The Raven Spell （Conspiracy of Magic #1）
Luanne G. Smith
Where corpse-light
Dances bright,
Be it day or night,
Be it by light or dark,
There shall corpse lie stiff and stark.
—Sir Walter Scott
Chapter One
Edwina and Mary, quite contrary.
The boy’s taunt stuck in Edwina’s mind as she stooped to inspect a promising glint embedded among the mud and stones. Her quick eye had spotted the exposed metal despite the gray overcast creeping in with the dawn. Had to be gold to catch the starlight the way it did. She poked a finger in the mud after her sister had tramped off to inspect a hump of rags beside a fisherman’s boat stranded by the low tide. Edwina dug deeper in the muck, stirring loose the stench of fish and rotted seagrass. Still, the boy’s comment rankled like a herring bone caught in the back of the throat. It simply wasn’t fair. They’d done everything they could to blend in, she and her sister. But no one respected the old ways anymore. The magic had to be hidden, disguised, renounced. At least in public.
Edwina pulled the metal free. A gold ring, as she’d suspected. Lost or tossed? In the end she supposed it didn’t matter. Gone was gone. She gave the ring a rinse in a tide pool and inspected the band. There was a scratch or two, but after a little polish with a soft cloth and gentle spell, the ring would fetch a handsome penny in the shop.
She glanced up shore to check on Mary. Neither she nor her sister could resist collecting the shiny trinkets that churned up with the river’s tide. Rings, bottles, spoons, keys, combs, bones—there was always something new coughed up on the bank, as if the water grew perpetually ill on the taste of human detritus. Sometimes, too, they’d snatch up the dropped coin or snuffbox that had fallen through the hole of someone’s pocket to land in a gutter. Of course, it wasn’t the scavenging that made them contrary in their neighbors’ eyes. Others trampled the same shores and streets searching for treasure without scorn, albeit with less success than the sisters. And it wasn’t that neither had married, or that they now lived a reclusive life in the tiny aerie flat above their corner shop on Old Bridge Road, or that neither was ever seen without her black shawl. No, what made them contrary was their apathy toward other people’s opinions about them. Well, outward appearances were one thing. Inside, with only each other to confide in, they felt the cold shoulder of rejection the same as anyone.
“Found another ring,” Edwina called in the loud whisper they’d perfected on such predawn outings. She wiped it dry with the corner of her shawl as she walked in the direction Mary had gone. “Gold this time. The setting is missing its stone, though.” Empty as a tooth socket, she thought, and slid her tongue over her own tender molars. She dropped the ring in her pocket, then squinted as her sister ran toward her with her skirt hiked to her knees and her shawl fluttering off her shoulders.
Blessed Mother, what trouble has she found now?
“It’s a man,” Mary said, breathing hard from the exertion.
“Dead?” He’d have to be for Mary to exude such enthusiasm.
“Near enough.” Mary pressed her lips tight together, as if it might make her wish come true. “His is the shiniest one yet. Come see.”
Edwina followed along the rocky shore nearly as far as the railroad bridge. There, she leaned over the man’s body and noted his skin appeared pale to the point of being bluish around the lips. Edwina drew her skirt up to avoid the mud and crouched beside him. Barely a wisp of air escaped his lungs. By Edwina’s reckoning, he had only a fingertip grip left on this world. Pity. He had a noble sort of face with a firm jaw, though it hadn’t been cleanly shaved in days. She was making a quick scan of his clothed body to look for an obvious wound or cause for his predicament when her fingers hit a slick spot at the back of his head that suggested a blow. A criminal most likely. Or a brawler. Or maybe a drunk who’d lost his footing on the embankment above. Poor man. Either way, he wasn’t long for this side of the veil. To be sure, she tapped her foot against his shoulder, giving him a nudge. Not even a groan. She leaned the back of her hand against his cheek and felt the chill of death gaining in his blood. If he’d shown just a spark of fire under the skin, she might have given him a remedy. She always carried a little camphor oil with her for emergencies, but there was no use wasting the drops on this one.
“Cold as Christmas, he is,” Mary said, leaning over her shoulder. “Might be a mercy to help him pass through the last part to the other side.”