They came to collect.
Before common or high magick was sealed in a spellring or a cursering, it was considered raw. And raw magick was a tricky thing to find. It could appear at random: in the accidental shattering of a mirror, tucked into the pages of dusty books, dancing in a clover patch the hour after dawn. Nowadays, much of it was mass produced, farmed and bottled like high-fructose corn syrup, sprinkled as a primary ingredient in everything from lipstick to household cleaners. But not so much in Ilvernath, where the old ways stubbornly continued on.
Isobel Macaslan examined the raw common magick shimmering white across the graveyard, like glitter caught in rain. People had magick inside them, too. And when someone was laid to rest, that life magick dispersed. If left uncollected, the wind picked it up and carried it away, where it would later nestle itself into forgotten places.
It was a beautiful scene.
Isobel was trying her hardest not to vomit.
She rubbed the two puncture marks at the base of her neck, where the Asp’s Fang had bitten her. Her stomach had quaked all morning. A healing spell would cure her, but she refused to waste magick on Alistair Lowe.
She smiled, remembering the frowning, irritated photo of Alistair in this morning’s edition of the Ilvernath Eclipse. Or even better: the fury on his face when she’d peeked into his mind. He had no idea how much she’d uncovered.
She knew about the crossword kept in his pocket, about the single word he couldn’t guess that had irritated him all day （the word was “elixir,” Isobel had realized almost instantly）。 He compared himself to a monster because of the stories his mother had told him as a child, the ones that still made him shiver. He’d found her attractive, and she wondered what he must’ve thought of the white kiss her spell had left on his skin, in the shape of her own lips.
Not that she’d uncovered his every mystery, only his thoughts floating at the surface.
But even if Isobel wanted to call last night a victory, there was only one victory that mattered. A victory the whole world expected the Lowe champion to claim.
And she had made herself his target.
“You look nervous,” her father commented from beside her. He had a coarse, raspy voice from decades of smoking, and his brittle fingernails dug into her skin as he placed his hand on her shoulder. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”
“I know,” Isobel said, forcing false confidence into her tone. She was good at that.
“You’re the most powerful champion our family has seen in generations,” he reminded her for what felt like the thousandth time. “And this afternoon, you’ll secure an alliance with the town’s most respected cursemaker.”
Isobel wished she shared her father’s optimism. But ever since A Tradition of Tragedy was published last year, her life had crumbled. Isobel had never wanted to be champion. Yet the newspapers had named her one eleven months ago without her family’s knowledge, and long before any of the other competitors. Seemingly overnight, Isobel was crowned Ilvernath’s murderous sweetheart. Reporters started camping outside both of her parents’ houses for the chance of a scandalous photograph. Her prep school classmates had dumped her like she was last season’s trend. And the one friend she’d thought would understand more than anyone had betrayed her, then transferred schools just to get away from her Macaslan stench.
At the funeral, the white shimmering of raw common magick grew brighter in the air surrounding the grave, dissipating like a sigh across the field.
The Macaslans waited until the mourners had scattered before scuttling down the hill. A few stragglers watched them angrily as they worked—most of them the deceased’s loved ones. One woman in a sleek black pantsuit hovered away from the crowd, assessing Isobel in particular. Maybe it was because of the contrast between her family’s gaudy clothes and Isobel’s patent leather miniskirt. Or maybe the woman was a reporter.
Isobel ignored them all as she coaxed a twinkling of magick into a flask. She sealed it inside, warm and humming.
“You shouldn’t be here,” another woman growled behind her.
Isobel turned to face one of the mourners. The woman hugged her arms to herself and glared at Isobel. Mascara ran down her cheeks.
Isobel pursed her lips. Of all the unpleasant methods her family employed to collect magick, funerals were by far the worst. Most considered the collection of raw magick from a burial unthinkable, but to the Macaslans, it was simply pragmatic. It wasn’t as though the dead were using it anymore.
Isobel glanced at her relatives, hoping they might intercede for her. Truthfully, Isobel had rarely attended these family gatherings until recently. But they were all too busy to notice the confrontation.