The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

  “Then you will allow me to take you home tomorrow?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “And you’ll come with us to Pigment Street the day after?”

  Beatrice’s heart was beating hard enough that it battered against her stays. He knew. He knew she was practicing magic and was courting her anyway. She had waded in the waters of low tide, only to find that the waves had closed in around her, and the shore was so very far away.

  Would it be so bad if she married Ianthe Lavan? He had a way of making her breathless when he wasn’t striving so hard to understand her. He would let her explore magic, and wasn’t that better than nothing?

  Ianthe’s expression faded into dismay, and Beatrice’s breath clenched in her chest. It hurt. It hurt to hurt him. He glanced down at the promenade under their feet. “If you already have an engagement, I—”

  “No, I don’t,” Beatrice said, the words rushing out of her. “I also enjoy art.”

  The sun rose on his renewed smile. “Thank you,” Ianthe said. “I am honored by your acceptance.”

  They walked to the stone steps leading to Beatrice’s front door, and Ianthe bent over her hand, pressing her palm to his lips.

  “Sleep well, Miss Clayborn,” Ianthe said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Good night, Mr. Lavan. Good night, Ysbeta. Have a safe journey.”

  They waited until the footman let her inside and closed the door.

  CHAPTER VII

  Clara bounded to her feet as Beatrice slipped into her bedchamber, clasping her hands over the waistline of her apron. “You’re home earlier than I expected.”

  “I had played enough cards for one night.” Beatrice stuffed her hand in her pocket and chits slid out from between her fingers, fluttering to the heartwood floor and landing at her feet.

  “Oh,” Beatrice said. “I won quite a lot, I think.”

  “Miss Beatrice! Your maquillage is ruined—were you crying?”

  “I— How bad is it?”

  “You have kohl all around your eyes, it’s streaked down your face—”

  “Ianthe Lavan walked me home.” Beatrice raised her hands to her cheeks, and chits slid out of her grasp.

  “He didn’t say a word about it. I’m a fright.”

  “Here, give them to me.” Clara set the chits down on Beatrice’s writing desk. Beatrice dug into her pockets and produced another dozen or so, and Clara plucked those from her hands before bending down to pick up the rest.

  “I won hundreds of crowns, Clara. Father only gave me fifty. Fifty! What percentage of a return do you think he’s reaped from his investment?”

  “Quite a healthy one, Miss Beatrice.”

  Beatrice giggled. “Valdanas Island has gambling houses. I could go there and grow rich. Solve all of our problems.”

  “I think you may have difficulties with that, Miss Beatrice.”

  “Perhaps so. Ah!” Beatrice heaved a great sigh as the stomacher came free, and Clara stripped the mantua off her shoulders. “Freedom is at hand!”

  Clara unlaced Beatrice’s stays and rubbed arnica cream on the angry red lines etched into Beatrice’s skin, soothing the ache of stiff steel flats that forced her form into a fashionable shape. “No bruises this time. And you left early after winning a fortune at cards,” Clara said. “You walked home with Ianthe?”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said. “Ianthe and Ysbeta Lavan were my escort.”

  “Harriet’s quite excited about your acquaintance with the Lavans.”

  “She’ll be beside herself in the morning,” Beatrice said.

  Clara took her hair down, massaged rosehip oil over Beatrice’s face to lift her maquillage, then dressed her in a nightgown. “I’ll wake you at ten,” Clara said. “Do you have plans for the day?”

  “Hazards practice with Ysbeta. But Ianthe and Ysbeta have invited me to Pigment Street for the next day,” Beatrice said.

  “Excellent news, Miss Beatrice. I’ll leave you to your rest. Good night.”

  Clara left, and Beatrice listened to her footsteps cross the short distance from Beatrice’s bedroom to the narrow, windowless space where Clara slept. She would get a decent night’s sleep. No one had expected Beatrice to come in until the sky was turning blue with the coming dawn, or even with the sunrise.

  She should have been out there.

  Beatrice waited, listening with every ounce of her attention until she heard Clara’s snores, and then tiptoed out of her room on bare, silent feet. Down the stairs, down to the first floor, where she held her breath as she pushed open the terrace door and stepped onto the cool slate tiles of the townhome’s rear garden.

  She scurried along the path, wincing at the poke of the pebbles on her bare soles. She hurried to the gap in the hedge and more stairs. Beatrice’s feet sank into cool, dry sand. A silvery stick lay in the path. Beatrice picked it up and made a dash for the shore, stopping at the place where the damp sand lay even and flat.

  Beatrice’s spine tingled, as if she were being watched. She turned a slow circle, searching for prying eyes, but there was no one out on the shore. The windows were closed to the sight of her in the moonlight. No one was looking.

  She planted the stick in the sand and dragged it along as she turned in a circle. She marked each sigil with the stick, vibrating the correct tone just so. The tide crawled closer. She had to hurry. She must not make an error. The sea air thickened, and the suggestion of silver and match-flame blue glowed in the marks she had drawn.

  “Nadi, spirit of chance, I know you,” Beatrice whispered. “We struck a bargain together. I owe you the sand under your feet, the play of surf around your ankles, the sunrise. Come and take what is owed to you, Nadi. Come collect what you bargained for.”

  The spirit hovered just outside the circle, vibrating and tense. :Why should Nadi trust you?:

  “Because I’m sorry. Ianthe thought he was helping me.”

  :And now you dare to bargain with Nadi again?:

  “No,” Beatrice said. “I’m keeping my promise to you. I owe you the sight of the sunrise. I don’t want anything but to deal with you fairly.”

  The spirit sprang upward, stiff as a bolt. :You ask for Nadi, and you want nothing?:

  “Nothing,” Beatrice said. “I want to give this to you.”

  The spirit wavered, swaying with indecision.

  Beatrice stretched out her hand. “I owe you this.”

  :No,: Nadi said. :You’re giving it.:

  Nadi drew closer, touching Beatrice’s fingertips. The spirit slipped under her skin, filling her senses, and sighed.

  :I want to run,: Nadi said. :Let’s run, Beatrice.:

  Beatrice gathered up her hem and kicked sand over the summoning circle. The tide crawled up the shore as she sprinted down the flat, damp beach and washed her circle away.

  It was too bright. Daylight poured through the windows, and Beatrice groaned, rolled over, and buried her head under a pillow. Her legs were stiff as sundried leather. Nadi had delighted in running, and dancing, and wading into the cold water. They watched the sky change color from blue to rose and spikes of gold, sending sparks of dawn across the waves.

  :So beautiful,: Nadi had sighed, and then slipped out of her body as the sun rose. Beatrice had snuck back inside without anyone noticing, but now she was paying the price of magic, and drink, and staying up too late.

  “Beatrice, I let you sleep until mid-morning. Breakfast is already served,” Clara said. “Come now, sit up.”

  Beatrice groaned. “I have a headache.”

  “Again?” Clara asked. “Did you drink too much?”

  “Yes. Can’t I just have a few more minutes?”

  “I’m afraid not. Up you get.”

  “Beatrice!” Harriet burst into the room with the force of a tornado. “You’re not up yet? I’ve already eaten breakfast, slugabed!”

  “She’s having a little trouble moving this morning.” Clara peeled the bedlinens away. “Sit on the edge of the bed.”<
br />
  Beatrice slid her legs over the edge and sat. “Better.”

  Harriet pointed at her toes. “Beatrice! Your feet, they’re filthy!”

  Specks of sand spattered over her insteps and grimed the gap between her toes. She looked back at the streaks of sand staining her bedsheets. But she had scraped the sand away when she returned to the house, hadn’t she?

  Clara stood straight up. “Those feet aren’t getting anywhere near your bath. Don’t move.”

  She bustled out to fetch a basin, leaving Beatrice to her sister’s beady stare.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Beatrice said. “I went down to the beach.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Harriet’s face was pale with shock. “In your nightgown? What if someone saw you?”

  “I needed fresh air.” It was the worst excuse. Ladies did not run about on the beach in the moonlight. But she had owed Nadi. She would have had to do it regardless. “There was smoking permitted at the card party, and my lungs felt horrid.”

  “Did your card partner smoke?”

  “No, thank Heaven. But Lord Powles does.”

  “Ugh,” Harriet rubbed at her nose, as if her own senses had been offended. “You should have stayed on the terrace, though. Wait. You played cards with Lord Powles?”

  “My table was the Lavans and Lord Powles himself.”

  Harriet’s face shone. “Ianthe won the right to partner you? Was he good? Did you lose terribly?”

  “I did not lose,” Beatrice said.

  “How much did you win?” Harriet stepped aside for Clara, who set a basin at Beatrice’s feet. The water was barely warm but scented with roses.

  Beatrice sighed and let her feet soak. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I didn’t count. It’s rude to count your winnings at the table.”

  “You didn’t keep a tally? Where are your chits?”

  “On the writing desk,” Clara said.

  Harriet’s eyes popped when she saw the pile. She scooped up a handful, sorting them by Lord Powles’s mark and Ysbeta Lavan’s, her expression completely aghast. “Beatrice! How did you—”

  She backed away from the neat, orderly piles of chits, completely silent. She spun on one foot and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “Harriet?” Beatrice lifted her feet from the water, but Clara grabbed both ankles and forced them back into the basin.

  “You’ll track mud everywhere.”

  “But Harriet—”

  “You weren’t as excitable as your younger sister, but you had your moods. Harriet’s due in the next few days. She’s bound to be touchy. Let her pout.”

  “But—” Clara didn’t understand. Harriet had guessed how Beatrice had come into her winnings, and she could be racing to Father’s side right now, telling him everything! She had to intercept Harriet. She had to convince her sister to keep silent, and Clara was worried about her feet?

  “She’s jealous, Miss Beatrice,” Clara said, massaging the sand out from between Beatrice’s toes. “You have everything she wants right now. She’ll get her turn, but this isn’t easy for her. She has dreams and fancies of what bargaining season is like—and here you are, being invited to private parties, just like the books. But sneaking down to the beach and getting sand all over your feet doesn’t fit her image. She’s fretting about you making a mistake, is all.”

  That was not all. But Clara had a point. “I should still talk to her.”

  “Naturally,” Clara said. “After your bath.”

  Clara dried Beatrice’s feet and herded her to the bathing room, where Beatrice floated in the square, tiled bath and tried to relax. When cool air from the hallway billowed over her face, she pushed herself to the edge and faced Harriet’s ferocious, stormy expression.

  “How could you?” Harriet’s whisper echoed off the tile. “What if you were caught?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Beatrice hissed back. “Father gave me fifty crowns for the night. All he could spare, and the stakes were ten crowns a point. If I hadn’t done it, do you know how much debt I would have brought home?”

  “You won four hundred crowns, Beatrice! Four hundred!”

  “It wasn’t that impressive a sum. They’re rich, Harriet. So rich I can’t really understand the scope of it.”

  “And no one noticed?”

  Beatrice studied the tiled edge of the bath. “Not exactly.”

  Harriet’s voice rose. “What?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Beatrice said. “Ianthe thought someone had imposed a spirit on me to destroy my reputation. I didn’t correct him.”

  “He caught you,” Harriet breathed. “Only Heaven’s grace saved you, don’t you see? You can’t do this again. If anyone finds out—”

  “I can’t promise that,” Beatrice said. “Bargaining season’s nowhere near over. I might—”

  “You must,” Harriet said. “It’s always going to seem like a necessity. It’s always going to seem like the right idea, but if I thought Father wouldn’t overreact, I’d—”

  Beatrice raised herself out of the water with a great splash. “Don’t tell him.”

  “I won’t,” Harriet said. “But this is dangerous. Do you know why I never learned?”

  She didn’t. Harriet had never wanted to speak of higher magic, and Beatrice had never thought Harriet would keep quiet about any ambition she might have. “No one offered to teach you the secret?”

  “Do you remember the Charleses?”

  Beatrice nodded. They were cousins of Father’s, and they had come to Riverstone to take the country air last summer. There had been two boys, who monopolized their riding horses, and a girl, too young for Beatrice’s company but only a little younger than Harriet. They had run together for the whole visit, whispering to each other where Beatrice had to pretend not to see.

  “Dorothy Charles taught me how to conjure a minor spirit,” Harriet said. “Just a little one, to ask if it would rain on race day. We smuggled fruit for an offering, and she let me say the words to make the spirit come.”

  Beatrice stayed still and quiet. Harriet shivered. “I’ll never do it again.”

  “Did it turn out badly?”

  “No. It worked perfectly. And the feeling of that magic, of the way you can hear the tiniest sound and every smell is a fascinating perfume and your vision sharpens and your skin tingles with the slightest breath of wind—it was wonderful,” Harriet whispered. “I want to do it again. And again. Until I would be exactly where you are right now, Beatrice. Trying to take a bite of what you cannot eat.”

  Harriet was right. It was wonderful. Sprinting down the beach with Nadi, she’d run faster than she ever had in her life. She’d leapt high in the air, spun and danced with pure abandon. Freed from having to restrain Nadi’s impulses so she could keep up the appearance of a lady, she’d felt the grace and invincible will of the spirit, and for that hour before the sun rose and completed their bargain, all of it had been hers. It ought to be hers regardless. But no one else understood. No one else thought that magic belonged to women.

  Ysbeta did. Ysbeta understood. They had a bargain, and Beatrice needed to make good on her end. She would teach Ysbeta all the magic she knew. She would gain the use of Ysbeta’s grimoires. Together, they would find their freedom from the warding collar and the gray future they were expected to accept as their only choice.

  “I won’t use magic unless I have to,” Beatrice said. “I promise.”

  Harriet watched her, shaking her head slowly. “I know you believe what you’re saying.”

  The door swung open, and Clara entered. “Miss Harriet.”

  “I’m going,” Harriet said. She slid off the stool and headed for the bathing room door. “You have to do something about those chits, Beatrice.”

  Beatrice opened her mouth to answer, but Harriet had already left.

  Beatrice couldn’t look away from that pile of chits while Clara dres
sed her. Today’s choice for hazards practice was a block-printed peach cotton walking suit, and Clara pinned the matching cartwheel hat atop Beatrice’s carefully dressed hair so it shaded her eyes. She had to give those chits to Father. Father would use them to collect Lord Powles’s and Ysbeta Lavan’s debts, and Father would find a way to turn the meeting into a connection. Wouldn’t he? Oh, why did she allow Nadi to win so much? Why didn’t she think?

  “Don’t bite your lip like that, Beatrice. You’ll mar your rouge,” Clara said.

  Beatrice released her lower lip from worrying teeth. “Sorry. Am I ready?”

  “You are a picture,” Clara said.

  “Beatrice!” Harriet’s shout carried up the stairs. “There’s a message for you! I think it’s an invitation!”

  “I’m coming,” Beatrice said. “One moment.”

  Beatrice grabbed the chits and hurried out before she could change her mind, descending one flight of stairs to the foyer, where Harriet clutched a square, hand-folded envelope in one hand, her teeth bared in a face-splitting grin.

  “It’s from Ellis Robicheaux! Open it, oh, open it! It has to be for tonight’s party, it has to be!”

  “How do you know there’s a party tonight?” Beatrice asked. She slid her thumb under the monogrammed seal and broke it, catching the crumbled chunks of wax in her hand.

  “Mother and I heard about it when we took lunch at the Swan. Hurry,” Harriet urged.

  Beatrice looked heavenward before she could stop herself, but she unfolded the paper to find an embossed invitation addressed to her family, inviting them to a dance honoring the fifteenth birthday of Miss Julia Robicheaux at ten in the evening.

  “We must go!” Harriet said. “It’s late notice but you have to attend this ball.”

  “And we have to match,” Beatrice said. “What do you think, the lilac?”

  “That’s our best matching set. Should we wear it so early? Mother!” Harriet shouted. “Mother, please come out!”

  A door upstairs clicked open, and Mother stopped at the top of the stairs. “What is it?”

  Harriet gazed up the stairs, her face shining with joy. “We’re invited to the Robicheaux ball tonight! Beatrice and I are wearing the lilac. What gown will you wear, Mother?”