Chapter 32 Mother's Memories
Daisy pressed harder, letting the blood spill from her hand in thick, pulsing drops. She squeezed until her fist went numb, until the world shrank to nothing but the river of red crossing her mother’s skin. The blood didn’t soak in; it hovered, clung to the surface, then spun itself into a new pattern. Daisy recognized it instantly: the spiral from her mother’s journal, but layered with something else, something alive.
Delia hovered at her side, frantic. "That’s enough! You’re bleeding too much…"
Daisy shook her off. "It’s working."
Maribel’s breath grew easier, the rattle fading, but the spiral on her neck glowed so bright it lit the whole room in a mad red halo. Daisy leaned in, letting the blood-magic take the lead. The spiral opened, unfurled, and for the first time in her life, Daisy could see the magic inside another person, not the neat, controlled flow the nobles used, but a wild current, full of snags and old wounds.
She saw them: the blockages, the shards of spellwork buried in her mother’s chest like flecks of glass. She reached out, not with her hands but with her will, and found the nearest one, a black sliver pulsing just above the heart. Daisy wrapped her blood around it, pulled, and felt it tear loose with a sound that only she could hear, a scream, high and thin.
Maribel spasmed, her hand clawing at Daisy’s wrist, but Daisy held firm. Another shard: this one in the lung. Another in the throat. Each one was harder to pull than the last, each one leaving a trail of cold as it left the body.
Delia watched, horrified and fascinated. "What are you doing?"
Daisy gritted her teeth. "Cleaning up someone else’s mess."
She could see now, through the blood-magic, how the city had gotten so good at making people sick: the wards weren’t just outside, painted on walls or tied into the air. They were in the blood, seeded into every family that had ever tried to run, to resist, to remember what they used to be.
She kept pulling, one shard after another, until the room swam and her vision tunneled. The spiral on her mother’s neck flickered, then steadied, its light softer now, more human.
Daisy slumped, exhausted. Her hand still bled, but she barely felt it. The blood on Maribel’s chest had turned from red to black, and in the center of the spiral, a thin line of smoke rose and vanished.
Maribel opened her eyes. This time, they were clear, focused. She reached up, touched Daisy’s cheek, and said, "You did it."
Daisy tried to smile, but the effort was too much. She let her head drop, breathing hard. The world narrowed to a pinhole, and in that tunnel she saw flashes of her mother’s memories, bright and fast as lightning:
—a younger Maribel, running down the old canal, a leather-bound book clutched to her chest, ward-glass shattering behind her as city guards gave chase;
—a man waiting in the dark, his hair long and wild, his skin marked with the same scales that now curled around Daisy’s arms. He took her mother’s hands, kissed the spiral on her wrist, and wept as if he already knew how it would end;
—moonlit escapes, hiding in attics and crawlspaces, the constant fear of trackers and their silver nets. The moment when the man was caught, torn from her arms, dragged away into torchlight, and never seen again.
Daisy blinked, and the visions faded, leaving only the ache in her bones and a hunger so deep she felt hollowed out.
Delia hovered, shaking her. "You’re losing too much blood. Daisy, stop!"
But Daisy didn’t want to stop. She wanted to see more, to peel back every layer, every secret. She reached for her mother again, but Maribel shook her head, weak but resolute.
"Enough," Maribel said. "Save it for yourself."
Daisy tried to argue, but her mouth was full of the taste of iron and loss.
She sagged against the pallet, breathing hard. Delia pressed a rag to her hand, wrapped it tight, and glared at her. "You almost killed yourself."
Daisy grinned, or tried to. "Worth it."
She heard, faintly, the sound of footsteps in the main hall. Then a voice: "Daisy!"
Oliver burst through the curtain, panting, face white with terror. "They found us," he gasped. "Blackwood’s men, they’re at the bridge already. Maybe five minutes."
Delia went pale, but acted fast. "Rose, Mina! Get your things, now. Sam, help your mother."
Daisy forced herself to stand, every muscle screaming. The blood-magic inside her wanted to curl up, to rest, but she wouldn’t let it. Not yet.
Oliver hovered in the doorway. "You ready?"
Daisy looked at the bone knife, still crusted with her blood, then at the family she had almost lost. She squared her shoulders, felt the scales settle into place.
"Let’s go," she said.
They slipped out the back, moving fast, hugging the tannery wall. Daisy could already hear voices, hard, trained, professional. Blackwood’s men, no doubt. She led the way, using the memory of old hideouts, old tunnels, every trick she’d learned on these streets.
They made it to the edge of the canal, and Daisy turned back. She saw them: six men, dressed in black, faces masked, wands and rods at the ready. At their head was a man with a scar down the center of his face. Cornelius Blackwood.
He saw her, and the two locked eyes. Blackwood nodded, a slow, deliberate recognition.
Daisy wanted to run. Instead, she pressed her bleeding palm to the ground, whispered to it, and watched as the blood soaked into the earth, then burst out in a spray of thorns: red, sharp, living. It bought them a minute, maybe less, but it was enough.
They ran, following the canal east, then ducking into the ruins of the old glassworks.
Daisy counted heads: Delia, the kids, Oliver, her mother, barely conscious, but alive. She took the rear, watching the street for any sign of pursuit.
She felt her hand throb, the spiral still burning.
She was not done yet.