by Emily Larkin
Made her want to risk being turned out of Westcote Hall.
Charlotte stabbed the needle into the handkerchief. Gratitude. She had a roof over her head. Clothes on her back. Food in her belly. Those were all things the Westcotes gave her. All things she was grateful for.
“Charity, pour me another cup of tea.”
The pressure in her chest increased. My name is Charlotte. “Of course, Cousin.”
Anthea curled a ringlet around one plump finger. “I shall catch myself a duke. You will all have to call me Your Grace.”
Charlotte walked to the tea service. She picked up the teapot and poured. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself throw the pot across the room, saw it shatter against the silk-covered wall, spraying tea and shards of porcelain.
“Your Grace,” Anthea repeated, with a self-satisfied giggle.
Charlotte glanced at the door, wishing she was on the other side of it. A few hours of silence, of privacy—
If you want that, you know what you have to do.
Charlotte took a deep breath. She placed the teacup and saucer on the table alongside Anthea. “Your tea, Cousin,” she said, and flicked the cup with a finger as she stepped back.
The cup fell over in its saucer with a delicate clang. The porcelain handle broke off. Tea flooded the saucer, spilling onto the tabletop, trickling to the floor.
“Look what you’ve done!” Anthea cried, pulling her skirts out of the way.
Lady Westcote surged to her feet with all the majesty of a walrus. “You clumsy creature!”
Charlotte turned to face her aunt. She felt marvelously calm. Send me to my room for the rest of the day. Please, Aunt.
“Broken!” Lady Westcote’s face suffused with color. She advanced, one hand upraised. “One of my best Staffordshire teacups!”
The slap almost dislodged Charlotte’s spectacles.
“Go to your room! I don’t want to see you until tomorrow.”
Thank you. Charlotte straightened her spectacles. Heat rushed to her cheek, but beneath the heat was a cool, serene calmness.
“And don’t think you can ask one of the servants for food!” Lady Westcote cried shrilly. “You can starve until tomorrow morning! Do you hear me?”
“I do, Aunt.” Charlotte curtsied and let herself out of the parlor.
She closed the door with a quiet snick and stood for a moment in the corridor. She felt light, as if she’d grown wings and was hovering a foot off the ground. A whole evening to myself. No aunt and uncle. No cousin.
Relief filled her lungs and spread across her face as a smile.
A whole evening alone.
* * *
Her bedchamber was next to the schoolroom, a small room that had once been the governess’s. Charlotte closed the door and let the silence sink into her skin. The rug was threadbare and the furniture had seen better days, but this room was hers. No one else came here.
She touched her cheek, feeling the heat, the stinging residue of pain. It had been worth breaking the teacup for this: silence and solitude.
Across the room, her reflection stared at her from the mirror. Brown hair, brown eyes, a face that was neither pretty nor plain.
Charlotte grimaced at herself. Happy birthday.
She curled up on the bed, hugging a blanket around her, enjoying the silence. Daylight drained from the sky. When the room was dark, Charlotte lit a candle and closed the shutters. The clock on the narrow mantelpiece told her it was dinnertime.
Hunger stirred in her belly. Charlotte ignored it.
She took the candle next door to the schoolroom. Here, she’d tutored the Westcote boys until their entry to Rugby. Here, she’d taught Eliza and Anthea until their seventeenth birthdays. No words had been spoken in the schoolroom for months, no fires lit in the grate. The air was inert. Cold had soaked into the floorboards, into the walls.
At the back of the schoolroom was the old pianoforte.
Charlotte pulled out the stool and sat, resting her fingers on the keys, feeling their smooth coolness.
She visualized the score, heard the music in her ears, and played the first notes. Quiet. Beautiful. The last of her resentment and anger evaporated. Joy flowered inside her like a rose unfurling its petals. The world receded. Westcote Hall was gone. Her aunt and uncle and cousin were gone.
The hairs stood up on the back of her neck.
Charlotte jerked around, lifting her hands from the keys. The schoolroom was empty except for shadows, and so was the doorway.
The echoes of music died away. She held her breath and heard only silence. No creaking floorboards, no furtive footsteps.
Stop this foolishness! Charlotte placed her fingers firmly on the piano keys and filled the room with sound. A jaunty, cheerful tune that begged to be danced to—
“Miss Charity?”
Charlotte jerked around on the stool. The piano strings vibrated with a discordant hum.
A housemaid stood in the doorway. “Mrs. Heslop said to give you this. Venison pie. And a newspaper that were in Sir’s fireplace.”
“Oh, Lizzie.” Foolish tears rushed to her eyes. Charlotte blinked them back and stood. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the floorboards. “Please thank Mrs. Heslop from me.” The newspaper was charred at the edges, the linen-wrapped pie warm and fragrant.
Back in her bedroom, she slipped off her shoes, climbed up on the bed, and unfolded the newspaper. A warm glow of happiness spread through her. What a perfect evening: the precious solitude, the music, the kindness of the housekeeper.
Charlotte ate hungrily, read hungrily. A rich and varied world existed beyond the walls of Westcote Hall and the newspaper brought it vividly to life: the war with France, political debates and criminal trials, the doings of the Prince Regent and the ton, concerts and exhibitions and theatrical performances.
When she’d finished the pie, Charlotte gave a deep sigh of contentment. This was the best birthday she’d had since her father had died.
The thought was sobering. She frowned down at the columns of closely typeset print. Her eyes fastened on an advertisement.
Wanted by a Gentleman’s Family in the county of Hertfordshire, a GOVERNESS competent to instruct two young girls in Music, Geography, and English. A thorough knowledge of the French language is required.
Charlotte reread the advertisement. She could do that.
Her gaze skipped down the page. Wanted immediately, a single YOUNG MAN to act as a Gentleman’s secretary. A strict Character required. Good wages will be given.
She could do that, too. Hadn’t she been her father’s secretary until his death? And a secretary would earn more than a governess.
But she wasn’t a man.
Charlotte pulled a face and read further.
A position exists for a JUNIOR SCHOOLMISTRESS well-qualified to teach English, French, and Latin grammatically. Applications to Mrs. Bolton, of Mrs. Bolton’s Ladies’ Boarding School, near Basingstoke. Testimonials of Character will be required.
Charlotte read the advertisement again. If she worked at a school, she’d have colleagues, other teachers she could become friends with.
Friends.
Charlotte raised her head and stared across the bedchamber, not seeing the stiff wooden chair in the corner. I should like a friend. Someone she could talk with, share confidences with, laugh with.
But who was to say that she’d find a friend at Mrs. Bolton’s Boarding School?
And did she really want to be a junior schoolmistress?
It couldn’t possibly be any worse than life at Westcote Hall and quite likely much better—at the very least, she’d be paid for her labor—and yet . . .
She recognized the uneasy, twisting sensation beneath her breastbone: fear.
The Westcotes were her only family. They might treat her little better than a servant, but they gave her a home, gave her safety and security. If she left, there’d be no coming back; her uncle had made that quite clear.
Charlotte frowned at the wooden ch
air in the corner. What was more important?
Family? Security?
Or independence?
If I leave, will I regret it? Or will I regret it more if I stay? Without foresight, there was no way of knowing—
The wooden chair was no longer empty. A woman sat there.
A scream choked in Charlotte’s throat. She jerked backwards on the bed. The hairs on the back of her neck, on her scalp, stood upright.
The woman snapped her fingers. A fire flared alight in the fireplace, flames filling the narrow grate and roaring up the chimney. Four blazing beeswax candles appeared on the mantelpiece.
“That’s better.” The woman folded her pale hands on her lap. She was dressed in a gown that had been fashionable hundreds of years ago, blood-red velvet trimmed with gold. A high white lace ruff framed her throat and head. Her face was as pale as wax, her eyes as black as obsidian, not reflecting the candlelight, but swallowing it. “Charlotte Christina Albinia Appleby?”
Chapter Three
Charlotte opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. Her heart thundered against her ribcage. Where had the woman come from? How had she made the fire roar to life and burning candles appear on the mantelpiece?
“Charlotte Christina Albinia Appleby?” the woman repeated.
Charlotte found her voice. “Who are you?” It came out too high, her voice squeaking on the last word. “What are you doing in my room?”
Thin black eyebrows arched in a movement that was both amused and mocking. “Has your mother not told you?”
“My mother is dead.”
The woman’s lips tilted in a faint smile. “Careless of her.”
“Who are you?” Charlotte demanded again.
“My name is not for you to know.”
“Then leave.” Charlotte scrambled off the bed and stood. She was taller than the woman now. She pointed at the door, trying to make her voice loud and commanding. “Get out of my room!”
The woman didn’t move. “Are you certain that’s what you wish?” The faint, mocking smile touched her lips again. “You haven’t taken your gift.”
“What gift?”
“The gift I owe you.”
The words made no sense. “Who are you?”
The woman’s smile widened, showing her teeth. They were as white and even and pointed as a cat’s.
Charlotte took an involuntary step back.
“You call my kind Faeries.”
Instinctively, Charlotte shook her head—there was no such thing as Faeries. But the evidence was before her: Those black eyes and sharp white teeth were clearly not human.
The prickling on her scalp, on the nape of her neck, intensified. It felt as if every hair stretched itself on end. “Have . . . have you been watching me today?”
The woman’s smile seemed to widen fractionally, her teeth to grow infinitesimally sharper. “What do you choose? Levitation? Metamorphosis? Translocation?”
Charlotte swallowed. She clutched her hands tightly together. “Why are you offering me a gift?”
“Because I owe it to you.”
“You owe me?”
“One of your ancestors did me a service. As payment, she demanded a wish for each of her daughters.” The woman’s mouth twisted, as if she tasted something sour. “And their daughters in turn.”
Charlotte turned this answer over in her mind, trying to make sense of it. “You gave my mother a gift?”
“On her twenty-fifth birthday, yes.”
Charlotte shook her head again. No. Not possible. But her mouth was already forming words: “What did she choose?”
“Levitation.”
Charlotte blinked. “My mother could . . . fly?”
The woman ignored this question. She leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Charlotte. Dark eyes. Predatory eyes. “Make your choice.”
Charlotte tried not to recoil. She moistened her lips. “How long do I have?”
“Until midnight.”
Charlotte’s gaze jumped to the clock—half past seven—then back to the woman’s face. “Why tonight?”
“Because the women in your line receive their wishes on their twenty-fifth birthdays.”
Line? Her mind fastened on the word. “There are other lines?” Other women who’d had been offered this choice?
“That is not relevant to you.” The woman’s gaze became sharper, blacker, skewering her like a moth pinned to paper. “Choose your gift.”
Fear shivered up the back of Charlotte’s neck. She rubbed the skin, trying to force the sensation away. She sat carefully on the end of the bed. Thoughts churned in her head, possibilities spilling over one another. A Faerie gift. She could be free of her aunt and uncle’s charity. Free of Westcote Hall. Free to live a life of her own choosing.
What gift should I take? Not levitation. Something that gave her independence.
“Money,” Charlotte said. “Can you give me money?”
The woman’s pale upper lip curled in scorn. “Money? No, that is not within my power.” Her eyelids lowered for a moment, then lifted again. She smiled, showing her teeth. “But I can give you the golden touch. If that’s what you wish?”
“No!” Charlotte jerked back on the bed. “Not that!” To be Midas? To turn everyone she touched into gold?
The woman’s lips folded together. Spite glittered in her eyes.
Charlotte’s heart began to beat even faster. She’ll trick me if she can, give me a gift that will harm me. I must choose wisely. “What are the gifts I may choose from?”
“You wish me to list them all? We haven’t time. You must choose quickly.”
Charlotte pushed her spectacles up her nose and tried to look as if she weren’t terrified. “There’s plenty of time.” Her voice was firm, with no squeak to betray her. “Midnight is several hours away.” Fear trembled inside her, but alongside the fear was determination. You won’t rush me into a mistake. “The other gifts. What are they?”
The woman’s face seemed to narrow, her eyes to grow larger and darker, to swallow more of the candlelight. “Levitation,” she said, in a voice that was as thin and sharp as a knife blade. “The ability to tell truth from lies. Translocation. Longevity—”
“What’s translocation?”
“The ability to transfer yourself from one place to another.”
Charlotte frowned, considering this. I could translocate to London. I could . . . What? Rob a bank? She shook her head. “Please continue.”
“Control of fire. Metamorphosis—”
“What’s that?”
“The ability to change shape.”
Charlotte turned this over in her head. “Could I be another person?”
“A person, an animal.”
“Is it permanent?”
“I can make it permanent, if that’s what you want.” The pale eyelids lowered and lifted, the black eyes gleamed. The woman seemed to lean forward fractionally on the wooden chair, like a hunting dog that had scented prey yet dared not move from its place at its master’s feet.
“And if I don’t want that?” Charlotte said hastily.
The terrible eagerness dissipated. “You may change back when you choose.”
Charlotte glanced down at the newspaper, with its singed pages and columns of type. “So . . . I could be a man?”
“If you wish.”
Is that what I want? To be a man? To be able to obtain better employment than I can as a woman? “What else?” Charlotte asked, looking back at her guest. “What are the other gifts?”
“The ability to communicate with animals. Augmented physical strength. The ability to hear others’ thoughts.” The woman paused. “Are you certain you don’t wish for that?” Her voice was honeyed, sweet, persuasive. “It’s a powerful gift.”
The tone was warning enough. Charlotte shook her head.
Malice flickered across the woman’s face, making the pale skin stretch more tightly over the bones. “Invisibility,” she said. “Enhanced hearing. The ability to see in
the dark. The ability to find things. Foresight.”
“Please stop,” Charlotte said. “I need to think.” She closed her eyes. What do I want most?
The answer was easy. She wanted to earn her way in life. To be independent. To never need the Westcotes’ charity again.
Invisibility, translocation, levitation . . . they wouldn’t give her that. They were nothing more than showy tricks, useless unless she wanted employment as a freak at a fair. Or to steal money instead of earn it.
Charlotte opened her eyes. She stared down at the newspaper. Wanted immediately, a single YOUNG MAN to act as a Gentleman’s secretary.
If she chose metamorphosis, she could apply for that position—or any other that she liked. Tutor. Secretary. Schoolmaster. She could study at Oxford. She could enter the church and take orders. She could be a solicitor or merchant or diplomat’s aide. She could travel the world.
Charlotte pressed her fingertips to her mouth. Is this what I truly want? To be a man? She lifted her head and stared across the brightly lit room at her guest.
The woman stared back, her eyes not reflecting the candlelight.
Charlotte lowered her hands. “Tell me about metamorphosis, please. How does it work?”
Impatience flickered across that pale, inhuman face. “You think of who or what you want to become, wish yourself to change—and it happens.”
“What about my clothes?”
“They don’t change.”
Charlotte nodded. “And when I want to change back to myself? Do I simply wish it?”
“Yes.”
“I can do it as often as I like?”
“Yes.”
“And I can take as many shapes as I like? I can be a bird and fly? And then a fish and swim in the sea?”
“You may be any animal that exists in this realm. Creatures that exist in our realm are forbidden.”
Images of what those creatures might be flashed into Charlotte’s mind. Gryphons. Unicorns. Basilisks. She pushed them aside and studied the woman. “What are the dangers?”
The woman’s eyelids lowered. She said nothing.