“How do you do?” I asked, ignoring Henry. Sissy parroted my inquiry. “Yes, Mr. Cavendish, how do you do?”
“I…ah, reasonably well, for the most part. Are…are you ladies enjoying the ball?” He was so nervous, perspiration dotted his brow. Truth be told, I find that kind of male response much more appealing than Henry’s braggadocio. There is something honest and straightforward about it. I studied Charles more closely. Beneath the spectacles lay a reasonably handsome face, if rather serious in mien.
“Indeed.” Sissy smiled at him winningly. Sissy always picked the weakest member of any male group upon whom to unleash the full force of her charm. A ploy to make Henry think he trod on unsteady ground. As for Charles, his mouth fell open in astonishment. Sissy’s talent is nothing to sneer at. Her ability to enhance appearance, strength, wealth, or whatever she wishes, runs through her family’s blood-line like gold through a California river. Similar types of power are wielded by all the noble families in Europe. As for my own meagre talent, it’s of a duller sort—a pathological tendency to see the truth. Visions assail me, most unexpectedly.
“I’ve put two hundred quid on her horse,” Henry informed Charles. “Why don’t you ante up too, old man?”
If it were possible to die by degrees of mortification, Charles did. I didn’t need a vision to tell me he didn’t own that kind of largesse. As for Sissy, her expression turned sour. Either she didn’t like Henry’s use of common slang, or she sympathized with Charles’ plight. I suspected the former, but that was unkind of me.
“Butter upon bacon! Look who’s arrived!” Sparing Charles from answering and falling into slang herself, Sissy turned her back on the main door leading into the ballroom. “No, don’t look!” she hissed, as we all glanced past her to where she had been staring. A tall, pale goddess stood there. She was dressed in the latest Mariano Fortuny from Paris, a tightly pleated blue gown edged with beading from shoulder to hem. A blonde officer waited on her in attendance. His gold buttoned uniform was weighted down with so much braid, it doubled his shoulders in size.
Despite her own Paul Poiret creation, I sensed Sissy was envious. As for my own dress, my last year’s Worth was hardly worth mentioning.
“What are they doing here?” For some reason, Henry was also put out.
“Perhaps she grew bored of Monte Carlo. Or maybe they threw her out. One can hope,” Sissy replied tartly.
“Who is she?” Behind his spectacles, Charles’ eyes were round with curiosity.
“That is Her Grace, the Duchess Ragnhild of Norway.” Sissy spat the name as if it were a lemon pit. “We were at finishing school together in Geneva. Much good it did her. Despite her blue blood, she’s the worst sort ever! A cheat and a…a…trickster!” She was gripping her fan so tightly, I thought she might break it.
Years past, Sissy had confided in me about the unfortunate ‘bare bottom’ affair she had suffered, a practical joke orchestrated by the duchess involving lost bloomers, a cruel trip over an extended boot, and a rosy exposure for all in her vicinity to see. It was still sniggered about in certain Swiss quarters.
The duchess surveyed the room and brightened, seeing us there.
“Oh please God, preserve me! She’s coming over!” Sissy was so tense, I thought she might crumble to dust at any moment.
“Ceeceeleeyah, is dat eeyou?” Ragnhild’s voice was weirdly musical, singing as much as speaking her words. She reminded one of the Valkyries from a Wagnerian opera.
Sissy spun about, a dazzling smile upon her face. “Raggie! What joy! What brings you to the shores of our little Empire?”
I could feel the waves of her charisma as they crashed against Ragnhild and the rest of us, a bulwark the duchess would find hard to breach. Henry seemed at a loss for words beneath such splendour. Charles looked ill. As for Ragnhild’s escort, his jaw dropped as if beholding the Artic sun for the first time ever. Sissy noticed his reaction. It steadied her.
Ragnhild quirked her pale blonde head to one side. “I un’erstand eeyou have a leetle ponyee entered in de Gold Cup tomorrow, ya?” she warbled, unaffected by Sissy’s display. “So do I! ‘is name ees Golden Toof.”
“Golden Toof?” It was such a ridiculous name, I couldn’t help but repeat it.
“Ya, dat’s right.” Ragnhild looked as if she couldn’t decide whether or not I had intended insult. “Toof.”
“Tooth,” her bulky chaperone corrected.
A look of annoyance flashed across her face. “Dat’s wot I said, Bjarn. Toof.” She turned back to us. “‘e actually has a diff-er-ent name in our Noher-waay, but it is tooo hard for you Englishers to say.”
“How charming.” I didn’t bother to hide my sarcasm.
“Ya. Eet is. And he weel win de Gold Cup tomorrow too, dat’s for sure.” She cast me an icy glare before turning to Charles. “You look like de smart one in dis group, Mister Spec-ta-cles. Why don’ you place a bet on hiim? You weel win lots of money if you doo.”
“I say!” Charles stepped back. Only the lower orders spoke of money, Henry notwithstanding.
“Or not. Iss your choice.” Ragnhild turned to Sissy. “Goodbye until tomorrow, Cee-cee Pink Cheeeks. Let us talk off old times. Come, Bjarn. We musst ceercul-late.” He bowed stiffly as she led him away.
Sissy was too outraged to speak. We eyed her in uncomfortable silence.
“Well I, for one, don’t think that old nag of hers will be worth a fig!” Henry said stoutly. “Dainty Dancer will be a veritable Pegasus in comparison! What does Norway know of horses? Not a jot!” He reached for a silver flask from inside his suit pocket. My talent for sensing the truth flared. He was trying to placate Sissy, but deep down, he was worried he had bet on the wrong horse.
“We shall see who bests whom,” replied Sissy rallying. She tilted her nose into the air then snapped open her fan to flutter it.
Something about her self-assuredness bothered me. It was a presentiment perhaps, or the premonition of a premonition. I’ve had such sensations before—they rarely foretell anything good. I didn’t like it one bit.
Charles spoke up. “There is something odd in all this.” An understatement, if I had ever heard one. “She has a taint about her that isn’t…natural. Or perhaps ‘taint’ isn’t the right word.” His brow wrinkled. “A glamour? An aura? It feels old. Maybe something even beyond that.”
I straightened. Was it possible I had finally met a man who had a similar talent to my own?
“Punch?” Henry pointed at the punch bowl, as if that were the answer to everything.
“I think not.” Sissy dismissed his offer. “It’s time Cassandra and I retired for the evening.” She looked at me pointedly. “Come, Cass. We should go.”
My heart sank. Why would she insist upon leaving, just as things were becoming interesting? More to the point, when I was finding Charles interesting?
“But the ball’s only just begun!” Henry was frowning moodily. “The music’s about to start…what about that dance you promised me?”
“I’m sorry Henry, but you’ll have to find another partner for the quadrille. This evening has upset me terribly, and I must prepare for tomorrow.” Sissy drew in a deep breath.
“Prepare? What is there to do?” Henry refused to be put off. “Your filly is running the race, dear girl, not you!”
“Nevertheless, I cannot stay.” She swept away, her head held high and her nose in the air, towing me in her wake as only Sissy can do.
The next day found us both in better spirits. We had parted to our own suites at her father’s estate the night before, but as I readied for bed, I was quite sure Sissy had not retired to hers. It was frustrating not knowing. My talent is unpredictable. The visions that bring clarity never come as I wish, so I had no idea what she was doing but I had a niggling suspicion she had roused the grooms so she might spend more time with Dainty Dancer. The horse is a beautiful bay, gentle yet spirited when there is need. Her timing on the home track had been good and she had an excellent chance of p
lacing in the Gold Cup, although I doubted she would take first place. Surely, Sissy couldn’t expect it, but the encounter with the duchess had upset her.
In any event, we dressed for the occasion, it being Ladies Day and the third of the running of the Ascot. And I must say, despite all the clever hats and beautiful day dresses that were on display, I do believe Sissy and I outshone them all. She wore a stunning creation of cream and aqua silk. Her Merry Widow’s hat was festooned with ostrich feathers and ballerinas dancing about the brim in matching tutus—appropriate considering she was Dainty Dancer’s owner. I, who had scrimped for the event, was even more ornate than my dear friend. I had purchased a deep yellow Poiret in the latest style: a lampshade skirt with matching tunic in gold and black. My chapeau spouted pyramids and a large crouching Sphinx. Initially, I worried that the cat looked as if it were attacking my hair, but Monsieur Poiret assured me I resembled a high priestess of ancient times. I allowed myself to be convinced. I also secretly hoped, with his interest in Egypt and hieroglyphics, I would run into Charles Cavendish.
I wasn’t to be disappointed. Both Charles and Henry found us in the Royal Enclosure, having been issued invitations to attend by Lord Churchill, as had we. I thought Charles looked very handsome in his top hat and grey morning suit.
“My dear Sissy!” Henry enthused, catching sight of her. “You look the jammiest bit of jam!” He caught her by her gloved hands. “Why, you’re positively glowing! Isn’t she glowing, Charley?”
Charles swallowed and tipped his hat. “Why yes, you do look very fine, Lady Sis…Lady Cecelia.” He turned to me and his eyes widened in surprise. “And you too, Miss Cassandra! What an astonishing hat! My goodness!” He peered more closely at my Sphinx, adjusting a monocle. “Is that a small priest you having standing between your cat’s paws?”
“It is.” I smiled, glad he had noticed. I had asked Monsieur Poiret to add it, so it might draw the eye and not suggest the Sphinx was about to bite off my head.
Charles stepped back to take in my entire outfit. “And the glyphs about your tunic…!” For a moment he lapsed into silence, then read aloud the inscription there. “‘There is no one who deceives who is not deceived, no one who does wrong who prospers at great length.’ How amazing!” He met my eyes. “You do know that saying is from the Ankhsheshonq papyrus held in the British Museum?’ Behind the monocle, an eye brow lifted inquiringly.
I couldn’t help but stifle the tiniest bit of indignation. Did he think I was such a slave to fashion that I would buy such a thing without knowing what the words actually meant? I had Monsieur Poiret stitch them there. I felt a slight headache forming behind one temple.
“Oh, dear. I’ve put my foot in it. You must forgive me.” He lifted his palms in supplication. “Of course you know. How very clever of you, Miss Cassandra. I had no idea we had…so much in common.”
Sissy’s expression was smug. “That inscription holds the secret to our Cassandra, actually. Polite company prevents me from telling you what it is.” She smirked, toying with him while I blushed an unholy pink.
“I love puzzles.” Charles regarded me with even greater interest.
Unfortunately, what had started as a dull throb behind my eyes was turning into a full-blown truth attack. I clutched my head.
“Are you all right, Miss…Cassandra?” Concern in Charles’ voice.
Suddenly, the Royal Enclosure with all its racing enthusiasts disappeared. I found myself standing in Sissy’s barn at the estate in Windsor, watching her stroke Dainty Dancer across her long, ruddy neck. Sissy was murmuring something. Faster and better, she crooned. Faster and better. I saw a bright flash arise from her. It ballooned and enveloped Dainty Dancer. The mare pulled up her head, snorted, and then pawed the straw as if she needed to run. Sissy gave a short, nasty laugh. “That’ll show you, Duchess Potty-Mouth. My Dancer will leave your silly ‘Toof’ choking on his tongue. See if she doesn’t.”
The world reasserted itself and I came to. I hadn’t collapsed entirely—I was still on my feet—but Charles Cavendish was clasping me in his arms. I took a deep shuddering breath. The air smelled of sal volatile. Sissy waved a small vial of it before my nose.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Cassandra?” Charles released me slowly. “I believe you fainted.”
“I am quite myself now, Mr. Cavendish,” I told him, but I was anything but. “Thank you for your assistance.” I smoothed down my skirt and glared at Sissy.
She met my stare complacently. She knew I knew what she had done, using her ability to strengthen Dainty Dancer. It didn’t matter what the duchess had done to her in the past, or how much Sissy wanted to triumph over her now. She was cheating. It was wrong.
Worse, I would be blamed for it. I was always Sissy’s scapegoat. Her father, Lord Sutherland, would demand to know why I hadn’t stopped her from doing such a thing. What good was I as a companion if I didn’t intercede, stop his daughter from causing a scandal, which in turn, would reflect badly on him? One did not commit fraud at the Gold Cup. It was unpatriotic—a crime against King and Country.
I took an unsteady step and clutched her. “Undo what you did,” I said through gritted teeth.
“What?” She looked at me all blue-eyed and innocent, as guileless as a daisy.
“You know very well!” I dropped my voice even more, so the men wouldn’t hear. “Sissy, this will lead to scandal. I saw what you did, and I have this terrible feeling you will not get away with it! Something more is about to happen. I am certain of it!”
As the things I see of the past are apt to grow worse, so too did this moment. “Dere you all are!” Duchess Ragnhild approached us, with Bjarn, her escort, in tow. She wore a fuchsia and black day gown, draped in what looked to be miles and miles of rosy tulle. A flock of pink flamingos rose from her brow. She looked simply ridiculous—like the god Zeus giving birth to avian Athenas. She eyed my Sphinx as if thinking the same thing. “I wass looking for all off you, soo wee might waatch de race to-geth-er!” She smirked at Sissy. “Care to make a way-ger on your lit-tle poneey, Sissy, elskling?”
Sissy rose to the challenge, heedless of me pinching her arm. “Name your bet!”
“Sissy, no!” I protested.
“How about one dousand Kroner? Eefen more, iff you like. What is dat in Englisher pounds, Bjarn?” She turned back to us in an aside. “He is sooo much better at money dan me. Dat iss why my father, the king, keeps him a-rount.”
Lord Churchill’s voice rang out. Looking the picture of dignity in his top hat and grey morning suit, he had climbed upon a small platform and was shouting into a megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! There has been a small change in the pre-race proceedings. Last year, as you may recall, there were some unfortunate triflings going on! To ensure a fair race, we have invited an expert to examine all of today’s mounts and ensure none have been altered in any way…”
I glanced at Sissy, feeling sick. The worst was about to happen. It didn’t make me feel any better to see she had turned white.
“Fix it! Now!” I urged.
She stared at me with a stricken expression and clutched my hands. “Oh, Cass, I can’t! Once the magic’s done, I can’t undo it!”
If she suspected where our fates lay, I wondered if she knew mine would be worse than hers. I would be blamed for her wrong-doing. Lord Sutherland wouldn’t allow scandal to alight upon his daughter for long. There is an old oriental custom of establishing a tank of koi with eight gold fish and one black. The black is meant to capture all of the family’s bad luck. I was Sissy’s dark fish.
“Whaat iss he saying?” The duchess’s voice rose. “Whaat is going on?” Her flamingoes bobbed this way and that, as if pecking in a pique at Lord Churchill.
“Are you all right, Sissy darling?” Henry asked, all concerned, although I suspected he was more worried about his potential loss of funds. As he leaned past me, I caught a whiff of gin.
“They haf changed the requirements, your Grace,” Bjarn informed his duc
hess. “Dere waas a tam-per-ing last ye-ear—”
Her voice rose to a shriek. “Wheen did they do that? I waasn’t here! Why did you not tell meee?” She actually struck him on the shoulder. She was beside her pink and black self. Her flamingoes looked as if they were about to take flight.
“And so, it is my pleasure to introduce Lecturer Charles Cavendish of Oxford to these proceedings,” Lord Churchill continued. “As well as being a noted don of that great institution, he is also one of the Empire’s leading authorities on myth and magic. Once he has made his assessments, the race shall proceed.”
I looked at Charles in growing terror. He was the expert? And a don? Why hadn’t Henry introduced him as such? But then, Henry was such a prat!
“I do beg your pardon,” Charles said to me, touching the brim of his hat apologetically. Behind his monocle, something flashed in those sombre grey eyes and then he turned and walked away. Had he heard me warn Sissy about the coming scandal? That I had insisted she change whatever she had done? Or would he think me guilty by association?
Suddenly, the inscription embroidered on my tunic felt like a sham. So much for representing the truth and benefiting from it. Perhaps it didn’t matter what Charles thought of me. If he was as good as Lord Churchill claimed, Sissy would be exposed and I would be blamed. If Lord Sutherland was angry enough about it, he might even insist I leave the estate, never to return to Sissy’s side.
Oh, the unfairness of it all! Why?
The crowd shifted uncomfortably as we awaited Charles’ verdict. I noticed that Her Grace, the Duchess of Norway, and her blonde giant had left in a hurry. Sissy clutched me by the hands, her eyes squeezed shut as if she might avoid our terrible fate. Or perhaps it had finally dawned on her that my future lay in worse tatters than hers. Henry sidled from foot to foot, not even bothering to hide his flask. He kept drinking, as if needing to steady his nerves.
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