by C. L. Polk
Clara guided Beatrice to the bathing chamber and unbuttoned her nightgown, leaving Beatrice to descend into the water herself and place a cool cloth over her eyes.
She had these few moments to herself, before she was expected at breakfast, and then she would be pinned and laced into a gown that displayed her like a jewel and sent an artful message—that she, expecting a quiet afternoon at home, had dressed herself simply, but the cut of the gown from neckline to hem was meant to flatter her youth. She was meant to be interrupted at a creative pursuit, designed to reveal her education and skill.
She was expected to display a sense of beauty and the skill to produce it. She played violon, though few women performed for public entertainment. She could draw in colored pastel and paint in oil, though few women’s works hung on display in the galleries of Chasland. She was proficient in knitting, hooked lace, and simple embroidery—all skills that would be displayed on her children’s clothing. Beatrice’s head pounded, and she flipped the washcloth over, trying to sink into its soothing, cooled embrace.
Mercifully, the door opened, and Clara hustled inside. Beatrice lifted the cloth from her eyes and accepted the dose-bottle, tipping it to her lips. Cook had tried to sweeten it, which only made it worse.
“Skyborn Gods, that’s awful,” Beatrice gasped. “Thank you, Clara. Is there water?”
“I’ll get it.” Harriet, having just come in, crossed to the jug and poured a cup.
“Oh, I’m going to die, just die,” Harriet whispered. “Ianthe Lavan is coming to call on you. He’s beyond a Valserran marquis. He’s beyond even a minister! Beatrice. It’s just like Crossing Quill Street, where young Laura Cooper catches the attention of the Margrave of Went, and—”
Oh no. Harriet didn’t know the truth. “Harriet. It’s not what you imagine.”
“But he helps her father catch a hen!” Harriet insisted.
A what? “We do not keep hens.”
“Neither did they,” Harriet countered. “It was from the market.”
Beatrice didn’t want to begin untangling her little sister’s logic. “As you say.”
“Harriet,” Mother called. “Come here, please.”
Harriet huffed, but she left Beatrice alone.
Once clean, Beatrice donned a dressing gown and went downstairs to breakfast. A copy of the morning’s broadsheets sat next to Father’s empty place, and Beatrice picked one up, turning the pages to the shipping and finances section. Harriet leaned over to swat at her hands.
“You’ll get ink smudged on your fingers.”
“Ink comes off.” Beatrice leaned away from her sister and read. “Robicheaux Automations is putting on a display of the latest inventions from Vicny. These automatic wonders will delight onlookers as they usher in a new age of productivity and convenience.”
“Here in Bendleton?” Mother asked.
“In Meryton. I should like to see them. I understand that they can spin fine thread at astonishing speeds. It would be worth investing in manufactories for cotton, if one acted quickly—”
“Beatrice,” Father said. He walked into the breakfast room and plucked the paper from her hands. “What did I say about ladies reading the paper at breakfast?”
“That it leads to squinting and wrinkles. But Father, have you considered what I said about timber and iron yesterday?”
Father gave Beatrice a look of patient disappointment. “You shouldn’t be troubling yourself with such thoughts. You should be bursting with news of the Assembly Dance last night, of all the gentlemen you met. How many did you meet?”
Father moved to the head of the table, and servers moved into action, bringing heated plates of breakfast dishes to the family.
“We left before midnight, Father,” Harriet said. “Beatrice hardly had a chance to meet anyone.”
Father folded the paper so he could peer over it. “I thought the Assembly Dance was important.”
“It is!” Harriet exclaimed. “But Beatrice got her own cake. She didn’t dance once.”
“Beatrice,” Father said. “I do wish you would take your duties seriously. Look at Harriet. She needed to be at that ball to make friends her own age. Leaving early cost her opportunities.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“She wasn’t feeling well,” Harriet said, defending her sister at last. “But for all that, she has a suitor, and he’s going to call on her today.”
“He’s not.”
“Which suitor?” Father asked.
“Ianthe Lavan.”
Father’s smiling, indulgent gaze flicked from Harriet to land on Beatrice. The smile melted into open astonishment. “You spoke to Ianthe Lavan? What did you speak of?”
“Fidelity,” Beatrice said. “Honoring one’s family. The stars.”
“Romantic,” Mother said.
“Intellectual,” Harriet said, and wrinkled her nose.
Beatrice dropped her gaze to her plate. “We only talked,” she lied. No one needed to know the rest. Besides, Chaslander girls took kisses too seriously. It hadn’t meant anything. Not from him.
“I hope you weren’t too free with your knowledge,” Father said. “A man expects to guide his wife in all things. Displaying too much cleverness can make a woman seem less appealing.”
“Mother is clever.”
Mother smiled, picking up her teacup once more. “Your father is correct, my dear.”
“We understand the shrewdness of women,” Father said. “Your education is unusual, compared to a woman of higher birth. I stand by my decision to teach you the keeping of accounts and records even though your husband is likely to have a secretary. It’s more than you need to manage a house, but you’ll know if your suppliers are cheating you. That is where a wife’s cleverness shines.”
She could do rather more than that. She hated the idea of pretending to be less than she was for the sake of her husband’s comfort, and the hundred little ways she was expected to bend and give way. Ianthe had listened to her opinion. He had thanked her for it. He was the kindest man she’d ever met.
But was it enough?
“And he’s coming here,” Harriet exclaimed. “Today!”
“He’s not,” Beatrice said, but Father set down his paper and his cup.
“What are you doing, dawdling down here? You must get ready!”
“But he’s not coming here today.”
Father laughed. “It’s noble that you’re not getting your hopes up, but you need to get ready for his call. Upstairs with you. Be sure that Clara covers every detail.”
“But I know he isn’t.”
“Go.”
Dismissed, Beatrice rose from the table.
Clara waited in Beatrice’s room ready to dress her for the day. Beatrice braced herself as Clara laced her stays tight as a noblewoman’s. She tilted her head back, sitting patiently through the painstaking application of her maquillage. She held very still, trying not to wince at the heat radiating from Clara’s curling tongs. After a hasty breakfast on the terrace, Beatrice retired to the drawing room, where Harriet joined her with a sketchboard and attempted a rendering of the bundle of springtime’s kiss gathered from the doorstep.
The windows stood open, and from between the gently billowing sheer curtains, the scent of cherry blossoms wafted into the room. Harriet suppressed a delighted noise when Beatrice picked up her violon case. She plucked the strings to tune them, inspected her bow, ran a handful of arpeggios along the six strings, fine-tuning along the way.
Below them, the front door jingled.
“He’s here!” Harriet said. “Play something, play something.”
Beatrice played a dashing, nimble-fingered tune, welcoming Ysbeta up the stairs. Harriet clasped her hands in delight, watching the doorway. She leaned forward, as if the action would make the sight of Beatrice’s caller come sooner, but it was the curving brim of a lady’s hat that came into sight.
Ysbeta Lavan stood in the entry to the conservatory, every pleat and fall perfe
ct. Her saffron cotton gown gleamed, her cream leather gloves held in one hand, her cartwheel hat set at the perfect angle to shadow one eye. The other fixed on Beatrice, her eyebrow arched inquisitively. Ysbeta carried a clothbound book with her.
Beatrice’s heart kicked a little faster. Beside her, Harriet deflated.
“Good afternoon,” Ysbeta Lavan said.
Ysbeta spoke in Llanandari. Beatrice held her bow in two careful fingers as she dipped her head in greeting. “Miss Lavan. My little sister, Harriet.”
“Harriet. What a fetching gown.”
“Thank you,” Harriet said, Llanandari falling easily from her tongue. “I like yours, too. Is your brother still with the horses?”
“Ianthe has other engagements today,” Ysbeta said. “He’s at the chapterhouse.”
Harriet shot Beatrice a telling look. “Perhaps some other time, then.”
“I imagine so,” Ysbeta said. “I would like to speak to you, Miss Clayborn. Would you entertain me?”
Now she would know what Ysbeta wanted, at last. She held back a relieved sigh. “I would be happy to, Miss Lavan.”
Ysbeta swiveled her glance to Harriet, sitting on the edge of her chair. “Alone.”
“Harriet. Go.”
Harriet bit down on a protest, kept her expression demure, and even bent her knee in courtesy before she picked herself up and left the conservatory, closing the door behind her.
Ysbeta glanced at the closed door. “Your home is lovely.”
“We’re renting it for bargaining season,” Beatrice said. “I understand you live out of town? Toward Gravesford, or on the Meryton road?”
“Meryton,” Ysbeta said. “The house was just finished last autumn.”
A new, fashionable home along the Meryton Highway—locals called it Money Road, for all the lavish homes dotted between beachside Bendleton and the port town that handled a third of all shipping for Chasland. It was probably the size of four homes on Triumph Street, with extensive grounds and filled with luxury. It was certainly more impressive than Riverstone Cottage, the Clayborns’ home in the north country.
Ysbeta nodded to the humble bunch of springtime’s kiss in a slender ivory vase. “I see you kept the flowers.”
“Yes. I was touched to have found them.”
“My brother is charmed by you. He tried to include himself in my visit today, but I insisted on coming alone.”
“I’m happy to receive your visit.” Beatrice set her violon in its case. “Would you take fresh air on the terrace with me, Miss Lavan?”
“I would enjoy that. I imagine your view of the sea is quite pleasant.”
“Thank you.”
The terrace was small enough to press the hems of their skirts together, but the view from beyond the wrought-iron railing was peaceful. Soft gray sand met the jewel-blue water of the sea, its waves cresting white as the sea’s breath carried on, unceasing. Bright spots of color dotted the sky as beachgoers flew kites on the ocean breeze. Dotted across the beach were fabric cubicles meant to preserve a lady’s modesty as she lay with as much skin exposed as she dared, bathing in the sun’s rays to gain a fashionable, healthy glow. Beatrice looked down at those enclosures with a little envy. She couldn’t stay out in the sun long, or her skin would turn red, and then peel, and then when the ordeal was over, she would be just as pale as when she began.
Beatrice closed the terrace door firmly shut and stood beside Ysbeta, her hands curled on the railing as Ysbeta’s did. Sunlight sparkled on a jeweled wristwatch encircling Ysbeta’s wrist, a bauble worth hundreds in gold.
“My sister listens at doors,” Beatrice said, “but this will be private.”
“Thank you.” Ysbeta breathed in the sea air, the breeze playing gently in the plume on her hat. “I’ve come on business, you see.”
Beatrice’s heart pounded. “I am curious to hear it.”
Ysbeta swallowed. “Yesterday I acquired a grimoire right out of your hands,” she said. “I know the spell that alerts me to their existence, but the problem I had before I walked into Harriman’s persists.”
Beatrice waited, wearing a face of polite curiosity. “And I might be of help?”
“That is my hope. Can you read the grimoires, Miss Clayborn?”
On the distant shore, a child squealed in delight.
“I can,” Beatrice said. “The book you took from me is very precious. It—”
“I would like you to prove it, please.” Ysbeta reached into the satchel and produced a book. Beatrice’s tongue went dry. Woodland Mammals of the Oxan Flatlands, by Edward C. Johnson. Not her grimoire. Not one she had ever seen before. She flipped open the cover and called on magic, breathing in the soft green smell of the grimoire’s code. She murmured the correct phrases while dragging her smallest finger over the text, her hand curled in the sign of revelation. The words wavered and re-formed into the transcribed spell.
Translating aloud was tricky, but Ysbeta waited for her to speak. “‘A Directorie of Greater Spirits and Their Arena of Might,’” Beatrice read aloud. “Wandinatilus, Greater Spirit of Fortune. Quentinel, Greater Spirit of Mending. Hilviathras, Greater Spirit of Knowledge—”
Ysbeta’s eyes went wide. “That’s a treasure. I had no idea this information was available outside a chapterhouse. Are they all greater spirits?”
Beatrice scanned through the magical code. “Yes. There are only twenty listed.”
“That’s more than enough,” Ysbeta said. “And they’re not written in Mizunh. So you Chaslanders knew how to summon greater spirits before you petitioned for the opening of a chapterhouse?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. She held the book to her chest and let the relief and elation wash over her. Nadi had done more than simply cross Ysbeta’s path with Beatrice’s. Her hands trembled as she set the book back on her knees. “This book—it’s the other piece of the puzzle. The last piece.”
“What do you mean?”
“The book I found yesterday told how to summon a greater spirit to make the great bargain.”
Ysbeta took the grimoire from Beatrice’s hands. “That’s exactly what I need. I couldn’t have found this anywhere else in the world.” She breathed deeply, Beatrice guessed, of the moss-covered stones smell of the magical code. “I’m saved.”
Saved. Ysbeta didn’t want to marry. She wanted to be a master magician, like Beatrice. “How did you come to know the finding spell, but not know the spell to read them?”
“I had only one source directing me to the secret grimoires of Chasland. A woman who married a friend of the family who is a director of international commerce.”
“Susan de Burgh! I read about her in the papers,” Beatrice said. “Chasland was amazed by the match. She was a poor relation to Lady Wilton.”
“And here I was trying to keep her confidential.”
“Her marriage was everywhere. It was quite the irresistible story,” Beatrice shrugged and smiled. “My younger sister was mad for it. She clipped every article she could find about the match. So she’s well, in Llanandras?”
“I’m sorry,” Ysbeta said. “She didn’t survive her first child.”
“She didn’t? They never reported it. Oh, that’s so sad.” Beatrice clenched the railing more tightly. “She told you about the books, but nothing else?”
“She told me about the books, but she said decoding them takes years of study,” Ysbeta said. “I need you to teach the reading spell to me. In return, I shall encourage Ianthe’s pursuit of you.”
“Oh,” Beatrice said. “I see.”
Ysbeta smiled and turned her attention to the shore. “He is, as I am sure you know, an excellent match. You cannot hope to attract the attention of another who stands so high. You will ensure the prosperity and status of your family with his hand in marriage, and your sister will want for nothing when her own bargaining season comes. Will you teach me the spell?”
Any girl would fall over themselves for Ianthe Lavan. They would. Ysbeta’s pride in her brother
was not arrogant, but earned, and it made sense that the daughter of an actuary would jump at the chance.
He was beyond even Father’s dreams for a son-in-law. Ianthe was more than he had hoped for. He was sophisticated, handsome, skilled in the gentlemanly arts, and no one had listened to Beatrice the way he had. If her portrait featured her with a rifle rather than a violon, he would have been intrigued.
An echo of shivering delight ghosted along her skin. She never knew a kiss could feel like that. She didn’t know that she had been asleep to such feelings, or how once awakened, they made her crave more. Ianthe was an ideal husband.
And if she chose him, she could never become a mage. She would never hope to gain the alliance of a spirit so powerful she couldn’t even imagine what she could do—what could she and a greater spirit of Fortune accomplish?
Could she give all of that up, even for him? Could she give him up, even for power?
“Well?” Ysbeta asked. “The choice should be simple.”
“Perhaps,” Beatrice said, smiling in apology. ”But I must ask—what do you expect to do, once you have a decoded translation of that grimoire?”
Ysbeta turned her head to lay a piercing stare on Beatrice. “Cast the spell,” she said. “Bind a great spirit, so I may continue pursuing knowledge.”
Beatrice kept her face neutral and attentive through this explanation. “I’m afraid it won’t be that simple. Summoning spells are dangerous. You need to be skilled enough to handle complex magic just to handle a lesser spirit, and the greater spirits are a different order of difficulty.”
“I’m not afraid.”
Children ran up to the shore and shrieked as the waves crashed into them. Beatrice folded her eyebrows into a stern squint. “You should be. If you’re going to survive the ritual, you need the practice in summoning.”
Ysbeta’s pointed chin rose. “Are you a practiced summoner, then?”
Beatrice’s pride stole her tongue. “I am.”
“Then you will teach me how to do this. I will smooth the path to Ianthe. We must begin immediately.”
“It’s a generous offer,” Beatrice began. “However, I don’t think it’s that simple.”