Joan did hurry once Rose left, yanking the nightgown off and the chemise on, wanting to save time so she could savor her breakfast. It was worth the effort: two eggs, sausages, and toast, plus tea that didn’t wake her up as much here as the kind back home did but that also didn’t take the roof off her mouth. She ate as much as she could and then looked at herself in the mirror. The chemise hid the tattoos well enough, though there was nothing she could do about the scar on her upper arm or the mark from the flashgun. At least the mark was on her inner arm and less obvious.
Rose returned carrying a brown dress and leading a slim, dark-haired woman with a large bag. “Mrs. Simmons, miss.”
Did she bow? Shake hands? Joan settled for smiling. “Good morning.”
“Miss MacArthur,” said Mrs. Simmons. She took a quick look around the room and then at Joan. She sniffed once. I got here just in time, that sniff said. “Please move to the center of the room, miss, and we can get started.”
Joan spent the next hour both bored and nervous. Mrs. Simmons and Rose moved around her, taking measurements and altering the brown dress. She stared at the wall and tried not to flinch at having two strangers in such close proximity. She tried not to think that there were two of them, that they were healthier than anyone she knew back home, and that she was unarmed and wearing only thin cloth.
She did fairly well, Joan thought. Her hands didn’t shake at all.
It helped that Rose was silent and that Mrs. Simmons didn’t speak except to note measurements and to ask Joan to move. For most of the fitting, the seamstress didn’t seem to see Joan as anything other than a figure to measure and a form to fit. When Joan raised her arms the first time, though, Mrs. Simmons’s eyes fell on the scar there, the one from when a fell beast had grabbed Joan. Mrs. Simmons stopped, tape measure dangling from one hand.
Joan had prepared her explanation of a fall when she was young onto a piece of broken glass. She braced herself for the question.
It never came. Instead, Mrs. Simmons looked past Joan and met Rose’s eyes. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
The scar didn’t say glass to them or tentacle. It said whip or maybe rope. A sudden, knowing sympathy crossed both women’s faces for just a second before they bent back to the task at hand. This world had its cruelties as well.
Then the dress went down over Joan’s head. It felt like a tent and weighed a ton, but she relaxed a little. At least her marks were well hidden now. “Did Mr. Grenville give any, um, specific instructions?” she asked.
“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Simmons kept measuring while she talked, moving with the swift purpose some men had when they fought. “Blouses and skirts mostly, he said, plus the other, er, essentials. The corset’ll take some time, but I should have the rest within a few days.”
They’d told Joan about corsets before they sent her. She fought back a wince and told herself that it couldn’t be worse than a broken rib. “Thank you.”
“Yes, miss. Will this do?”
Mrs. Simmons gestured toward the mirror, and Joan stepped forward. The skirt swung against her legs, heavy enough that she knew her reaction time would suffer. She felt like she was walking through water. Also, if she had to kick anything in this costume, she was screwed.
On the other hand, at least she’d have plenty of places to stash knives. And, for what it was worth, the dress didn’t look half bad. Hell, it made her look better than she had at home most of the time, though being clean and rested went a long way too. Plus, it was warm, whole, and softer than either canvas or leather.
“Good,” she said, stepping back. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Simmons bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll send a girl when the other things are ready, miss,” she said, and headed out.
“If you don’t mind, miss,” Rose said, “Mr. Grenville’s expecting you in the library. Shall I get you ready?”
“Sure,” Joan said, not sure how much more ready she could get.
Chapter 7
The dress was hardly flattering. Simon was no judge of female fashion, but even he could see that it had been taken in and that dark brown wool and severe lines did nothing to disguise the wire-over-bone look of Joan’s body.
Normal clothing made her less strange, though. Before, she’d been so far outside Simon’s experience that he couldn’t even have thought of her as pretty or plain. The flash of beauty he’d seen on the walk from the forest had been like the beauty of a thunderstorm or a wild animal, something he couldn’t conceive in terms of feminine appeal. Now he could evaluate her, at least superficially, as if she’d been any other woman of his acquaintance.
She had good bones, even if she needed more flesh on them. Good posture too, and a certain primitive grace. Her mouth was firm and well shaped, and she had good teeth, from what he could see. Now that it was clean, her hair was actually a rather pretty sort of dark blonde—a bit dull at the moment, but there was doubtless some feminine art to fix that, or perhaps enough good meals would do the trick. And her hazel eyes were really quite striking.
As he watched her take an unasked-for seat in the chair opposite his desk, he had an idea. It was a scandalous and perhaps entirely immoral one, but a way forward all the same.
At the same time, Joan lifted her eyebrows. “See anything green?”
Simon didn’t recognize the phrase, but the meaning was clear enough. “My apologies,” he said. If she’d been another woman, he might have offered a compliment to mollify her, but he didn’t think Joan would welcome that. “I was wondering what your plans were.”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “We didn’t get much more than his name and the date.”
“And they threw you through time with only that?” Nice considerate way to treat a woman.
Joan shrugged. “They knew I was competent. I can think of a couple things off the top of my head.”
“Oh?”
“One,” Joan began, holding up a finger. “I break in. I’ve got black clothing and the equipment I need. If I can find his house—”
“You’ll have the law on you. Reynell spends most of his time in London. That’s probably where the manuscript is, and he lives in a very good part of town. The police would show up, and they’d probably catch you.”
“Possibly before I burn the book,” she said, grimacing. “All right. I pose as a servant.”
“He’s not hiring, and you don’t know how to act like a servant.”
“You could teach me. And I could say that the real one got sick. Bribe her or knock her out and hide her somewhere, though that complicates things either way. I’ll need enough time to search the house too, so I’ll try to get some information beforehand.”
“And that’s all you can think of?”
“Right now? Yes. Give me a little while, and I’ll come up with something better.” Joan leaned forward, putting her elbows on the desk. Incredibly, a hint of a smile touched her mouth. “He doesn’t know that I’m here, and he doesn’t know why. So I’ll take my time, learn the place, learn his habits. Eventually I’ll see an opening.”
“I think,” said Simon, “I know a way we can make one.”
“Really?”
“It’s not precisely, um…” He cleared his throat. If Joan had been a woman of his world, Simon would have been about twenty seconds from getting slapped. He still wasn’t sure he was safe. “I don’t mean to insult you by this, and—”
Joan rolled her eyes. “What’s the idea?”
“When Eleanor and I return to town, you come with us. You’ll be a friend of my family’s. That will admit you to our social circles, and from there, you can cultivate an acquaintance with Reynell.”
“Seduce him, you mean,” Joan said matter-of-factly.
“Or merely spend enough time around him to learn where he goes and for how long.”
“Hmm. You think he’d go for it?”
“Alex has always competed with me,” Simon said, keeping his voice even. He remembered evenings out and friendly rivalry over women and
cards. He’d thought it was friendly, at least. “He’ll want revenge as well now, and seducing someone close to me will seem like an easy way to get it.”
“Sure of himself, isn’t he?”
“He’s always had a way with women. And a hard time resisting the beautiful ones.”
“I’m not beautiful,” Joan said easily. “Not to you people. I might not ever be. What then?”
“You will be. There are people in London who can see to it, if necessary.”
“All right.” Joan drummed her fingers on the desk. “So. I get close to him, and he either invites me to his place or arranges to meet me somewhere. I don’t know how they do things here.”
“He’ll probably have you to his house. He could hardly seduce you under my roof, and I’ve never known him to use a hotel. Our earlier agreement still holds,” Simon added. “Perhaps it would be better if he did suggest a hotel. I could confront him there while you disposed of the book.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Joan gave him a long look. “Do you have any plans?”
“One,” he said. “There are geasa—spells of binding—in old books. I don’t have any myself, but if I can find one, I can make sure that Alex harms nobody else. I can even get him to leave off his study of the occult.”
He regretted even that, in a way. There was much he never would have discovered in his youth if not for Alex’s damn-the-odds enthusiasm for the latest ritual, the next source of information, the newest avenue of amusement. In another life, the man might have been a great asset to the world.
It didn’t matter.
“Got any leads?” Joan asked.
“A few hints. Are we pressed for time?”
“Unless a rock falls on my head or something, I’ve got about forty years. I don’t know the people Reynell’s fucking with, though. If they matter to you, you might want to be speedy about this.”
“Thank you for that,” he said.
He knew Alex was capable of ruining men at the card table and ladies in the bedroom, of exposing innocent girls to evil far beyond the petty sins of this world, of willful and deliberate murder. Perhaps he’d gotten in over his head, perhaps he was sorry now…but most likely he was acting now as he always had, and people were suffering for it.
On the other hand, Simon knew two other magicians. Both were outside the country, and one was quite elderly. Just now, he and Joan were the only people in the world who knew Alex’s path and could stand in his way. If they ran instead of walked and fell by doing so—
In the end, he stayed as close to the middle path as he could get. “Give me until we go to London. That should be time enough—it’ll take a month or two to get you ready.”
The look Joan gave him was so searching as to be, from another woman, entirely indecent. From her, though, it was just evaluation: Can you do what you say? Simon half expected her to look at his teeth.
“I’m in,” she said. “Where do we start?”
“With you.” Ideas began to fall into place like tumblers in a lock. “We’ll say you’re from America, one of the Western states. That’ll explain why nobody’s heard of you, and it’ll cover what we can’t fix.”
“Fix?” she asked, dryly amused.
“Fix. You’ll have to learn to act like a lady. At least in public.”
“Damn, I thought so. Lay it on me.”
“For one thing, ladies don’t curse. No profanity, no blasphemy, no vulgarity.”
“No shit?” she asked, quirking a grin. Simon had to laugh in response. “What if I’m, um, angry?”
“Ladies aren’t supposed to get angry most of the time,” he said, and wasn’t surprised to see the face she made. “If someone makes improper advances or swears around you, or so forth, then you should be very cold and correct. Or faint.”
“Faint. Yeah, I don’t think that’ll be happening. Not unless it gives me a major tactical advantage.”
“Oh, it does.”
Joan smiled again, impishly, and suddenly Simon didn’t think he’d have to worry about her being pretty enough. He shifted in his chair, trying to ignore his body’s response.
Her question didn’t help either: “Were you an innocent bystander or the one making the improper advances?”
“That,” he said, “depends on the occasion.”
“Mmm. Anything else?”
“Quite a bit. There are a number of rules you’ll have to follow…while implying that you’d be willing to break some of them for the right man.”
Joan sighed. “I couldn’t have just had to shoot things a lot, could I? You’ll be training me?”
“Some. But you’ll have a better guide—my sister, Eleanor.” Both amusement and incipient arousal vanished. Simon sat forward, holding up a hand. “She knows you’re from elsewhere. She doesn’t know you’re from our future, and you’re not to tell her. Nor are you to try to recruit her for a more active role in this scheme. She’s neither a soldier nor a spy, and she’s not well.”
“All right,” said Joan. “I get it.”
“I hope you do.”
***
It was a good beginning. At least Eleanor looked at Joan with more interest than she’d shown in anything over the past few weeks and forgot to flinch at the sound of the closing door. She bowed gracefully to Joan, who pulled back the hand she’d extended and made her own attempt. It wasn’t as bad as Simon had feared.
“It’s good to meet you,” Joan said when Simon had made the introductions. “Thanks for agreeing to teach me. I’ll try to learn quickly.”
Eleanor, who shrank from her acquaintances these days, was surprised into a smile. “I-I’m sure you’ll be a pleasure to talk with.”
“I’ll do my best, but I should warn you that I’m pretty ignorant. I can read, though, so if you want to get me out of your hair a couple hours a day, just push a book in my direction.”
Eleanor tilted her head to the side. “Out of my hair—I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be. I meant if you want your privacy.” Joan grinned at her. “Please do give me a weird look if I say something that doesn’t make sense. It’ll help me learn.”
“Oh,” said Eleanor. “Well, I’ll certainly try, if you’d like.”
“I would. But don’t worry too much about it. I’ll pick up vocabulary, and I’m sure you have plenty of other things to teach me.”
“Yes. Simon, I’m sorry for asking, but—”
He laughed gently. “Part of the reason I asked you is that I don’t really know, myself. You can assume, though, that she knows nothing a young lady should.”
Eleanor’s eyes went wide and she looked swiftly, half apologetically, over at Joan, only to relax a little when she saw that the other woman wasn’t upset. Eleanor frowned a little, forehead wrinkling, and then tentatively spoke. “Dancing, of course, and proper forms of address, and table manners. General etiquette, but you’ll probably learn that out of a book and only practice with me.” She added slowly, “History and literature would be nice, though not essential.”
She was too polite to say what both she and Simon knew. Most young ladies in Society knew no more of literature than the latest novel and no more of history than the last scandal. Eleanor was interested in those things, though, so Simon said, “I think those would be quite useful. And we’re hardly pressed for time.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” said Eleanor, and thought a moment longer. “Riding, though I admit I’m quite unskilled there. It would be good if you could play or sing, though there are alternatives.”
“Can’t play an instrument or anything,” Joan said, “but I can sing decently. At least, nobody ever told me to shut up. I don’t know any of the songs here, though.”
“Easy enough to remedy,” said Simon, “and one of the grooms can teach you to ride.”
“I’d be glad to teach what I know,” said Eleanor, “only please don’t consider my word final. I’m hardly the most fashionable girl in England.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said J
oan.
“I’ll leave you for a few hours,” Simon said, “since I have some business to deal with. Do make the house your own, Miss MacArthur, by all means, and the grounds as well. Ellie, I’d consider it a great favor if you’d show her about, since I’m a rather negligent host at the moment.”
Another smile appeared on Eleanor’s face. “It’d be my pleasure,” she said, and sounded as if she meant it.
As Simon went out into the hall, the light seemed more golden, the air warmer and clearer than it had in months. Perhaps he was only imagining any improvement. Perhaps the novelty of teaching Joan would wear off, or she would be too strange for Ellie to really like. Perhaps this would all come to nothing. He’d not dared to hope once since he and Eleanor had come out to Englefield.
But now he couldn’t help it.
Chapter 8
“So,” said Joan, trying to figure out how to begin with this girl, now that Simon had gone. She glanced out the window, stalling for time, and the view gave her an idea. “Why don’t we head outside?”
“If you’d like, of course.”
“We can stay in if you want.”
Eleanor took a breath. “No,” she said. “It’s only that I haven’t done much exploring around here myself.”
There was something to this girl after all, beneath the nerves and the trauma. Joan smiled. “We can get lost together then. Got a spool of thread with you?”
“Oh, do you know that story?”
“Some version. Ariadan, right? The goddess?” It wasn’t exactly the right term, but she didn’t know what they called the Watchers here. “Angel?”
Eleanor led Joan out into the hall, talking softly as she went. “Not quite, not here. A princess. Ariadne. Her father, the king of Crete, kept a-a monster in a maze and fed youths to it.”
“Nice dad,” said Joan. “Your royalty doesn’t do that kind of thing, right?”
“No, not at all.” Eleanor gave a half-shocked laugh at the thought. “Nobody civilized would—”
She was starting to stare at Joan, and Joan, remembering Simon’s lecture, didn’t tell her that feeding youths to monsters would’ve been fairly standard behavior among the Traitor Lords. “What happened to the girl?” she asked instead.
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