cracks were made you feel a little better. But there’d be no more counting the sidewalk