An Enchantment of Ravens

An instant New York Times bestseller

Margaret Rogerson

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster Children's UK
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9781398518100
• eBook ISBN: 9781398518117

From the internationally bestselling author of Sorcery of Thorns comes a breathtaking fantasy story of danger and forbidden love. This is the perfect read for fans of Cassandra Clare, Sarah J. Maas's A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES series, and Holly Black!

Every enchantment has a price . . . 

Isobel is an artistic prodigy with a dangerous set of clients: the immortal fair folk. Yet when she receives her first royal patron – Rook, a fairy prince – she makes a terrible mistake. She paints mortal sorrow in his eyes – a weakness that could cost him his life.

Furious, Rook escorts Isabel to his kingdom to stand trial for her crime, but their journey is full of danger. Forced to depend on each other for survival, will their alliance blossom into something more?  After all, love violates the fair folks’ ruthless laws . . . but are some matters worth the risk?

An instant New York Times bestseller!

'an ideal pick for fans of Holly Black, Maggie Stiefvater, and Laini Taylor' –​ Publishers Weekly, starred review

One

MY PARLOR smelled of linseed oil and spike lavender, and a dab of lead tin yellow glistened on my canvas. I had nearly perfected the color of Gadfly’s silk jacket.

The trick with Gadfly was persuading him to wear the same clothes for every session. Oil paint needs days to dry between layers, and he had trouble understanding I couldn’t just swap his entire outfit for another he liked better. He was astonishingly vain even by fair folk standards, which is like saying a pond is unusually wet, or a bear surprisingly hairy. All in all, it was a disarming quality for a creature who could murder me without rescheduling his tea.

“I might have some silver embroidery done about the wrists,” he said. “What do you think? You could add that, couldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And if I chose a different cravat . . .”

Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. Outwardly, my face ached with the polite smile I’d maintained for the past two and a half hours. Rudeness was not an affordable mistake. “I could alter your cravat, as long as it’s more or less the same size, but I’d need another session to finish it.”

“You truly are a wonder. Much better than the previous portrait artist—that fellow we had the other day. What was his name? Sebastian Manywarts? Oh, I didn’t like him, he always smelled a bit strange.”

It took me a moment to realize Gadfly was referring to Silas Merryweather, a master of the Craft who died over three hundred years ago. “Thank you,” I said. “What a thoughtful compliment.”

“How engaging it is to see the Craft change over time.” Barely listening, he selected one of the cakes from the tray beside the settee. He didn’t eat it immediately, but rather sat staring at it, as an entomologist might having discovered a beetle with its head on backward. “One thinks one has seen the best humans have to offer, and suddenly there’s a new method of glazing china, or these fantastic little cakes with lemon curd inside.”

By now I was used to fair folk mannerisms. I didn’t look away from his left sleeve, and kept dabbing on the silk’s glossy yellow shine. However, I remembered a time in which the fair folk’s behavior had unsettled me. They moved differently than humans: smoothly, precisely, with a peculiar stiffness to their posture, and never put so much as a finger out of place. They could remain still for hours without blinking, or they could move with such fearsome swiftness as to be upon you before you could even gasp in surprise.

I sat back, brush in hand, and took in the portrait in its entirety. It was nearly finished. There lay Gadfly’s petrified likeness, as unchanging as he was. Why the fair folk so desired portraits was beyond me. I supposed it had something to do with vanity, and their insatiable thirst to surround themselves with human Craft. They would never reflect on their youth, because they knew nothing else, and by the time they died, if they even did, their portraits would be long rotted away to nothing.

Gadfly appeared to be a man in his middle thirties. Like every example of his kind he was tall, slim, and beautiful. His eyes were the clear crystal blue of the sky after rain has washed away the summer heat, his complexion as pale and flawless as porcelain, and his hair the radiant silver-gold of dew illuminated by a sunrise. I know it sounds ridiculous, but fair folk require such comparisons. There’s simply no other way to describe them. Once, a Whimsical poet died of despair after finding himself unequal to the task of capturing a fair one’s beauty in simile. I think it more likely he died of arsenic poisoning, but so the story goes.

You must keep in mind, of course, that all of this is only a glamour, not what they really look like underneath.

Fair folk are talented dissemblers, but they can’t lie outright. Their glamour always has a flaw. Gadfly’s flaw was his fingers; they were far too long to be human and sometimes appeared oddly jointed. If someone looked at his hands too long he would lace them together or scurry them under a napkin like a pair of spiders to put them out of sight. He was the most personable fair one I knew, far more relaxed about manners than the rest of them, but staring was never a good idea—unless, like me, you had a good reason to.

Finally, Gadfly ate the cake. I didn’t see him chew before he swallowed.

“We’re just about finished for the day,” I told him. I wiped my brush on a rag, then dropped it into the jar of linseed oil beside my easel. “Would you like to take a look?”

“Need you even ask? Isobel, you know I’d never pass up the opportunity to admire your Craft.”

Before I knew it Gadfly stood leaning over my shoulder. He kept a courteous space between us, but his inhuman scent enveloped me: a ferny green fragrance of spring leaves, the sweet perfume of wildflowers. Beneath that, something wild—something that had roamed the forest for millennia, and had long spidery fingers that could crush a human’s throat while its owner wore a cordial smile.

My heart skipped a beat. I am safe in this house, I reminded myself.

“I believe I do like this cravat best after all,” he said. “Exquisite work, as always. Now, what am I paying you, again?”

I stole a glance at his elegant profile. A strand of hair had slipped from the blue ribbon at the nape of his neck as if by accident. I wondered why he’d arranged it that way. “We agreed on an enchantment for our hens,” I reminded him. “Each of them will lay six good eggs per week for the rest of their lives, and they must not die early for any reason.”

“So practical.” He sighed at the tragedy. “You are the most admired Crafter of this age. Imagine all the things I could give you! I could make pearls drop from your eyes in place of tears. I could lend you a smile that enslaves men’s hearts, or a dress that once beheld is never forgotten. And yet you request eggs.”

“I quite like eggs,” I replied firmly, well aware that the enchantments he described would all turn strange and sour, even deadly, in the end. Besides, what on earth would I do with men’s hearts? I couldn’t make an omelette out of them.

“Oh, very well, if you insist. You’ll find the enchantment in effect beginning tomorrow. With that I’m afraid I must be off—I’ve the embroidery to ask after.”

I stood with a creak of my chair and dropped him a curtsy as he paused at the door. He gave an elegant bow in response. Like most fair folk he was adept at pretending he returned the courtesy by choice, not a strict compulsion that was, to him, as necessary as breathing.

“Aha,” he added, straightening, “I’d nearly forgotten. We’ve had gossip in the spring court that the autumn prince is going to pay you a visit. Imagine that! I look forward to hearing whether he manages to sit through an entire session, or hares off after the Wild Hunt as soon as he’s arrived.”

I wasn’t able to school my expression at the news. I stood gaping at Gadfly until a puzzled smile crossed his lips and he extended his pale hand in my direction, perhaps trying to determine whether I’d died standing up, not an unreasonable concern, as to him humans no doubt seemed to expire at the slightest provocation.

“The autumn—” My voice came out rough. I closed my mouth and cleared my throat. “Are you quite certain? I was under the impression the autumn prince did not visit Whimsy. No one has seen him in hundreds . . .” Words failed me.

“I assure you, he is alive and well. Why, I saw him at a ball just yesterday. Or was it last month? In any event, he shall be here tomorrow. Do pass on my regards.”

“It—it will be an honor,” I stammered, mentally cringing at my uncharacteristic loss of composure. Suddenly in need of fresh air, I crossed the room to open the door. I showed Gadfly out and stood gazing across the field of summer wheat as his figure receded up the path.

A cloud passed beneath the sun, and a shadow fell across my house. The season never changed in Whimsy, but as first one leaf dropped from the tree in the lane, and then another, I couldn’t help but feel some transformation was afoot. Whether or not I approved of it remained to be seen.

Two

TOMORROW! GADFLY said tomorrow. You know how they are about mortal time. What if he shows up at half past midnight, demanding I work in my nightgown? And my best dress has a tear, I can’t get it mended by then—the blue one will have to do.” While I spoke, I massaged linseed oil into my hands and set at them with a washing cloth, scrubbing my fingers raw. Usually I didn’t bother cleaning the paint off myself, but usually I didn’t work for fair folk royalty, either, and I had little idea what trivial nonsense might offend him. “I’m low on lead tin yellow, too, so I’ll have to go into town this evening—shit. Shit! Sorry, Emma.”

I lifted my skirts away from the water spreading across the floor and dove for the fallen bucket’s handle.

“Heavens, Isobel, it’ll be all right. March”—my aunt lowered her spectacles and squinted—“no, May, would you clean that up for your sister, please? She’s having a hard day.”

“What does shit mean?” May asked slyly, flouncing down at my feet with a rag.

“It’s the word for when you spill a bucket of water by accident,” I said, aware she would find the truth perilously inspiring. “Where’s March?”

May gave me a gap-toothed grin. “On top of the cabinets.”

“March! Get off the cabinets!”

“She’s having fun up there, Isobel,” May said, slopping water over my shoes.

“She won’t be having fun when she’s dead,” I replied.

With a bleat of delight March hopped down from the cabinets, kicked a chair over, and went bounding across the room. She came toward us, and I lifted my hands to ward her off. But she was heading not for me but for May, who stood up in time to crack heads with her, which gave me a momentary respite while they tottered about in a concussed daze. I sighed. Emma and I were trying to break the habit.

My twin sisters weren’t precisely human. They’d begun life as a pair of goat kids before a fair one had had too much wine and enchanted them on a lark. It was slow going, but I reminded myself that at least it was going. This time last year they hadn’t been house-trained. And it worked in their favor that their transformative enchantment had rendered them more or less indestructible: I’d seen March survive eating a broken pot, poison oak, deadly nightshade, and several unfortunate salamanders without any ill effects. For all my concern, March jumping off cabinets posed more danger to the kitchen furniture.

“Isobel, come here a moment.” My aunt’s voice interrupted my thoughts. She watched me over her spectacles until I obeyed, and took my hand to scrub off a smudge I hadn’t noticed.

“You’re going to do well tomorrow,” she said firmly. “I’m sure the autumn prince is the same as any other fair one, and even if he isn’t, remember you’re safe inside this house.” She wrapped both her hands around mine and squeezed. “Remember what you earned for us.”

I squeezed her hands back. Perhaps at that moment I deserved being spoken to like a little girl. I tried to keep the whine out of my voice as I replied, “I just don’t like not knowing what to expect.”

“That may be so, but you’re more prepared for something like this than anyone else in Whimsy. We know it, and the fair folk do too. At market yesterday I heard people saying that at this rate you might be headed for the Green Well—”

I snatched my hand back in shock.

“Of course you aren’t. I know you wouldn’t make that choice. The point I’m trying to make is that if the fair folk see any human as indispensable, it’s you, and that’s worth a great deal. Tomorrow will be fine.”

I released a long breath and smoothed out my skirts. “I suppose you’re right,” I said, privately unconvinced. “I should go now if I want to get back before dark. March, May, don’t drive Emma mad while I’m gone. I expect this kitchen to look perfect when I come home.”

I gave the overturned chair a significant look as I left the room.

“At least we didn’t shit all over the floor!” May shouted after me.

When I was a little girl, a trip into town had been nothing short of an adventure. Now I couldn’t leave fast enough. My stomach wound a notch tighter every time someone passed by the window outside.

“Just lead tin yellow?” asked the boy behind the counter, neatly wrapping the chalk stick in a twist of butcher’s paper. Phineas had only been working here for a few weeks, but he already possessed a shrewd understanding of my habits.

“On second thought, a stick of green earth and two more of vermilion. Oh! And all your charcoal, please.” Watching him retrieve my order, I despaired at how much work awaited me tonight. I needed to grind and mix the pigments, select my palette, and stretch my new canvas. In all likelihood tomorrow’s session would only involve completing the prince’s sketch, but I couldn’t stand not being prepared for every possibility.

I glanced out the window while Phineas ducked out of sight. A patina of dust coated the glass, and the shop’s location in a corner between two larger buildings gave it a dark, shabby, out-of-the-way air. Not even a single, simple enchantment brightened its lamps, sang out when the door opened, or kept the corners free of dust. Anyone could see that the fair folk never gave this place a second glance. They had no use for the materials used to make Craft, only the finished product itself.

The establishments across the street were a different story entirely. A woman’s skirts vanished into Firth & Maester’s, and I knew from that brief sighting alone that she was a fair one. No mortal could afford the lace gowns sold there. And no humans shopped at the Confectionary next door, whose sign advertised marzipan flowers, sweets made from almonds imported at great cost and danger from the World Beyond. Enchantments, and enchantments alone, were worthy payment for Craft of such caliber.

When Phineas straightened, his eyes shone in a way I recognized all too well. No—“recognized” wasn’t the right word. I dreaded it. He shyly brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead as my heart sank, and sank, and sank. Please, I thought, not again.

“Miss Isobel, would you mind taking a look at my Craft? I know I’m not like you,” he added in a rush, scrambling to keep his nerve, “but Master Hartford’s been encouraging me—it’s why he took me on—and I’ve practiced all these years.” He held a painting to his chest, self-consciously concealing the front side as though it weren’t a canvas but his very soul he feared exposing. I knew the feeling intimately, which didn’t make what came next any easier.

“I’d be more than happy to,” I replied. At least I had a great deal of experience in faking a smile.

He handed it to me, and I turned the frame over, exposing a landscape to the shop’s dim light. Relief flooded me. Thank god, it wasn’t a portrait. I must sound horribly arrogant saying so, but my Craft was held in such high esteem that the fair folk wouldn’t commission anyone else until I was dead and gone—and until they actually realized I was dead and gone, which might take several additional decades. I despaired for every new portrait artist cropping up in the wake of my fame. Perhaps Phineas stood a chance.

“This is very good,” I told him honestly, passing his painting back. “You have an excellent grasp of color and composition. Keep practicing, but even in the meantime”—I hesitated—“you might be able to sell your Craft.”

His cheeks flushed, and he grew an inch taller right in front of me. My relief went cold. Often, the part that followed was worse. I braced myself as he asked the exact question I feared. “Could you . . . do you think you could refer one of your patrons to me, miss?”

My gaze wandered back to the window, where Mrs. Firth herself was arranging a new dress for Firth & Maester’s shopfront display. When I was young, I had thought her a fai...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen
• Chapter Fifteen
• Chapter Sixteen
• Chapter Seventeen
• Chapter Eighteen
• Chapter Nineteen
• Chapter Twenty
• Chapter Twenty-One
• Chapter Twenty-Two
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgments
• ‘Vespertine’ Teaser
• About the Author
• Copyright