but drawing his sigil on rough wood instead of slick cool silver or warm skin felt debasing, shameful. As it was meant to.
“Nathaniel Clare,” he said.
Next to his sigil he drew his mother’s and his father’s.
“Caterina Clare. Jasper Arasgain.”
Then his grandparents, on both sides. His mother’s mother had not been born Slonimi so that line ended with her, but Jasper’s went all the way back to John Slonim. With each name, he drew a new sigil, right next to the one that came before. The sigils marched around in a circle like dancers around a campfire. With each sigil came the lightest touch inside his mind. When he could not remember the name of his great-great-grandfather, Derie kicked him until he did, and when he reached the end, he had to begin again, with the girl—with Judah. And Maia, and Tobin. He had to cut himself four more times to finish them all. The circles were as big as his arms could reach, all of those sigils and all of those lives spiraling out from John Slonim himself. By the last one the world was graying around him, but his mother’s sigil still shone, distinct, near the end of the shortest line. He had never been much good at reaching across distances but he thought he felt her, not a stinging bee but a hand on his head, stroking his hair. Like she’d done when, as a child, he’d come home from lessons with Derie, weeping and beaten. Her soft, warm voice: next time you’ll do better, my child. My Nathaniel.
* * *
When he heard Bindy moving around in the kitchen the next morning, he dragged himself from his pallet, which he’d moved to the lab. Thankfully, Arkady had arranged for running water to be piped into the sink there. It was cold, but it woke him up and cleaned off the worst of the blood. He’d kept bleeding during the night, and his bed looked like somebody had died there, or been born. He tossed the thin sheet into a corner along with his ruined clothes from the night before. He’d burn it all later. It would be unpleasant; that was part of the punishment.
Waves of light-headedness swept over him and, as always when he’d overdone it with the Work, things were a bit blurry: not just shapes—his glasses were still on the floor in the parlor—but colors and sounds and smells. He wanted to go back to bed but Bindy was here, and the phaeton would be coming. He hoped that Derie had found something worthy to do with Judah’s blood. He hoped Judah felt better than he did.
And she might, for all that, because he felt like death. He was surprised and a little hurt that Charles hadn’t felt him suffering and come to help, but with the amount of Work he and Charles had together over the years, Charles might not be feeling that good, either. Or he might be deep in a vial.
For the first time, the vial didn’t sound like a terrible idea.
No. The phaeton was coming. He had work to do, for the Seneschal and Derie and all the names he’d drawn in blood on the floor. Next time he would do better; next time he would not falter, would not fail.
How many times had he made that exact vow to himself, and how many times had he broken it?
He managed to put on a clean shirt and a clean waistcoat, and to tie his hair back like a real magus—on another day, the length of the resulting tail might have pleased him—before stumbling out into the kitchen. He had to grab at the door frame for support.
He didn’t remember cleaning up the blood on the floor but he must have, or Derie had, because it was gone. Bindy stood at the stove, staring blankly at the teakettle, which was whistling. Nate had heard the noise but assumed it was inside his head. “Morning, Bin,” he said.
She jumped, startled. He expected her to be horrified by his appearance—although Derie had not hit him anywhere it would show; she never did—but she hardly seemed to notice. “Oh,” she said, “are you unwell, magus? I’m making tea.” She pulled a cup and the tea box down from the shelf, then looked around. “I think there’s bread somewhere.” It was on the counter, next to her elbow. She saw it before Nate could point it out. “Oh.” Then she picked up a knife, and seemed to