following rules all day that I took mine off last night, just to see what it felt like. Instantly I heard the most glorious music—melodies everywhere, as thick and bright as stars in the night. Oh, the beauty of them! I sang one, and the dew leaped into my hand. And Lady H. still has me singing scales. What would she say if she knew? . . .
Did more experiments with Wild Magic tonight. It’s hard to control. I have to listen very carefully, and even then it can sometimes go horribly wrong. But there’s far more power in it than the Proven Magic that Lady H. has taught me.
I don’t think fire likes me. But water—oh, water is my friend. And every day I understand it better.
And when Lady Helaine tried to stop her, my mother was furious:
She found me out today. As always, I waited till I was sure she was fast asleep before I took my stone off, but this time she woke up and smelled my Wild Magic and came down on me like the old dragon she is. I’ve never seen her so furious! She shouted at me and grabbed my stone and half-choked me when she shoved it back over my head. I must never take off my stone again, she says. If I do, then Wild Magic will be the death of me. According to her, everything in the world has a song, and some of those songs are not safe for Chantresses to sing. But I don’t believe her. It’s all just a ploy to make me do what she wants. And I won’t give Wild Magic up. I won’t.
I shut my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. When I’d opened this diary, I’d expected to find the gentle mother I dimly remembered: wise, patient, ever watchful. But the girl who’d kept this diary was someone else entirely. Someone much more fiery and stubborn and impulsive. Someone much more vulnerable. Someone who seemed to be speaking just to me.
I too had chafed at Lady Helaine’s strictures. I too had found the lure of Wild Magic irresistible. And I too had found water a friend.
My mother had been gone for ten years, and yet I was still finding new ways to miss her.
I opened my eyes, wishing that I could see her just one more time. But at least I had the next-best thing—her book, open on my lap, and her words echoing in this quiet room.
I knew that time was going by and we should probably leave for the safety of high ground. But it was hard to close the diary when my mother’s words were calling to me.
I couldn’t help reading just a few pages more.
. . . she knows I’m defying her, but she hasn’t caught me at it yet. When she questions me, I deny everything.
She says my stone will crack if I keep doing Wild Magic, that I won’t ever be able to do Proven Magic again. As if I cared about that! Thank goodness Auntie Rose has written and asked that I visit her. I have to get away from here.
Auntie Rose. I hadn’t heard the name for a couple of years, but I knew who she was. Her real name was Agnes Roser, and she wasn’t a true aunt but my mother’s much older cousin. I’d met her once, when I was small—a doughy woman with puffy hands and a kindly smile, who’d patted my face and offered me gingerbread. A cozy woman, easily underestimated. Only much later had I learned that she had been the guardian of some extraordinary Chantress secrets.
Had she said anything to my mother that might be useful to me now? I started to read more carefully.
Lady H. told her about the Wild Magic, and even Auntie Rose wants me to stop. But instead of screaming at me the way Lady H. does, she sat me down and said that she was going to tell me something that most Chantresses had forgotten, something that even Lady H. doesn’t know. And then Auntie Rose said that the real reason Chantresses wear stones is to protect us from the music of the Others.
I’d never heard of the Others before, but Auntie Rose says that they’re our ancestresses, our ancient Mothers. What some call faeries or fae or elementals. And the ones who come from our line—from water stock—are the most dangerous ones.
So Penebrygg was right. The Others, the Mothers, the faeries, the elementals—they were all