Free A Ragged Magic by Lindsey S. Johnson

select a wine-red satin, and heat the iron in the fire.
    ～
    The chapel is chilly and dark but for a few lamps. The ceiling soars over the altar at the far end of the chapel, and I can hear the ocean clearly against the cliffs. This is the opposite end of the castle from the tower where I convalesced.
    I make my way to the Star Chambers, heart hammering. Tapestries hang in the doorways decorated with the great star, and push aside to rooms little larger than tiny closets. There is a lamp burning in the closest one, shining green-yellow on the stonework.
    I don’t know what Orrin wants. I hope he hasn’t told Bishop Gantry anything.
    “Rhiannon,” I hear, and I gasp, spin. Orrin stands just inside the doorway. I walked right past him.
    “That is your name, right? Rhiannon? Rhiannon Owen —”
    “Rhiannon Owen is … dead,” I whisper.
    He winces.
    I study him as much as I can in the dim lamplight. He’s slender, only a little taller than I am. His face is smooth and dark, with high cheekbones and a hint of stubble on his chin. His close-cropped hair is wiry and much curlier than mine. He looks sad and worried.
    Orrin opens his hands in a helpless way, and I try to smile.
    “Rhia. Call me Rhia, here.”
    “I — I was … close to Keenan.”
    It is my turn to wince. I turn away.
    “He was — he used to talk about you. You look a lot like him,” Orrin says. “I miss him very much.”
    I blink back tears, staring at the wall. “I do, too,” I whisper, and I’ve admitted to treason. Or blasphemy. Maybe both. I am not supposed to be alive. And he’s working for the man who thinks he killed me. Connor is right: I am stupid.
    I turn back to Orrin. “Please, please do not turn me into the bishop. I really don’t — I really don’t want to die. And I swear I’m not a witch. Not really.”
    Orrin shakes his head. “I would not. I — I don’t think he should have accused you. Keenan told me — he told me of your Sight. It isn’t witchery, not how we were taught.”
    My eyes sting a little. “I have found that it’s dangerous to say such things. You’ll have to be careful around Bishop Gantry. He is … not a tolerant man.”
    Orrin shakes his head. “No, he isn’t. He is a very frightening man. I don’t trust him. I have written to the monastery in Corat for a transfer, but I don’t think I’ll get one. And now — now that I know you’re here …”
    I stare at him, afraid to hope. “If he — you —” I fumble. “I hope you get your transfer. It would be safer for you to go.”
    “I don’t know about safer. Safer for you — I promise I won’t give you away. But he makes me feel nervous. I’ve written to the archbishop. I think Bishop Gantry — I’m not sure he’s entirely sane.”
    I reach out, almost grab Orrin’s arm. “Oh, not Archbishop Montmoore,” I say, and he nods cautiously at me. I shake my head at him. “You should write to Cardinal Robere. He will help you.”
    He looks askance. “Why not the archbishop? He is the more direct superior.” I can only shake my head at him. “What happened, what did Gantry do to you?”
    I open my mouth to tell him something, make up something, but no sound emerges. I feel a sharp tingle along the runes on my body, and I find I can only gasp for air. He takes my arm, helps me to collapse onto the stone bench, and sits beside me.
    He sighs, wipes his eyes. “I don’t know you, really. Only what your brother said. But I loved your brother,” he says, and I feel his heart, See his love, and gasp. Loved my brother. As in, they were lovers. I try not to stare in shock. How did I not know?
    I think back to everything Keenan said, or Sent me, about Orrin. Was there more tenderness, extra warmth to his voice and mind? I don’t understand how I could have missed it. I grab Orrin’s hand, clutching at this unexpected remnant of my brother.
    “I will trust you,” he is saying. I look in his eyes, try to See more. Although that is probably