Dame Ephemera set down the teacup she had just lifted to her lips. “I’ll go up with her then, shall I? She’ll need a bit of guidance about packing.”
As she said this, a slender woman entered the house, her valises clutched firmly in her hands, and looked toward the staircase. Dame Ephemera greeted her quite as if the house was hers and the woman was an old friend. “Hello, dear, I’m Verity’s great aunt.”
“I’m Marsha Icenbise of Madame Marsha’s Re-imagined Finery for Men, Matrons, Maidens and Young Masters of Modest Means,” she said. “I overheard what you just said about packing, ma’am. If I don’t see the girl first, the poor lamb will have nothing to pack.”
Nancy knocked on Verity’s door. “Miss Verity, your aged aunt of noble title and a tradeswoman are here to see you. Shall I—?”
She was interrupted when Verity flung open the door and regarded her visitors, Madame Marsha with pleasure and anticipation and Dame Ephemera with curiosity and puzzled recognition.
“One aged aunt of noble title at your service, my dear,” said the little round brown woman rattling with white shells sewn to her dress and laced through her braids. “I am your great aunt Ephemera Brown-Perchingbird. I’m hoping to whisk you away to my ice palace in the north to help me with my work among the Seashell Archives. I’m told I’ve become forgetful, though I can’t remember why they would say a thing like that. I do remember your parents well enough to see you take after both sides of your family. Your complexion is from our side and your stature and the rest of your coloring from your mother’s. Couldn’t tell when you were a bairnie and all red, bald, and blotchy, but you’ve turned out well.”
“Thanks,” Verity said uncertainly. “Coming to live with you would suit me quite well, at least for the time being. I remember Papa mentioning you favorably, but I thought you were dead.”
Dame Ephemera—Aunt Ephemera—laughed. “There are times when I think the same thing.”
“And Madame Marsha, you’re here even earlier than I imagined. Thank you for the rush.”
“Thank you for the custom. I don’t mean to be rude, but I overheard Dame Ephemera mention something about departure on the afternoon train. Perhaps you should try these on and see if they need fitting so I can work on them while you re-unite with your aunt and see if the new design meets with your approval?” She bustled over to the bed to lay out Verity’s purchases and cried out when she saw the items already spread across the family-crest emblazoned counterpane. “Oh, my! I see you made good on your search of the attic?”
“Yes. The smaller things were my mother’s and although she was a big woman too, they’d need to be let out to fit me. But these gowns belonged to Queen Bronwyn or I miss my guess.”
“The Queen Bronwyn? Bronwyn Rowan? Bronwyn the Bold?”
Verity nodded.
“I thought she ran about in nothing but a short kilt and armor.”
Ephemera surprised Verity by interjecting, “That was the time she was most noted for, when she was a youngster no older than this one,” she flicked her fingers toward her grand-niece. “When she was queen, of course, she wore proper robes and gowns like these. Quite old fashioned, of course…”
“Yes, but they used a lot of fabric in those days and it’s very durable without being coarse. Are you sure you want me to cut into these, though? Surely they’re of some historical value?”
“Well, just these darker ones, maybe. She must have worn them during a mourning period, too. They’re not as fancy as the others.”
Madame Marsha set down her valises, removed needle, thread, and shears from one while laying a pile of heavy clothing atop the more colorful of the gowns.
Verity, still in her nightgown and robe, shucked them off without shame—she’d been living for years with all of the privacy a girls’ dormitory affords, after all, and reached for the pile.
“The under-things are the muddy colored ones,” Madame Marsha interjected. “They’re combinations made from qiviut, the undercoat of muskoxen. They’re crocheted so they stretch and could be bought ready-made. They’re also warmer than wool.”
“Oh, thank you. Some of these things seem to be bright colored,” she said.
“Reversible. Wear them on the dark side for now, and turn them when your mourning period is over. It also adds warmth.”
“Excellent!”
She held up the re-configured queenly robe she had been basting into a new shape while they talked. She’d turned the train into a modified bustle to follow current fashion and the fullness in the sleeves puffed at the shoulder and gathered into a close-fitting forearm and wrist. The bodice had required little modifying. “You can wear the same corset under it as with the other gown, if necessary,” Madame continued. “And I found another suit of boy’s clothes and made you a lovely heavy coat from a woolen blanket. Will that do until I can make the fresh things?”
“I—” Verity began.
Ephemera said. “She’ll be all dressed up with no place to go as it is. We don’t give many parties at Wormroost.”
“If you’ll give me that address, I’ll send the rest of the things up by train when I’ve finished them,” Marsha said. Verity gave the small woman, of whom she’d become quite fond, an enveloping hug before the dressmaker scurried down the stairs.
“There’s a touch of magic in that girl’s bloodline or I miss my guess,” Ephemera mused.
Dressed in her new skirt, bodice, and capelet, with the trousers underneath and the other items of clothing in a carpet bag, Verity declared herself ready to go.
“We’re so looking forward to having you come to stay with us, my dear,” Ephemera said.
“It will be a nice break,” Verity said, but realized from the glance Ephemera gave her that break might have fallen short of what everyone else had in mind. “There are matters here I need to attend to, should circumstances arise.” Should Toby be recaptured, she would need to testify for him, of course. And there were business interests she meant to look into.
Ephemera just smiled at her and hummed a couple of bars of a tune with which Verity was unfamiliar.
As they descended the last stair, someone pounded on the front door. Verity couldn’t see it from the staircase, but heard the butler asking, “Yes, officer?”
“Is Miss Verity Brown in?”
“I’ll inquire, sir.”
Ephemera put her finger to her lips, and the two of them slipped into the library to listen.
“I am the family’s attorney,” Uncle Nic was saying. “Miss Brown is a sheltered young lady below the age of consent. I must ask why you wish to speak to her.”
“You see this here file, sir? And this hanky?”
“Of course I do. I’m not blind, man.”
“These was found in the cell of a prisoner what escaped the dungeon last night. A condemned prisoner. According to the mark on the file, this belongs to this family.”
Verity peeked into the hallway.
A gray-bearded policeman tried to hand the file to Sophronia, who backed away from it as if it were a hot poker.
“Get that filthy thing out of my drawing room!” she said.
“The rascal what escaped was responsible for the accident that took the lives…”
“Hush. I know whose lives were taken. My own dear husband was killed in that disaster. The boy probably stole the tool.”
“He was searched prior to incarceration, Madame.” The man looked straight at Verity. “But there were those who wanted him sprung. Those who think their high station, young age, and gender might shield them from the wrath of the law.”
“Careful,” Uncle Nic said. “It is unwise to make accusations, even lightly veiled ones, against young ladies of noble birth. I can have your job for that.”
“Miss Brown was seen entering the City jail yesterday afternoon, Sir, and declaiming in a hysterical manner that the prisoner being held in the death of her father was innocent to her certain knowledge. She raised her voice to the magistrate. So naturally whe
n we found the file in the cell of the escaped prisoner…”
“Ah, is this prisoner we’re discussing, the dragon wrangler?”
“Yes, sir. Got clean away. Dungeon window was torn out with great force and flung, bars and all, halfway across the courtyard.”
“While it is true that my niece is unusually sturdy for a young lady her age, she’s hardly capable of that. And what has a file to do with it anyway if the damned thing was wrenched from its casing?”
“There were marks on the bars.”
“Nevertheless, by your own admission, that is not how the miscreant escaped, so why are you not out looking for the wretch?”
“We only wanted to return the file, sir,” said the younger guard, thin, nervous, and with bad skin and missing teeth. He was, Verity knew, staging a strategic retreat on behalf of both of them. “We’ll just be on our way to follow some leads now, won’t we, sergeant?”
With a tipping of helmets and a pulling of forelocks, they were off. Verity was thrilled with Uncle Nic’s spirited defense of her. She and Ephemera returned to the drawing room.
“You stupid, stupid girl,” Sophronia said. “You did indeed have something to do with that crime! That’s where you were yesterday! Have you no common sense at all?”
“I have quite a lot of it,” she said, straightening herself and thrusting forth her chin. “And a sense of justice too, which is why I helped Toby. I tried to use reason with the magistrate, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“So you took the law into your own hands, did you?” Uncle Nic growled, but when he winked, she realized his harsh tone was for Sophronia’s benefit.
“I couldn’t let him hang. He saved my life.”
“You cannot afford to be so sentimental,” Sophronia said. “He was obligated to assist you, but he was also obligated to ensure the correct behavior on the part of his beast. By law, he is held responsible if it causes harm to human life or property.”
“That’s not fair!” Verity said.
Uncle Nic took her hands in his, even though she tried to pull them away, and said, “Of course, it is fair, my dear. The beasts are perilously large and quite stupid. Those in public use must be rigorously trained and monitored for the safety of the citizenry. Someone must be held to the mark if they fail.”
“Uncle, I am aware of all of this, but neither the dragon nor Toby were responsible for the accident. I could not convince the magistrate, but I intend to prove it.”
“Best leave that for the law, dear,” Uncle Nic said, his expression casting another dimension on his words, letting her know he continued to act in her best interests and his protests were for her stepmother’s benefit. “Dabbling in these things can be very dangerous. Now you run along and catch your train. You and Dame Ephemera have each other to look after now. I have here a list of instructions sent by her housekeeper at Wormroost. When she takes her pills, has her naps, that sort of thing…”
But the papers he handed her were rolled around another object, one she did not examine until she and Ephemera were safely on the train headed north from Queenston.
Chapter 11
The Other Mrs. Brown
Sophronia sighed. “Well, that was fatiguing, but at least the big brat is gone for a while, giving us time to find a way to make her absence permanent.”
“You think that’s a good thing?”
“Of course it is, as you would know had you not been trying to flirt with her. You can’t deceive me, Briciu.”
“With that oaf of a wench? Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the child, darling.”
“Her oafishness does not make her fortune less attractive, I’m sure. If you persuaded her to marry you, you could have it without me.”
Briciu slipped his arm around her rigid shoulders. “A fortune would be much less attractive to me without you to share it. Surely you know I’m mad for you?”
“Hmph,” she said, thawing enough to relax against his arm. “You’ve been mad for a lot of people over the years, but never so much as you are for wealth and the power it confers.”
He chuckled. “Look who’s talking. Speaking of which, you neglected to mention that your late husband already had a wife.”
“What?”
“The girl told me she is not actually orphaned as her mother was only missing, not formally deceased.”
“But that was thirteen years ago! Surely someone would have heard from her were she still living!” Sophronia said.
“How do you know they haven’t? She was once very close to that lawyer fellow, I understand. Perhaps she kept in touch with your husband or the girl through him.”
“That son of a snake! I gave him the best years of my life!”
“From thirty-four to forty? I feared you and your expensive tastes would be left with no one but me.”
“He seemed such an honest man and yet he let me manage his house, order his food, preside over his parties, entertain his business associates, and never let on that she wasn’t dead. No one objected to our wedding. He said he hadn’t seen her in years. No one mentioned her throughout our marriage…”
“Or affair, as it were,” Briciu said with a sardonic lift to his left eyebrow. He was enjoying Sophronia’s discomfort actually. Her lack of pretension to principles pleased him, but it wouldn’t do to let her enjoy too much control over their plans. “Very intrusive of him to make you think you were married when he had a wife in the wings somewhere. That sort of thing is what you might do. The nerve of some people.”
She slapped at him with the end of her shawl. “We were married. Even Verity never questioned that.”
“Perhaps. But even if your marriage were perfectly legal, it would entitle you only to inherit from Brown. Much of the wealth this family enjoys, the wealth in the business, comes from her side, as I understand it. If the mother is dead, the girl is her sole heir. If she’s not dead, well, you will have far less than you anticipate.”
She sat abruptly, her posture too erect to say that she actually fell, but she had turned pale as milk, if not as mild. “That won’t do,” she said. “Do you really think the wretched woman could yet live, if only to vex me?”
“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility without a little more research,” he said. “I want you to make an appointment with Balgair—insist that he meet you here and meanwhile, I will see if he has any evidence of her fate, one way or the other. If she lives, we’ll need to remedy that inconvenience.”
“What shall I tell him it’s about?”
“Your will. You wish to leave everything to your devoted cousin.”
“I am not that dismayed by circumstances nor wearied of life, devoted cousin. I shall ask him about my predecessor.
Witchy Godmother
“Would you care to tell me who you are, really, and what this is all about?” Verity asked her companion when they were settled in their compartment aboard the 2:10 train.
“I’m your great aunt on your father’s side, your grandfather’s sister,” she said. “I am also your godmother. One of them. As is the custom in this family, you have several.”
“Who are the others?”
“What? One magically appearing to whisk you away from a fate deadlier than the grave isn’t enough?”
“No—I just wanted to know,” Verity said. “You’re actually one more than I expected. I didn’t know I had any godmothers. I know Uncle Nic is my godfather, but my parents neglected to mention I have a godmother, too.”
“Ah, that’s because our branch of the family isn’t considered quite—respectable.”
“Really?” That sounded extremely interesting. She’d always had the impression people rather admired her parents, but perhaps she’d be the last to know if that were not so.
“Gene pool polluted with magic users is the rumor,” Ephemera said, scratching the side of her nose.
“Is it true?”
“Between you and me? Certainly. Historically, most families in Argonia contained some magical bloodlines up until the
Great War.”
“Oh? Did the war wipe out all of the magical branches of the families?”
“Not really, though a lot of the most powerful mages and others seemed to have vanished by the time the war was over. Rumors were circulating that many of them had been bought off or offered exalted positions in foreign countries. According to a song of the time, ‘When many were maimed and many were dead, the wise men and women and wizards had fled.’ After that, families seem to have stopped boasting about the fae, wizards, witches, elves, merfolk, or what have you in the family tree. A great pity, really, and presents a difficulty with my fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?”
“Although I’m sometimes called The Witch of the North, I am the official archivist of Argonia, the keeper of the Seashell Archives. I keep record of all of the stories and songs, the history, current events, everything. Obviously if people are embarrassed to tell me the truth about their own origins, it makes it difficult to verify my sources.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Take our own family. You are descended on our side from the Brown witches, who were in part descended from a foreign sailor responsible for our dark complexions, and the singing Songsmiths whose talent comes from their mer blood. Your mother was from the line of the royal Rowans, who were frost giants and fae. On both sides, there’s more than a splash of gypsy blood. Your grandfather and I had different fathers and on my father’s side, we are descended from Sir Cyril Perchingbird, a noted researcher and archivist, believed by some to be a wizard. When he married Princess Pegeen the Illuminator, the Archives were transferred to her castle at Wormroost Glacier, where they fortunately remained throughout the Great War.”
“Wait. Do you mean those ancestors whose portraits are hiding in the cobwebs in the upper gallery were magical?”
“Many of them, yes, at least those from our side of the family. I can’t speak for your mother’s.”
The Dragon, the Witch, and the Railroad Page 10