Free Blood Magic by Tessa Gratton Page A

blood. For new magic. “He gave these rings to me.” He’d given Reese a matching bracelet with a bright tiger’s-eye jewel. Reese hadn’t worn it since July. He wouldn’t even look at it.
    “They’re lovely.”
    “One every birthday since I turned nine. My eighteenth should have been the last.” My right ring finger stood out naked. What would it have looked like? They kept gettingmore complex and more expensive as I aged. Last spring had been a white gold band tightly clutching what Dad had called an emerald-cut emerald. I wore it on my left middle finger. “He said, when I was nine, that he’d build a rainbow around me like armor.”
    “To keep you safe?”
    “Yeah.”
    “From what?”
    She was staring at my hands. I wove my fingers together and pulled them closer to my stomach. I could feel the scar from Wednesday night tingling. “Whatever, I guess.”
    “From the regular monsters that stalk little children? Strangers? Death?” Her voice was light, but when she raised her eyes, they were thick with emotion. I wondered how such a sympathetic person could handle being a counselor. Then she continued: “Or from himself?”
    It was like being hit in the diaphragm, and all my breath froze painfully.
    “Maybe you wish he’d better protected your mom instead?”
    “He didn’t kill her,” I said tightly. My rings cut into my skin as my hands convulsed.
    “Drusilla, honey, I want you to imagine, just for a moment, that he could have. It doesn’t make you disloyal or a bad daughter. Do you think he’d have wanted you to hide from the truth?”
    “Why is everyone always trying to make me hate my dad?”
    “That’s not what we’re doing, Drusilla.”
    “That’s what it feels like.”
    She nodded, like I’d said something good. Blood warmed my cheeks. She’d gotten me talking about my feelings again. Ipressed my lips together and grasped at the mask I’d invoked before coming in; the mask of calm, of order, of the bottomless, cold ocean. The flush drained away. Ms. Tripp sighed. “Drusilla”—she said my name as though wanting to remind me what it was—“I want to help you. There’s nothing wrong with anything you’re feeling, all right? I’m here to listen, to help you figure out what those feeling are, why you have them, to untangle any confusions and get you on track. But I’m not here to condemn you, or your needs, or your dad.”
    “Can I go?” It was early; we usually had a half hour.
    “Of course. You aren’t a prisoner.” She stood and held out her hand. When I let her have mine and joined her on my feet, she squeezed it warmly. Everyone’s hands were warmer than mine. “I’ll see you next week, unless you want to come sooner. The door’s always open.”
    “Sure.” I slid my hand away and grabbed my backpack. The pink line of tender skin on my palm tingled, reminding me of what I’d done. Of what I could do again.

April 17, 1905
    It is not all beautiful
.
    I hardly know how to put this down, but Philip said, “You need to remember.” And I do not want to, this more than anything that has happened
.
    But a small part of me understands what I did not understand before. About memory
.
    The beginning first. That is how these things are done
.
    In December, Philip brought home a basket of kittens. He gave them to me, showed me how to soak cloth in milk for them to suck at, and as they grew, I cared for them. The darling, little, mewling things. So soft, with their sharp little teeth and playful paws. I carried their basket into my bed and slept with them curled all around me. For three weeks they were my friends
.
    And this morning, Philip called me to his laboratory and said I should bring one of my kittens
.
    I should have known. Somehow, I should have known
.
    When I arrived, already he had laid out a working circle. A thin black braid of human hair coiled at its edge, along with his blood knife, ribbons, a bundle of sticks, and honeycomb. He explained that his
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