“I’m sorry,” Isobel told her, “but—”
“You’re a bloody scavenger is what you are. All of you.”
At that, the woman stormed away, and Isobel squeezed her silver locket in her fist, the one she always wore tucked beneath her blouse. Beneath her primer and long-wear foundation, Isobel’s skin remained painfully thin.
The town’s scorn had been easier to swallow before that book. Before strangers spray-painted obscenities on Isobel’s front doors. Before photographs of her taking out the rubbish became tabloid fodder.
But Isobel was the strongest champion the Macaslans had raised in hundreds of years.
And she wouldn’t be ashamed of doing what it took to survive.
To win.
* * *
The MacTavish cursemaker shop was in the roughest part of town, full of repurposed factories and condemned tenement complexes. Isobel’s heels slipped awkwardly between the cobblestones as she walked beside her father to the door. The store had nothing to mark its name, only an orange neon sign of a dragonfly in the window, dull in the afternoon light.
“Are you sure this is it?” she asked. The other spellmakers in town had cleaner, more fashionable storefronts, with spellstones glittering in elegant displays in their windows.
Everyone in the world used magick, but the average person typically bought brand-name spells at department stores or patronized local spellmakers rather than craft enchantments themselves. Spellmaking families had their own dynasties and secrets, passed down from parent to child for centuries, bits of knowledge collected from all over the world. The spellmakers in Ilvernath might not directly participate, but they, too, played a vital role in the tournament.
The Glamour Inquirer called them the arms dealers.
Since Isobel’s mother was a respected spellmaker herself, she’d already volunteered to supply Isobel with all her spells for the tournament. But to secure victory, Isobel would also need curses—enchantments designed to do harm. And her mother had no specialty in those.
The MacTavishes, however, were the best cursemakers in Ilvernath.
“This shop has been here for over six hundred years,” her father answered.
“Yes.” Isobel eyed the splintered doorframe. “It looks it.”
Before they could enter, a van pulled up behind them. The window rolled down, revealing a man with a video camera. Isobel swore under her breath. She was never free.
“Isobel!” he called. “I’m with SpellBC News. Securing Reid MacTavish as a sponsor would be a big win for any champion. Is that why you’re here today?”
“This isn’t a good time,” she said.
“Oh, come on,” her father told her, smoothing down the lapels of his imported pin-striped suit. “Smile for the camera. Give the man his story.”
When Isobel had accidentally found herself in the spotlight last year, her family had seized on it, hoping that her fame would garner her more spellmaker support. And so Isobel grinned through gritted teeth.
“I’m visiting the MacTavishes today to discuss a sponsorship, yes,” she told the reporter. “And I hope I’ll earn it. That’s all—”
“Don’t be modest,” her father cut in. “You’ll earn it.”
“Do you have any comment on Alistair Lowe’s picture in the papers this morning? For months, he’s been called your rival, but with only thirteen days remaining until your face-off, what do you—”
“My daughter doesn’t have anything to fear from him, or anyone else,” her dad said. “Put that in your story.”
Ready to be done with the interview, Isobel swiveled on her heel and entered the store. Inside, too, it was unlike most other spellshops, where counters gleamed, petty class one and two stones were heaped high in porcelain bowls and last season’s spells were discarded to the clearance section. This place was so dimly lit she needed to squint, and everywhere was cluttered with scrolls, quills, trinkets, and dust. She hugged her purse to herself to keep it from scraping any surfaces and spritzed some peony perfume in the air to help conceal the smell of moldy paper.
A fair-skinned young man sat at the desk, poring over a leather-bound grimoire of divination spells. He wore more than a dozen necklaces, each covered with oval-cut spellrings whose stones had cracked, leaving them unglowing and empty. His clothes were black and looked thrifted, matching his dark and unwashed, unstyled hair. He would’ve been attractive if he wore less eyeliner.
Isobel cleared her throat. “Do you work here? We’re looking for Reid MacTavish.”