“I cannot tell you how my heart is warmed by your enthusiastic welcome,” he said as the music began. “You know my only desire is for you to think well of me.”
“Oh, my lord, I believe you know what I think of you,” Sophia said. “As I know your feelings toward me.”
“Then we should both be happy in that… security.”
“Indeed. Though I wonder you can feel happy, given the loss you have so recently endured.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “Loss?”
“Why, Elias King, of course. His death must have been a tremendous blow.”
“You are mistaken. I know no Elias King.”
“No? I must be thinking of someone else.”
“It is no matter. I have always forgiven you your mistakes.”
“Yes, you have, and I am so grateful to you for that generosity. You, of course, make no mistakes.” She smiled at him, and his calm expression slipped again, this time showing his confusion. What did he believe she knew? How many of his secrets did he believe she held?
“I like to believe I am honest enough to admit to mistakes when I make them,” he said.
“Very honorable, my lord. So do you admit to having made a mistake two nights ago? Playing that jack when you should have played the ten? That cost you a not inconsiderable sum.”
Lord Endicott went completely expressionless. “I do not understand you,” he said, his lips barely moving.
“Not that I know anything of cards,” Sophia continued, “but Lord Chumleigh certainly seemed pleased to benefit from your mistake. I believe that new waistcoat of his is an unfortunate shade of puce, don’t you? It makes him look so sallow.”
His face looked pale in the bright yellow light. “How odd that you should have heard that trivial story,” he said.
“It is not hearing I speak of. As I’m sure you know.”
“You Dream of me, then? It gives me joy to know you care for me in that small way.”
“You are my great preoccupation these days, my lord. Well, you and one other.”
“I am devastated to know I have not your undivided attention. Who is this other?”
Sophia smiled and shook her head. “No one you know, I am certain. He is tall and black-haired, handsome—though not as handsome as you, my lord—and wears a silver ring. I find his movements most interesting.”
“I believe you should stop Dreaming of him. You wouldn’t want me to become jealous, would you? I might do anything if I thought I were slipping in your estimation.”
“That almost sounded like a threat, my lord.”
“Of course not. I simply wish to maintain a place in your heart. I cannot bear your teasing, your sometime coldness.” The look of Unrequited Love was back.
“Oh, but my… did you say ‘coldness’? My coldness conceals a very different feeling. As I’m sure you know.”
“I wish I could know what you were thinking. It would certainly influence my actions.”
“As my knowledge of you shapes mine. I feel I know you better every day. It’s as if we See as one.” Sophia smiled again, and Lord Endicott went expressionless again. Did he understand what she was saying? She wanted to take him by the ears and scream If you hurt my friend, I will stab you through the heart as you sleep. She would have to settle for oblique hints and warnings. If she had to follow him in Vision every day for the next month to bring him down, she would do it without regret.
They danced in silence for the rest of their dance and half of the next. Lord Endicott had regained his look of forlorn hopelessness, that sad smile that no doubt had every woman in the room wishing she could be the one to make it disappear. Sophia felt utterly satisfied. Now he knew she no longer feared him, and if he were as intelligent as she guessed, he knew she could follow him in Vision. Who knew what he thought she might witness?
“We spoke of hunting, some weeks ago,” Lord Endicott said, startling her. “Do you still have an interest?”
“I do, my lord, more than ever,” Sophia said.
“Then you recall what I said about the prey turning on the hunter.”
“You said other predators are the most likely to savage the hunter, as I recall.”
“So you do remember. I was under the impression you had forgotten that lesson.”
“Not at all, my lord. I have a healthy respect for predators. Or, that is, I would have, if I were a hunter.”
“It is fortunate for you that you are not, I daresay.”
“Why is that, my lord?”
Lord Endicott’s eyes met hers, and Sophia felt a little faint, because his eyes were empty of anything remotely human. “Because I believe you would be the sort of hunter whose pursuit of one foe blinds her to the approach of another, more dangerous one.”
“I… believe you are mistaken.” She felt like a vixen caught by the hound and backed into a corner; she was afraid to look away from those terrifying eyes.
“If I am, I will be the first to admit it.” He smiled, then, and winked at her, his face once again displaying Unrequited Love. Sophia’s good cheer evaporated. She had been a fool. He is mad, she told herself, what made you think defying him would provoke a reasonable reaction? She had wanted only to show him she was not so easily deterred, but now—he might do anything. She cursed herself, and knew her turmoil was visible to him, because he smiled more broadly at her, escorted her back to Cecy when their dances were finished, and kissed her hand, gripping it to keep her from pulling it away from him in a way that told Sophia he knew very well he was making her miserable.
He will not drive me away this time, she told herself, and danced every dance until she was certain her feet were bleeding and her shoes were about to fall apart. She wished she knew what everyone else thought of her interaction with Lord Endicott. Had she made it appear as if their secret engagement were a certainty? She had been a fool all around, tonight, and were it not for her desire not to give Lord Endicott the satisfaction of making her flee, and her reluctance to hurt Lady Ormerod’s feelings, she would have left early, gone back to her bed and begun Dreaming again. The need to prove Lord Endicott’s guilt had just become more urgent.
She deflected a would-be dance partner and escaped the ballroom, hunting for a place she might be alone for a few minutes, preferably somewhere cooler than the overheated, overcrowded room. How had her life come to this? Was she to spend the rest of her days drifting from ballroom to drawing room to theatre, one tedious round with no variation?
She opened a door and was rewarded with a cold breeze scented with snow. Outside was a small garden, incongruous here in the heart of the city, with little more than a few bare hedges and some empty flowerbeds, waiting for the promise of spring that seemed so far away now. Sophia inhaled the chilly air and felt as if it were blowing away layers of horrible clinging soot, the remnants of her conversation with Lord Endicott. She was close to bringing her quarry down, and however he tried to escape her, whatever the attack he brought, she would be the victor.
She shut the door and went back toward the ballroom, her footsteps dragging. Surely they had stayed long enough to satisfy the demands of good manners? She turned out of the narrow hall that led from the back door and nearly bumped into someone large—
“Mr. Rutledge,” she said, so startled that her heart began pounding as if he’d leaped out at her.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Westlake,” he said. He took a step back, but made no further movement.
“I… did not realize you were here,” she said.
“I was a rather late arrival.”
Sophia couldn’t think of a reply to this. Her heart would not stop pounding. He was looking in her direction, but his eyes were focused on a point just past her head; why would he not look at her directly? “I was about to take my leave of our hosts,” she said.
“Then I am glad to have spoken with you before you left,” he replied.
“As am I.” She had to repress the desire to turn and look behind her, to see what he found so f
ascinating.
“Are you?” Now his eyes met hers, with that uncomfortable directness she nevertheless could not look away from. “You seemed to wish nothing more to do with me when last we met.”
Once again she was left without a reply. It was true, and yet so untrue she felt inclined to laugh, which would no doubt sound hysterical. “It is not I who am the barrier to our friendship,” she finally said.
“So you said.” It seemed a conclusion, but still he made no move to continue on toward the ballroom. What more did he want from her? She found herself perilously close to tears, and could not understand how he could so often have that effect on her. He didn’t believe her; why should she allow his opinion to matter to her at all?
“I should join Cecy,” she said. She made as if to pass him, only to be stopped by his hand on her arm. He was not trying to restrain her; she could have pulled away from him easily. Instead she half-turned to look up at him. His touch reminded her of the night he had brought her home from the Duchess of Lenshire’s house, and how he had supported her in her weakness, and she blushed hotly until it felt as if her entire body was trying to ignite at the memory of how comforting his embrace was.
He looked as if he were searching for something to say, and she waited, feeling as if whatever it was would be the perfect words to sweep away all the misunderstanding and bad feeling between them and make everything right again. She would settle for friendship if she could have nothing more from him, if friendship were even possible—
He released her arm. “I apologize,” he said, “I should not—good evening, Mrs. Westlake.”
“Good evening, Mr. Rutledge,” she said, turning quickly away so he would not see the ridiculous tears welling up in her eyes. She was a fool. There was nothing he could say that would change what had passed between them. It was stupid of her to believe otherwise. Stupid of her to long for his touch again.
She wandered the hall between the front door and the ballroom, admiring the art, until she was certain her nose and eyes were no longer red. Cecy had always been able to cry without ruining her face, and Sophia envied her as she never had before. Finally she went back into the ballroom and found Cecy and Lewis, talking to Lord Ormerod. The tall, potbellied man brightened when he saw her, and exclaimed, “Mrs. Westlake! I cannot believe we have not spoken tonight. Will you come to see me in three days’ time? I am about to purchase some Greek marbles and would like to test their provenance. I’m afraid I don’t trust the seller very much.”
“Of course, Lord Ormerod, I would be happy to. But I must bid you farewell, if Mr. and Mrs. Barham don’t mind,” Sophia said.
“We were just saying our goodbyes as well, Sophy,” Cecy said. “Thank you again, Lord Ormerod, and good evening.”
In the carriage, Sophia said, “I hope that was not a polite fib on my behalf, Cecy.”
“It was not,” Cecy said. By the light of the passing lamps Sophia could see her face was now pinched with pain. “I am not too badly off, Sophy, you can stop giving me that look. I thought it best to leave before I was.”
“Such sensibleness,” Lewis teased, drawing Cecy close. Jealousy, hot and sharp like a knife straight from the forge, struck Sophia so hard and so unexpectedly that she flinched, then chastised herself. She had no need to be jealous of what Lewis and Cecy had. You want that, she told herself, and once again self-pitying tears began to rise.
What an awful night this had been. Taunting Lord Endicott into who knew what kind of retaliation. Meeting Mr. Rutledge with such unsatisfactory results. And now pining over something she would never have. She would go straight to bed, no Dreaming for her tonight, and in the morning she would be sensible again. She stared out the carriage window, blinking, until her vision was once again clear.
But in the morning, she was groggy and tired, as if she had spent the night in Dream. She lay there, hoping the feeling would go away, but it only pressed down on her more oppressively. Eventually she sat up and rang for Beeton. She would eat something more substantial than her usual morning chocolate, then try to sleep again and perhaps it would clear her mind.
The door flew open. “Sophy, you must see this,” Cecy said, rushing at her with a newspaper in her hand. She flung it down across Sophia’s lap. “There, just there. Oh, what will we do?”
Sophia smoothed out the paper, which had been slightly crushed in Cecy’s hand. At first she saw nothing that might have caused Cecy such distress. Then, in letters much larger than the surrounding print, she read: SEER, OR FRAUD?? Mrs. Sophia Westlake, Extraordinary Seer, of Hanover Square, is famed for the accuracy and completeness of her Sight—or is she? It is confirmed that Mrs. Westlake was expelled from service with the War Office, having falsely accused an unnamed party of embezzlement and insisting on his punishment, despite there being no evidence to support her claims. Such an accusation can only lead
Sophia could read no further. Her vision went grey around the edges, and she clutched the paper, crushing it further. Dimly she heard Cecy crying her name, grasping her shoulders and shaking her, hard, but she felt powerless to stop her. “I should have known he would do this,” she said. Her voice sounded very faint, so she said, more loudly, “I suppose we should be happy; we must be very close, now.” She clutched at Cecy’s arms and let Cecy rock her while she stared, unseeing, into the distance.
In which there is some discussion of madness
t is a very small story; perhaps no one will see it,” Sophia said. She unfolded the paper to reveal the heading, and felt sick. “The Times. Well, of course no one we know will read that rag.” She began to laugh, frightening the tiny part of her that was still rational with how mad she sounded.
“Sophia, please don’t—” Cecy said, hugging her tightly. Sophia clutched at her friend and tried to control her hysteria. “It is merely allegation. How dare they print ‘confirmed’ when they do not dare print Lord Endicott’s name? No one who knows you will believe it on the strength of this alone.”
“You are so optimistic. It is in the paper; of course everyone will believe it. This is my fault. I should never have taunted him. I thought… but apparently whatever the War Office did to induce him to remain silent was not powerful enough. Oh, Cecy.” She wanted to weep, but no tears came. Later, perhaps, when the whispering began, and the notes uninviting her to dinner parties arrived, and her supposed friends turned their backs on her.
“This is not the end. You said it yourself. We must be close, to make him panic like this. The War Office will know he released the story, and they will wonder why he did so now, after so much time has passed, and they will—”
“Lord Endicott is not the only person who knows of it. They will believe some other person revealed the truth, possibly in exchange for money.”
“But—oh. You are right.” Cecy took her by the shoulders and shook her again, gently this time. “We have to prove Lord Endicott’s crime!”
“And I have no idea how.”
Cecy stood. “Breakfast first,” she said. “I don’t care how early it is, we need fortification. And then you will learn to track Baines.”
“I can’t—”
“It is past time for ‘can’t’, Sophy. You found the pirates not because you are an Extraordinary Seer, but because you applied your understanding to the problem. You must stop trying to Dream a way past his defenses and use your intellect instead.”
Sophia gaped at her. “Cecy, you are not only an optimist, you are a hopeless one. What makes you believe I can succeed?”
“Because I have faith in you, of course,” Cecy said. “Now, dress, and join me at the table. You will tell me what you know of the mechanisms of Dream, and I will ask stupid questions that force you to understand it better.” She shut the door behind her with a ferocity that matched her demeanor.
Sophia shut her mouth. Gaping like a startled child would not solve her problem. She rang again for Beeton and began searching her wardrobe for her favorite morning gown. If she were to be excoriated in the court
of public opinion, she intended to be comfortable doing so.
She had trouble eating; her stomach insisted it was too anxious for food. She forced down a few bites of toast and some tea that soothed her fears somewhat. “What did you mean by ‘stupid questions’?” she said to Cecy, whose appetite was unusually good.
“I meant that, as I know almost nothing of how Dream works, my questions will no doubt have obvious answers—obvious to you,” Cecy said with her mouth half-full of sausage. “But I believe you need to look at the problem from the beginning. For example: what makes Dreaming possible?”
“You ask a question with no answer. Extraordinary Shapers surmise that Dream originates in the brain rather than the heart or liver or some other organ, but no Shaper can see inside the brain to determine what about a Seer’s brain is different from anyone else’s.”
“You must at least have some ideas, though.”
“We know Dreams are not a prediction of what will be, because they can be altered or eliminated if the correct action is taken. But you already know that, since King did it to me.”
“I don’t understand how he was able to do that.”
“He meditated on what Dream I would have, then took action to ensure that Dream could not occur. Cecy—”
“I told you they would be stupid questions. Could you not have meditated to know which Dream he would See, then choose a different Dream?”
“It doesn’t work that way.” But as she said this, she wondered whether it were true or not. The question resonated with her. “King’s meditation would have… or possibly not… I don’t know, Cecy. I’ve never tried it before.”
“A pity King is dead, or you could test that theory.”
“Yes. I never thought I would regret his death in any way. But it is irrelevant. It is not another Seer I have to thwart; it is someone whose movements are unpredictable.” Sophia pushed herself back from the table. “And no one has ever done that before.”
Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2) Page 24