The Order of the Eternal Sun Read online

  Another flash, and its brightness burns an image on to the inside of my eyelids: a grand lady, her hair lit up by the sun, her form willowy and regal at once. I hold my breath and hardly dare to blink.

  The sound of a door opening near me fractures my concentration, and the vision before me begins to waver.

  “Luce?” my sister Wren says from my doorway, and the flashes of color, the regal lady, everything but the stones I have drawn with my own pencil, disappear.

  For a moment, I can only sit blinking dumbly at her.

  She comes over to my side with a soft rustling of silk. With her hand upon my shoulder, she peers down at my drawing. “The portal? I must say, it’s a lovely rendering, though I’m not sure why you’d feel the urge to draw it.”

  I glance up with what I’m sure is a sheepish smile, though I do not find anything but curiosity in her expression. A relief, that, since the portal wasn’t exactly a pleasant memory for my sister. “It was a strange thing—I set out to continue my drawing of my debut, but I was overcome with this … compulsion, I suppose, to draw these stones instead.”

  “Very strange indeed,” she says, touching the tip of her finger briefly to the largest stone. “It must be the Sylvan part of us that wants so badly to see our mother’s realm.”

  I think of the flashes I saw, the otherworldliness of the colors and images, but something holds my tongue. Did I truly see Sylvania? Or was it simply my artist’s mind bringing to life my sister’s descriptions of it?

  “I still dream about it sometimes,” Wren says, her tone turned wistful. “Of the fox and the portal and the brief little glimpses I saw through the runes.” She flashes me a quick smile. “Not all my memories of that time are bad, after all.”

  My stomach twists as some of the fear of three years ago resurfaces. I try never to think of her near death at the hands of the brotherhood of men hell-bent on destroying us. Only the knowledge that our secret was still safe allowed me to sleep at night. At least, I’d believed that right up until James had interrupted my fencing instruction today with a dagger. “Wren,” I say hesitantly, “surely if all the members of the Order knew the truth about us, they would have come for us long ago.”

  She tilts her head to the side slightly. “I agree, of course, but what makes you say that?”

  I retrieve the ornate dagger from its hiding place in my vanity. “James gave me this today—he said Colin asked him to train me in self-defense. Did you know of this?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but neither am I surprised. Really, Luce, it isn’t a bad idea. I just hope it wasn’t terribly uncomfortable for you.”

  Heat creeps up my neck. My sister knows only part of the truth—that I’d confessed my feelings to James, never that he’d kissed me. “It was rather awkward, I must admit.”

  She winces. “Truly? Well, then I’ll have Colin find someone else.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, surprising myself, “you don’t have to do that. I must learn to be comfortable around him again. It just all came as a surprise—the idea I might need self-defense against the Order. I suppose I’ve been blindly hoping we would never face such danger again. It’s been three years, after all.”

  She gives me a small smile. “Something I’ve tried many times to remind Colin of. Still, he remains suspicious. I’m afraid he may become rather overbearing during the course of the season. You wouldn’t believe how intensely he scrutinized every guest invited to your debut ball. Attendees at court aren’t even subjected to such rigorous censure. In fact, he was such a bear to the Lord Chamberlain yesterday during your debut at court that I thought for sure he’d be thrown out.”

  I laugh at her exasperated expression. “I must have missed it. What did he want from the poor man?”

  “A list of everyone who would be in the palace that day. He wanted to be certain no members of the Order would be in attendance.”

  I shoot her a look of confusion. “But how would he know who to look for?”

  “Precisely,” she says.

  I stifle another laugh. “I do appreciate his concern, though.”

  She snorts. “We’ll see what you have to say after this ball. He’s insisting I use dance cards, though you know I find them tedious.”

  My sister may be exasperated with her husband, but I do understand. Not everyone is who they seem, and not everyone can be trusted. Truly my brother-in-law means well. He was willing to trade the seclusion of his country estate for his London townhome just so I can receive their considerable support during my debut.

  Even so, I know rejoining London society will be something of a hardship for them both.

  “Never fear, though,” she continues. “I’m quite determined to make this the event you’ve always dreamed of.”

  I glance around at my richly furnished bedroom, my armoire filled with expensive dresses, skirts, jackets, and a wide assortment of accessories—everything from shoes of the softest kid leather to elaborate hats. I have only to walk out of my room to find my lady’s maid hovering nearby, or stroll downstairs to find a veritable feast prepared for every meal.

  “I think it’s safe to say you’ve already accomplished that. My every need has been anticipated here.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” she says with a smile. “Now, as usual, I’ve gone off on a tangent and quite forgotten to ask you if you’ve seen Izzie. The little darling has evaded both her nanny and me—all because Nanny wants to give her a bath.”

  I smile at the mention of my mischievous niece. I adore that child as though she were my own. I’ve always had a maternal streak, but there’s just something about Izzie’s personality that I love. She’s only two, but she’s quite opinionated already. It rather makes me long for one of my own. “No, but you were right to search for her here. So many times have I found her rummaging through my art supplies. I shall have to start her drawing lessons soon.”

  Wren heaves a sigh. “I wish you would. Perhaps that would be a more constructive outlet for her—better than hiding anyway.” She moves to my wardrobe and peeks inside. “Just checking,” she says with a laugh. “All right—I’ll continue my search elsewhere then.”

  “Would you like my help?”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, no. Finish your drawing. I’m sure she’ll make her way to your room eventually anyway. Just call if you see her.”

  I agree and then turn back to my drawing with a frown.

  After turning to a fresh sheet of paper in my sketchpad, I take a moment to clear my thoughts of everything but my debut. The fact that my drawings seemed to have developed minds of their own of late has caused no small amount of anxiety—and I have the gnawed-on pencils to prove it—but I’m determined to wrest control.

  Again, I picture the beauty of the throne room, the rich colors, even the smells and sounds. In answer, my arcana surges into my pencil, transferring each detail of the throne room onto paper: the vibrant colors, the gold-and-velvet thrones, the elaborate crystal chandeliers, the ornate molding. I fill in the edges of the drawing, leaving white space in the center to add all the many people in attendance.

  Once I have a satisfying rendition, I add several music notes to the corner of the page. A lively tune by Johann Strauss had been playing at the time, and I know whenever I hear that particular opus, I will remember that night.

  The symphony plays in my mind until I can hear the quick bow strokes of the violins combined with the almost playful sound of the flutes. When I touch the notes, energy surges to the tip of my finger, ready to give life to the music I can hear so clearly in my mind. I smudge the notes into the fibers of the paper, releasing my energy at the same time.

  Music surrounds me, and it’s as though I’m standing in the throne room once again. With my own symphony playing gently in the background, I add the people: lords dressed in full court dress of midnight black velvet, the Royal Guard dressed in crimson regimentals, ladies in heavily jeweled satin gowns of every color. The king had been regal in a scarlet coat adorned with coun
tless medals, some large enough to dangle from his chest. The queen, elegant in gold, her train so long I had to take care not to step on it when I curtsied before them.

  I narrow my eyes in concentration as I decide on the exact shade of gold of Queen Alexandra’s train. Was it as bright as the filigree adorning the throne room? No, more of a rose gold. My arcana pulls the true color from my mind and adds it to the drawing, turning Queen Alexandra’s gown to vivid life.

  My own gown was an absolute dream, done in ivory and gold, with delicate cap sleeves and an impossibly long train. I think of the detailed gold embroidery, of how the gown made me feel as regal as a queen, and a desire grips me then, so strong my fingers tighten around my pencil. I wish I could go back to that night, to that one beautiful moment.

  And with only that mere breath of a thought, arcana surges down my arm, spilling onto my paper in a glittering dance of light. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise. The colors seem to shimmer and rise above the fiber of the papers, like sunshine reflecting on a pool of water. The more I stare, the dizzier I become. It feels as though my eyes are crossing, and I blink several times to fend off the uncomfortable sensation.

  The drawing swirls around and around until I’m sure I’ll be sick. I cannot pull my eyes away. A terrible tugging, like I’m being forcibly dragged, grabs hold of the center of my body. A flash of light as bright as lightning illuminates the room, and I cry out in surprise and pain. My eyelids slam closed.

  When I open them again, I’m no longer in my room.

  TWO

  WITH a chill of suspicion seizing my senses, I take in the scene around me. Crimson silk wall coverings, golden chandeliers, and a symphony playing an opus by Johan Strauss. The throne room at Buckingham Palace.

  Debutantes dressed all in white process in, one after the other. With a little squeak of fear I dodge out of the way, but they pass through me as though I am nothing but air. Elegantly dressed lords and ladies line the perimeter of the throne room, but none spare me so much as a glance. Never before has a vision of my drawing been so vivid. It’s almost as if I’ve traveled back in time.

  How could this have happened? Not only did I not consciously summon energy, I never drew a rune to allow me to enter the drawing.

  “Can anyone hear me?” I ask aloud, standing directly in front of a lady in a glittering sapphire gown, but no one reacts.

  A shivery feeling creeps up my spine, and I glance up. I let out my breath in a rush as I see…myself. The soft white feathers in my hair complement my gown with its yards of train and glittering golden embroidery. I can only stand agape as I watch the me of last night curtsy before the king and queen. With my drawing as the conduit, my memories have come to life, escaping from my mind in startling accuracy.

  My breaths come faster as I watch myself outside my own body. Apprehension bleeds rapidly into fear. The use of arcana is a heady thing, and that’s when one is in control. Here, I have an astounding lack of control.

  A couple moves toward me, oblivious to my presence, and I stumble out of the way. I force my eyes closed for a moment, trying to reason with myself. All the other times I’ve entered my own drawings, part of my consciousness has remained in the present time. I need only picture my room in London, and I should return. I think of the small wooden chair, the smooth feel of my escritoire, the chaotic mess of all my drawing supplies.

  I wait for the uncomfortable tugging sensation, for any sign I am about to return.

  Nothing happens.

  I open my eyes. Buckingham Palace still lies before me. Panic grabs hold of me like a vise as a question resounds in my mind: what if I cannot return?

  I wring my hands as I take in the scene. As the people before me shift again, a gentleman catches my attention. He stands not far from the throne, his expression guarded. His eyes are arresting—a clear toffee color and shaped in a way that suggests an Eastern influence. What’s more, his dark hair and bronzed skin assures he would be impossible to miss, yet I cannot remember him. Could this mean I am not trapped within my own memories?

  Again, a prickly fear that I have no control over this arcana creeps over me.

  The beautiful gentleman seems to take notice of me, a look of perplexed interest crossing his face. He moves toward me, and I hold my breath. Surely he cannot see me? After all, everyone else in this bizarre vision has treated me as though I am no more substantial than a ghost.

  Very faintly, a voice calls out to me, and I stiffen. I strain to hear the voice; it sounds as though it comes from a great distance.

  “Auntie!” the childish voice calls again, and I turn all around to find the source of it.

  “Izzie?” I say.

  The tugging sensation follows another bright flash. I scarce have time to draw breath for a scream before it’s over again. When I open my eyes, the familiar sights of my room greet me: the barely contained chaos of my drawing supplies strewn over every available surface, my wooden trunk, my bed with its plush linens.

  My niece holds onto the edge of my bed, her plump face awash with worry. “Auntie?” Izzie asks, her bottom lip quivering.

  “Izzie, darling,” I say as I open my arms to her for an embrace, “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you.” She toddles forward and presses her chubby cheek against my chest.

  I close my eyes and just hold her for a moment, my own cheek resting atop her dark curls. My whole body feels weighted down, as though my limbs have suddenly become infused with lead. Never have I felt so weakened. Proof, then, that whatever happened to me drained my energy. Was this how Katherine felt when she performed powerful arcana? I recall terrible memories of when she healed that hateful Eliza from a would-be fatal riding accident. I wince, trying to push the memories away. I try to never think of that time—when Colin brought my sister back from the woods, her body limp in his arms, as though her soul had already left this world. In that moment, my heart had been made of glass, and it shattered the moment I saw her.

  The ghost of that pain assaults my chest now, and I give my sister’s beautiful daughter a gentle squeeze. “Izzie, just now, was I … was I here with you?”

  She gazes up at me with clear blue eyes, and I hold my breath. She nods. I let out that same breath in a rush. I cannot deny how much it relieves me to hear I didn’t disappear—at least physically.

  “But Auntie,” she says, her head tilted to the side quizzically, “what was that big room?”

  My heart pounds harder. “Big room … what do you mean?”

  “The big red room with all the pretty people.”

  “Isidora?” Katherine calls from the hallway, a note of worry in her voice. She lets out an exaggerated sigh when she sees the two of us. “Thank goodness. I should have known you’d be in here.” Something in my face must give away how utterly exhausted I am because she says, “Lucy, are you ill? You look terribly pale.”

  “No, not ill,” I say with great hesitation in my voice. I shoot another worried glance at Izzie before remembering the drawing lying open on my desk. Of course—the big red room. She’d seen my drawing. The one I’d been trapped in.

  “What is it?” Katherine demands, her face tense.

  My words tumble out of me as they always do when I’m terribly nervous. “I was finishing my drawing just now, before Izzie came in. I’m not sure how it happened, but I was transported into it—though I did not consciously use arcana.”

  Katherine’s eyebrows draw together. “And you are sure you didn’t plan to transport yourself? Perhaps you even had a fleeting thought—enough to bring forth energy?”

  “No, I’m quite sure of it. I remember feeling a surge of energy, but I was surprised at its appearance. I never intended to use arcana.”

  Izzie looks back and forth between us with wide eyes the mirror image of her mother’s.

  “Dare I ask what it was you were drawing?” Katherine asks.

  I point to my book of drawings as Izzie takes great delight in sorting through my box of pastels. “As yo
u can see, I was in the middle of recording my presentation at court.”

  Katherine lets out a breath. “I must confess, I’m relieved it was your debut and not the gateway. I just worry—drawing the gateway when you have little control over your arcana seems rather risky.”

  Her words are intended to discourage me, but unfortunately, they have the opposite effect. What would happen if I lost control during a drawing of the gateway? Would I finally see the visions of Sylvania clearly?

  I stare at my book of drawings as though it might suddenly offer an explanation. “I’ll be sure to use caution in the future.”

  “Or at the very least, alert me should you want to try again.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You still look pale, and I’m sure this horrid city doesn’t help. We should go for a ride in Hyde Park to let the sun replenish your lost energy.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t,” I say, noticing that more than an hour has already passed. “I must get ready for the ball tonight.”

  Katherine waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. “The ball can wait. We cannot have you fainting away.”

  I shake my head. “No, I know you and Colin care very little for society’s edicts, but consider how it would look if I’m not even there to greet the guests who are arriving in my honor. I’ll just go outside in the garden for a spell; I’m sure it’ll be just the thing to perk me up.”

  “You’re too kind-hearted, little sister,” Katherine says. “If you are feeling weak, then I’d rather do what we must to help you feel better.”

  “I’m well. I am,” I insist when she fixes me with a skeptical stare.

  Katherine nods after a moment—and whether it’s because she believes me or because she’s decided to let it go for the time being, I’m sure I don’t know. She pulls Izzie into her arms as though sensing my anxiety. “Come, little one. Auntie Lucy needs to go rest in the garden.” To me she adds, “Send for me if you find the garden’s light to be insufficient.”