The Conjurer's Riddle

by Andrea Cremer

  Charlotte ignored the jibe. “Is there a reason you want to mingle?”

  “There is ever but one reason I engage in these mundane affairs,” Linnet said. “I’m a collector.”

  She put her arm about Charlotte’s waist and turned her toward one side of the room. “And tonight you are, too. I’ll meet you here in an hour.”

  “We’re not staying together?” As much as Charlotte appreciated Linnet’s confidence, she wasn’t convinced that parting ways would yield a good outcome.

  “You’ll be fine, kitten,” Linnet replied. “Make me proud.”

  And then she was gone.

  THE TREPIDATION CHARLOTTE felt upon Linnet’s departure fled at the thrill of this unexpected adventure.

  I have the advantage, Charlotte reminded herself. The others are caught in a dream state. I’m here to observe. To collect. There is no danger.

  She first encountered a trio of ladies whose features were slack with pleasure, but bore faint lines that suggested haughtiness as their most commonly worn expression. They were the wives of shipping barons and their home was the port of Charleston. Lady Gordon and Lady Firth were sisters and Lady Rothmore was their dearest friend. Their husbands wished to explore the potential profit of investing with a few of the more illustrious river merchants. The ladies shared their exuberance about their courageous foray—with their husbands, of course—into the wild territory so far from the coast. The stories they’d heard about New Orleans were indeed somewhat intimidating—those awful French and their scandals!—but the journey thus far had been surprisingly pleasant.

  When Charlotte pressed a bit more about the lords’ business venture, Lady Firth admitted that the rivers had become alluring when several cargo-laden ships had run afoul of pirates. Lady Gordon confided that even without losses to the brigands of the river, the costs of the raw materials needed to build new ships had been raised by the Empire to the point where her husband had been forced to take on a large debt to afford them. When Lady Gordon mentioned “debt,” Lady Rothmore’s lip began to tremble, and soon enough she was tearfully recounting her discovery of Lord Rothmore’s fondness for gambling and his reckless squandering of her inheritance. Charlotte took her leave of them when Lady Rothmore was sobbing into Lady Firth’s bosom.

  No sooner had Charlotte walked away from the now-forlorn ladies than a pair of gentlemen waved her over. Their youth struck a discord with their suits, which bespoke wealth exceeding that of many others in the room. They introduced themselves as Mr. Lannock and Mr. Hume, further evincing that their fortunes had been made, not inherited. The charming, self-possessed gentlemen proved to be on the happier end of Lord Rothmore’s sorrow, for Lannock and Hume, by their own testament, were the best card players on the Mississippi. Neither man had set down roots, but spent their days and their nights aboard the great steamboats. They’d played the tables on every vessel that ran a game worthy of their skill, but the Calypso was their favorite.

  “She’s the only vessel that has good drink, soft beds, and beautiful women.” Mr. Hume winked at Charlotte.

  Mr. Lannock nodded. “It’s true; the others all lack at least one.”

  “And sometimes all,” Mr. Hume said mournfully.

  There was a light touch on Charlotte’s wrist. When she turned, a masked servant took her near-empty glass and offered her a crystal tumbler of dark liquid.

  “Fresh blackberry juice from the host, with his compliments,” the man said. He left without further explanation.

  Charlotte’s current companions regarded her with new admiration and obvious interest.

  “You’ve been listening to our tired stories when we should have asked for yours,” said Mr. Lannock. “You have friends in high places.”

  “To the best kind of friends.” Mr. Hume lifted his glass. “Those with power.”

  “To the best kind of friends,” Mr. Lannock intoned.

  They looked at Charlotte expectantly. She hesitated a beat, then lifted her drink to join their toast. When she brought the glass to her lips she recognized the biting scent of anise under the sweetness of blackberries. Though Charlotte much preferred the peach nectar, she appreciated Lord Ott’s beneficence. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he was watching from another part of the room, making sure she could hold her own while circulating through the party. She took another swallow and smiled at Mr. Lannock and Mr. Hume. It occurred to Charlotte that this pair of gamblers might be the very sort to take advantage of a mesmer’s sway over others, but nothing in their conversation had indicated that they’d resisted the cello’s spell. She’d have to remember to ask Linnet how to recognize signs that a person had been unaffected by mesmerization. She also realized she needed to know how to mask her own lucid state in this sort of situation.

  “I should find our host and thank him,” Charlotte told them.

  They bowed, and Charlotte went in search of new fonts of information to add to her collection.

  The elderly Monsieur Bellard was escorting young Mademoiselle Joliet from the headwaters of the Missisippi to New Orleans. Charlotte became enamored of the story Monsieur Bellard spun. She sipped her blackberry tonic while he regaled her with his life’s story. Having made his fortune in the fur trade, Monsieur Bellard stood to lose everything when England defeated France in the Seven Years’ War. Bellard weighed his options and chose prudence over patriotism. He won the right to remain on English lands and continue his commerce by giving the Empire a sizable percentage of his profit. He had amassed enough wealth that he continued to enlarge his fortune from this arrangement. He’d married late, his long-stoic heart softened by a métis woman, Ma’iigan Joliet, the daughter of an Anishinaabe woman and a voyageur who had long supplied Bellard’s storehouses.

  Mademoiselle Joliet was Monsieur Bellard’s only child. Her given name was Namid, which meant “star dancing” in the language of her mother’s people. Ma’iigan had fallen ill shortly after Mademoiselle Joliet’s second birthday. Grief laid waste to Monsieur Bellard, and to his shame, Namid’s care fell to her maternal grandparents for several years. Though he still regretted such a long absence from his daughter’s life, Monsieur Bellard had resumed the duties of a father by the time Namid saw her sixth year. To honor both his wife and her parents, Bellard gave his daughter their surname rather than his own.

  Now that Mademoiselle Joliet had reached a marriageable age, her father had decided that a suitable husband would more likely be found in New Orleans than elsewhere. Their homeland in the north suffered a dearth of men who could offer Mademoiselle Joliet the quality of life Monsieur Bellard wanted for his daughter. And he would, in his own words, “first send her like Persephone to Hades to be wed than see her marry some ass of an English lord.”

  As Bellard’s tale went on, Charlotte was transported by its tragedy and romance. She could envision strapping voyageurs as they hauled piles of furs from their canoes. She saw the rippling water of deep rivers and the froth of their rapids.

  “My dear, are you well?” Mademoiselle Joliet’s voice was lovely and sonorous, like the ringing of a distant bell.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “I’m quite well.”

  It was strange that her own voice echoed around her as though she’d spoken within the depths of a cavern. And she couldn’t quite escape the vivid images of Bellard’s story. The rippling of water still played before her eyes, making the room’s walls appear to undulate all around her.

  A small voice within Charlotte whispered, Find Linnet. All is not right.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Charlotte said to Monsieur Bellard and his daughter, “I must return to my friend.”

  “Of course.” Bellard inclined his head, and Mademoiselle Joliet bobbed in a curtsy.

  Charlotte thought the way they stared at her when she left them was a bit rude. She simply hadn’t seen the chair she walked into. It was a silly mistake, but hardly something to gawk at
.

  Though unsure of how much time had passed since she and Linnet parted ways, Charlotte decided it best that she return to their settee and wait for the other girl. Continuing to mingle with other partygoers before her head cleared of these lovely but intrusive visions could prove embarrassing.

  Where had they been sitting?

  The walls were still rippling, and the crimson light of the lamps twined with the smoke in the air to form shapes that Charlotte was convinced she should recognize.

  Are they pictures? No, letters. Letters forming words. A message in the smoke.

  How wondrous.

  Charlotte squinted at the curling smoke, trying to keep track of the letters as they formed, then disappeared. If only she had something to write with.

  She wasn’t aware that she was still walking through the room until she stumbled into someone.

  “I beg your pardon, madam—Charlotte?”

  Charlotte blinked up at the speaker, rather cross that his body had destroyed a smoky letter before she could determine what it was. And he’d almost made her drop her glass.

  “Charlotte.” Hands were on her shoulders. A face peered into hers. She thought she might recognize that face. “Has something happened? Your eyes . . .”

  “Ahhh. I know you.” She raised her free hand and put them on his whiskered cheeks. “Coe. You have a beard now.”

  “Yes.” Coe sounded worried. Didn’t he know that nothing should worry him? Nothing should worry anyone. “How long have you been like this?”

  “Mmmmm?” Charlotte rubbed her palm against Coe’s whiskers. She giggled. His beard was soft but scratchy at the same time. She wanted to rub her cheek against his to see how that would feel. She lifted on her tiptoes to do just that, but without warning, she began to tip over.

  “Ooooh!”

  Coe grabbed her around the waist, stopping her fall. Charlotte put her arms around his neck and laughed. What fun this was!

  “We should dance!” Charlotte swayed in Coe’s grasp. She didn’t know if the other guests were dancing, but she didn’t care; there were shadows frolicking in every corner of the room. She would dance with them if no one else cared to.

  “Try to keep quiet, Charlotte.” Coe spoke in a hushed tone, as if something terribly serious had taken place. “I’m going to take care of you.”

  Charlotte didn’t argue, because the idea of being cared for by Coe sounded very nice. They could dance later, when he was done being serious. Her feet brushed the ground on occasion as Coe helped her through the room, bearing most of her weight. For a time she was aware only of the swishing of her skirts and the taut sinews in Coe’s arm. Then she was falling. No, someone was lowering her. Velvet brushed her skin, Charlotte shuddered at the fabric’s caress, and a moan slipped from her throat. Cushions yielded to her body’s shape, molding around her in an embrace. She continued to sink in an ocean of velvet, until Coe’s voice reached out, drawing her to the surface.

  “What ails you?” Coe asked. “You sound as if you’ve been hurt.”

  “No.” Charlotte’s eyes wouldn’t focus on Coe’s face, but she knew he was close. She’d felt his breath touch her cheek when he spoke. “I feel wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  “I should get someone to help you back to your cabin.” He began to retreat and Charlotte grabbed his shirt, jerking so hard that Coe stumbled and fell on top of her.

  “My goodness,” Charlotte laughed. “I’m very strong. Aren’t I strong, Coe?”

  “Surprisingly so.” His voice came out rough. Charlotte liked that, though she wasn’t sure why. “It’s not right for me to stay with you like this, Charlotte.”

  “Why not?”

  “For many, many reasons,” Coe said. “But foremost that we’re not alone. I tried my best to find a place as out of sight as I could manage, but that’s not really what matters.”

  Charlotte had no idea what he was prattling on about. She let go of his shirt and put her hands on his shoulders. “You’re strong, too. Stronger than me, I think.”

  Coe didn’t respond. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath.

  Charlotte found it marvelous to learn the shape of Coe’s muscles. He had so many, all so fascinatingly contoured. She was particularly interested in the sudden change from the broad muscles of his chest to the narrowing ridges of his abdomen. She thought it would be a stunning contrast. Deciding she must see it for herself, Charlotte set to unbuttoning Coe’s shirt. She’d only loosed two buttons when Coe seized her hands.

  “By Hephaestus, girl,” he growled. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to look at you.” Charlotte told him, surprised that he sounded so angry. “Don’t be cross with me. I only want to because I’m certain you’re very beautiful. Possibly perfect. But I need to see to be sure.”

  Coe groaned, dropping his head so it leaned on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Athene have mercy. Charlotte, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Charlotte knew very well what she was saying and had a mind to explain to Coe that he was the one making things difficult, but his forehead was touching her collarbone, and his loose hair brushed against the top of her bodice. Her ideas about looking at Coe were shoved aside by much more powerful notions.

  Taking Coe’s head in her hands, she lifted his face and brought her lips to his. Charlotte felt him tense, but she was more intrigued by the way his mouth felt against hers. His lips were soft, but his whiskers rough. Her fingers wound through his hair and she opened her mouth, breathing in the taste of him. She kissed his upper lip and his chin. He was salt and juniper. She wanted to devour him.

  Coe stayed very still.

  “I’ll burn in Hephaestus’s forge if this goes any further,” Coe said, and pulled away from her.

  “But—” Charlotte couldn’t form any more words. Her skin was burning and her body so light. Except for the damnable heavy skirts of her dress. Oh, to be free of them. She’d be much happier if she could rid herself of the gown entirely. When had the room become hotter than a furnace? She tugged at the neck of her dress, pulling it down over her left shoulder, but there it stuck, her shoulder free, but the rest of her still enclosed.

  Coe would help her escape from this excess of fabric if she told him how she felt, that her flesh had become the petals of a sun-warmed rose and she needed to bask in the cool night air. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Help me take it off,” she begged. “Please.”

  The world outside her fiery veins slowly came into an unsteady focus and a voice other than Coe’s filled her ears.

  “I should geld you right now!”

  “That’s a bit harsh,” Coe said.

  He was so far away—at least it felt that way, though somehow Charlotte knew he was still seated beside her. She could barely make out his features. Her head throbbed.

  “You might not think so if you were surprised by the scene I just discovered.” The voice belonged to a woman. An enraged woman. “Button your shirt.”

  Coe’s voice carried more than a little anger as well. “And you might not condemn me if you’d had to take care of her in the state I found her.”

  “And your idea of taking care of her involved a state of undress?”

  Charlotte had a fuzzy sense that she might know the angry woman, but she was also quite sure she must not like this interloper. How could she?

  “You don’t know what happened,” Coe said. “I brought her here and I was trying to find out what happened. Then things . . . became more complicated than I expected.”

  “Well, I beg your pardon, then, brother,” the woman was obviously being sarcastic. Charlotte thought that was terribly haughty of her. “A complex situation completely absolves you of what appears to be an unforgivable act. How could you take advantage of her in this state?”

  “I would never hurt her,” Coe’s voice was hushed, but carr
ied a deadly note. “You’ve gone too far.”

  “No,” the woman said, her words like ice. “You are the one who has gone too far.”

  Brother. Charlotte struggled to join their words with her scattered thoughts. I know Coe has a family. This woman . . . his sister.

  With considerable effort, Charlotte pushed herself into a sitting position. “Linnet,” she said, pulling the name from the fog in her mind. “Stop badgering him.”

  “Thank Athene.” Linnet knelt beside Charlotte, clasping Charlotte’s hands in hers. “What happened? How do you feel?”

  Nothing Linnet said made sense to her. She frowned at the other girl. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Linnet looked at Coe. “Did you even try to find out why she’s like this?”

  “Of course I did,” Coe said.

  “Why are you being so horrible to him?” Charlotte asked Linnet. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “I’ll let that go for now.” Linnet put one hand on Charlotte’s cheek. “Charlotte, try to concentrate. Did anyone give you something? Food? A drink?”

  Charlotte knew that Linnet was her friend, but she wished the other girl would go away. A drink did sound very nice, though. Her throat had gone dry and scratchy, as though she’d been swallowing sand. She needed another drink, something sweet and smooth to cool the fire on her tongue.

  “Yes.” Charlotte glanced around. “I’m very thirsty and I was drinking something lovely.”

  “Did you see what she was drinking?” Linnet asked Coe.

  When he didn’t answer, Linnet snarled. “Of course you didn’t.”

  “There it is!” Charlotte saw her glass lying on its side on the floor. “Oh no. It’s empty. Can you get me another?”

  Linnet picked up the glass. “I’ll get you something else.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No. What I had was lovely. I’d like more.”

  Since Linnet’s attention had shifted to Charlotte’s empty glass, Charlotte rolled over so she was sitting in Coe’s lap.