Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2)

by Melissa McShane

  Sophia could not help smiling at the young woman’s exuberance. “I am certain you will have many adventures, if your assignments are anything like Richard’s were,” she said.

  Lady Daphne blushed. “I should not have reminded you of him, should I?” she said. “I beg your pardon. I forgot for a moment that Richard was a Bounder. I sometimes speak before I think—Mama is in complete despair over me—”

  “Not complete despair,” Lady Claresby said, “since you are trying so hard to learn self-control.”

  “I am, truly I am,” Lady Daphne said. “I’m glad we met—may I call you Sophia? Or maybe you believe that’s impertinent, since we are only cousins by marriage—but that’s still family, don’t you agree?”

  “Richard always spoke so fondly of you that I feel he would have wanted us to be friends,” Sophia said. “I would love for you to call me Sophia.”

  “And you will call me Daphne, I dislike being Lady Daphne because everyone makes it sound as if I am ten years old,” Lady Daphne said. “I have so many questions—oh, but I’m not annoying you, am I? It’s not as if I’m bothering you for a prophecy, because my friend Viola is a Seer, not an Extraordinary Seer, but a Seer, and people are always asking her to Dream for them, and she hates it, and I imagine you probably feel the same way. And I know all these people are hovering around wondering how I dared to speak to you—”

  “Daphne, please don’t trouble Mrs. Westlake,” Lady Claresby said.

  “But I’m not—oh, I am, aren’t I?”

  Daphne looked so downhearted that Sophia laughed again and clasped her hand.

  “You are not in the slightest,” she said, “but I believe Almack’s is not the place for such conversation. May I call on you both tomorrow?”

  “We would be delighted to welcome you,” Lady Claresby said with a smile.

  “Please do!” Daphne said, squeezing Sophia’s hand in return. “I promise to keep my excitement in check.”

  “I look forward to it,” Sophia said, and watched Lady Claresby and her irrepressible daughter move off into the crowd.

  She had forgotten Richard had family beyond his immediate one; his mother was the Marquess of Claresby’s sister, Lady Penelope St. Clair, and her marriage to the wealthy and highly-rated Mover Archibald Westlake had been the talk of London thirty years before. Probably the St. Clairs were not truly family, having been related by a marriage that had ended so tragically, but Richard’s parents lived in Bath, and Sophia’s family all lived in Derbyshire, and she found herself pleased at the thought of finding relations closer to her adopted home.

  She turned to resume her seat and discovered, to her amusement, that one of Cecy’s many friends from her Speaker reticulum had taken it, and the two women were deep in conversation about something Sophia had no knowledge of. Well, she did want Cecy to enjoy herself.

  She surveyed the room. From the way several men quickly averted their gaze, she knew they had been staring at her. How foolish, that they had to wait on an introduction to approach her, when it was clear they were interested in making her acquaintance. How terrible, that she had to rely on Lady Daveril to provide her with those introductions. Too late, she realized she might have asked Lady Claresby for assistance. Who knew what the Countess might come up with?

  “Mrs. Westlake!” The Countess’s booming voice cut across the noise, startling Sophia. It was as if her thoughts had summoned the woman. “There you are! I almost believe you have been hiding from me.”

  “No, Lady Daveril,” Sophia said as the tall woman approached.

  “There is someone you should meet,” the Countess said. “Lord Endicott, do not be so shy. Mrs. Westlake, let me introduce Lord Endicott. Mrs. Westlake is newly returned from Portugal and is eager to make new friends.”

  Lord Endicott. The world tilted, and Sophia’s vision went grey at the edges. How is he here? Is there some other Lord Endicott?

  But no: there was the tall, well-Shaped form, the splendidly turned calves and broad shoulders, the golden hair and bright green eyes that Nature and not talent had gifted him with, since neither could be Shaped, the strong mouth that at the moment was smiling at her in what probably looked to everyone else like a friendly, even admiring, expression. She could not bring herself to smile back at him. His was the face of her nightmares.

  In which Sophia Dreams, and forms a resolution

  did not know it was Mrs. Westlake to whom you wished to introduce me,” Lord Endicott said in that beautiful baritone that had always been able to captivate his listeners. “We were acquainted in Portugal. Mrs. Westlake, your servant.”

  “Lord Endicott,” Sophia said, hoping it came out sounding normal and not filled with the fury and humiliation raging through her. “I did not know you were in London.”

  “My business in Portugal is finished,” he said, “and London is where society is, this time of year. Do you not agree?”

  He looked so friendly, sounded so charming, and she had to stop her hands from closing into fists and smashing that beautiful face. “I suppose,” she said. Why could she not think of some way to cut him? To extricate herself from this conversation? But Cecy was preoccupied with her friend, and Daphne and Lady Claresby were gone, and Sophia had just enough self-control not to begin screaming accusations at Lord Endicott.

  Lady Daveril laughed, a sound as booming as her voice, and said, “Ask her to dance, Endicott, or I’ll have to do it for you, and you know I will.”

  “I would enjoy dancing with you, Mrs. Westlake,” Lord Endicott said, offering her his hand. Sophia felt numb. She could not. She absolutely could not spend one more moment in his presence. She should turn and walk away—

  —and commit social suicide, declare herself haughty and stiff-necked, be even more the subject of gossip than she already was. She took his hand and bobbed a curtsey to him. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, and was proud that none of her turmoil showed in her voice.

  Their first dance was fast, with much hopping and weaving, certainly too exuberant for conversation, but after a minute of silence, Lord Endicott said, “I am glad to see you participating in society, Mrs. Westlake.”

  “And why should I not?” Sophia replied, trying for a light tone.

  Lord Endicott shrugged. “I was afraid you would allow what happened to make you bitter. You are far too young and lovely to let one mistake sour your life.”

  His face was so innocently friendly. Does he practice that look of concern in his mirror every morning? Or is he Shaping his face as he speaks? “Your concern is touching,” she said.

  “I see no reason why we should not be friends. I bear you no ill will.”

  “How generous of you.”

  “Then you are bitter, after all.”

  Sophia’s temper began to rise. Just two dances. Half an hour. “Again, I thank you for your concern, but I see no reason why we should be friends, simply because Lady Daveril has taken an interest in my social life.”

  Lord Endicott’s look of concern turned to one of injured sorrow so perfect it could not be real. How, how could he so readily put up such a false façade? “I have forgiven you for your mistake in accusing me of a terrible crime,” he said. “I believe you should be able to forgive yourself. I wish there were something I could do to aid you in that.”

  “Forgive my bluntness, Lord Endicott, but I have not asked for your help, nor do I believe I need it. I would prefer this conversation be at an end.”

  “I don’t believe I deserve that. I could have had you arrested, you know. The law is not gentle with Seers convicted of lying about their Dreams. I choose to believe you were mistaken rather than untruthful.”

  “So I am to show you gratitude, that you only had me humiliated and not imprisoned as well?”

  “The humiliation was all yours, Mrs. Westlake. There is no shame in a Seer being wrong about a Dream or a Vision. I understand they can be very difficult to interpret correctly. You were the one who chose to continue claiming not only that I was engage
d in business like some common tradesman, but that I was an embezzler and a thief, when all the evidence said otherwise.”

  “Evidence you manufactured.”

  “And then made yourself appear unhinged by that accusation.” Lord Endicott continued to sound sorrowful, not angry, and it infuriated Sophia. Why was he playing this game with her? Was he not satisfied that her reputation within the government was shattered? “I truly do not wish to be your enemy, Mrs. Westlake, but if your pride—”

  “Say nothing more,” Sophia said in a low, intense voice. Surely everyone dancing within ten feet of her could feel the anger radiating off her like heat off a summer pavement. “You were guilty. You and I both know it. You found a way to hide your guilt. We both know this as well. I lost my position thanks to you, and now the government considers me unreliable and irrational. There is nothing I can do to change their minds about me. All I can do is put it behind me—and resolve never to be in contact with you again. So do not, I pray you, continue this farce.”

  “Forgive me for upsetting you,” Lord Endicott said. “I meant only to extend an olive branch—but I see your hatred of me has disordered your good sense.” He smiled at her again, still perfectly sorrowful, but his eyes were alight with pleasure at her anger. If only she dared slap him across that beautiful face! Fury filled her, made it impossible for her to speak, and for that Sophia was grateful, because anything she said now would no doubt come out as a shriek.

  She moved through the figures of the dance automatically, without looking at her partner more than was necessary. He spoke to her once or twice more; she ignored him each time, and finally he fell silent. If she had any doubt about his character before, his deliberate torment of her confirmed that he was an amoral, soulless villain who, not being satisfied with defeating her, was compelled to torture her as well.

  This was how he’d accomplished it; this was how he had convinced everyone he was an innocent victim. He was handsome as only a Shaper could be, he spoke smoothly and with great feeling, he knew how to conceal his wrongdoing from everyone except her, and her knowledge of his crime was irrelevant. That he was also politically powerful only gave more weight to his words, at least as far as the War Office was concerned. Had she not known the truth, had she not been certain of his guilt, she might have thought him truly interested in making peace between them.

  She endured the rest of their dances, and his escort back to where Cecy sat, alone now, with a stoic demeanor. Lord Endicott bowed, then walked away without a word. Cecy watched him go, imperfectly concealing her horror. “Sophia, do not tell me you accepted his invitation to dance!” she said in a low voice.

  “Lady Daveril was standing right there. I had no choice. Oh, Cecy, may we not leave?” Sophia was furious that her enemy might drive her away so readily, but she was so overwhelmed she could not bear another moment in this hot, overcrowded, noisy room that was too bright and filled with too many awful people.

  “Of course, dearest. Let me arrange for my carriage to be brought around.”

  Cecy stood and walked away, and Sophia sat and waited, feeling too exhausted to move. The stares continued, but no one else stopped to speak to her; no one asked her to dance. She felt as isolated as if Lord Endicott truly had spread the word of her “mistake” and his own status as wronged innocent.

  But there was nothing she could do, except avoid him. He could still choose to reveal all—she had never understood why he had chosen not to do so, since there was no pressure the War Office could bring to bear that would have any influence on him, and she could admit to herself that she was grateful not to have to suffer through public humiliation and ostracism. But she would sooner die than admit that to him.

  Their ride home was silent; Sophia’s inner turmoil kept her too preoccupied to speak, and she suspected Cecy’s pain had increased. They parted company in the hall outside their bedrooms, and Sophia undressed as quickly as her lady’s maid could help her, then climbed into bed and pulled the blankets around her ears. Her time in beautiful, temperate Lisbon had made her sensitive to cold winters, and now she shivered as her body too-slowly adjusted to the sheets imperfectly heated by the warming pan.

  Is this what I am destined for? Tormented by Lord Endicott, unable to defend myself, knowing myself to be right when all the world believes me wrong? She rolled over to lie on her stomach and burrowed her head beneath her pillow. Sometimes I even doubt myself. I have a perfect accuracy rating; was I simply too proud to accept that the great Sophia Westlake could be wrong?

  She reviewed, as she did every night, the Dream that had revealed Lord Endicott’s crime. Dwelling on it was pointless, but she could not stop herself, and every time, every recalled detail confirmed the truth of what she had seen. He knew I had found him out, somehow, and concealed his crime. Was it coincidence, that that clerk died before his testimony would have proven me right? He is a thief and a liar and I should be content with knowing I was right. But it was not enough.

  She fell into Dream as a diver drops into a deep pool, blue waters parting to let her body slip between them. In all directions, above and below and to the sides, stood the doors of Dream, insubstantial and cold, though the last was her imagination, as in Dream she could not feel any such thing. Some stood ajar, inviting her; others were fast closed and would need an effort to pass through. Sophia wandered among them, having no particular intent in Dreaming tonight.

  As she approached each door, it grew opaque, and on its surface shifting figures danced, hinting at what knowledge might lie beyond. Had she meditated on a subject before sleeping, she would have found doors specific to the information she sought; as it was, her Dreams simply grew from things she knew or had experienced recently. Until six weeks ago, all her Dreams had been focused on the Peninsula. Now they were random glimpses into lives she barely remembered encountering.

  She passed a door whose images were little better than masses of inchoate color, then went back a few steps to look at it again. A face formed from the colors, faded, came into focus again. Sophia’s Dream-self gasped, and the Dream shook briefly as her living body reacted. She calmed herself, afraid of waking; no Dream could be returned to once a Seer woke. The face re-emerged. Lord Endicott.

  Of course, it was logical she might Dream of him, even obvious, given the emotional effect he’d had on her. She put her hand palm-first on the door, and it dissolved as if absorbed by her skin. As it disappeared, she was drawn forward until the Dream surrounded her, as if she stood inside the room that was the locus for the Dream image.

  The room itself was nebulous; it could have been the grand entry at Carlton House or a shack near the banks of the Thames. It contained waist-high wooden crates, none of them labeled even when she imposed her will on the Dream to bring that part of it into focus.

  For an ordinary Seer, part of interpreting Dreams was learning to identify meaningful images by how they appeared in relation to the rest of the Dream. Some Dreams were colorless except for certain parts that were bright red or pale yellow, while other Dreams persisted in staying out of focus but for one important object. Sophia, an Extraordinary, was capable of manipulating the stuff of Dreams to extract their meaning more directly.

  The room held nothing more than the crates. Sophia stepped back and pictured one of the lids flying off. It did so, vanishing as it went, which told Sophia its contents and not the crate itself were the core meaning of the Dream. She looked into the crate and saw silver. Loose coin filled the crate, an impossibility because no one but a Mover could lift a crate thus filled. Her perspective shifted, and the silver turned into rifle balls, then back again.

  Confusion dragged her out of sleep. She already knew that Lord Endicott, concealing his involvement with a company producing war materiel, had embezzled from the government, billed for twice as much as he delivered, then blackmailed the clerk to alter the records. Why would she see this again? She sat in her bed in the darkness and rested her chin on her bent knees. She had no interest in Seeing anyth
ing to do with that vicious liar, so why did her Seer’s brain drag up his image?

  Of course. Though the War Office had not believed her accusation of Lord Endicott, they knew of the embezzlement and were investigating the crime. Lord Endicott would have been forced to abandon that plan; no wonder he said his business in Portugal was finished, because he could not afford to be identified as the perpetrator. But he was an amoral villain, and it was impossible that this was his only criminal enterprise. She had exposed him once, or tried to, and there was no reason she should not do so again. She would prove him a liar and a criminal, and she would have her revenge.

  She lay down on her back, her left hand flat over her navel and her right over her heart, just below her left breast, preparatory to meditation. It was unlikely she would learn anything tonight; she would need to do more reading to give her mind images on which to base her Dreams. But she would succeed. She had never failed before, and it was impossible she should do so now.

  In which Sophia is offered employment

  here are more than a dozen London newspapers, dearest; must you subscribe to all of them?” Cecy said. She picked up The Times and riffled its pages. “Not that I object to your exercising your talent, but this seems rather excessive. I mean, you have both the Morning Chronicle and the Morning Post.”

  “Both of which offer the same information from different viewpoints,” Sophia said, wielding her scissors to remove yet another clipping. “I need to know as much as possible if I am to accomplish my goal.”

  Cecy laid down The Times, sat down next to Sophia, and sighed. Sophia was certain the sigh had nothing to do with how she had spread her various newspapers over the end of the breakfast room table opposite to where she and Cecy and Lewis took their meal.