“Evening, Harriet,” Robert says, hardly more than a mumble. Harriet looks at him with naked admiration.
“Oh, good evening,” she says. “I am so very happy you could come.” Her eyes are still on Robert, but she shifts them to me briefly. “You look lovely tonight, Wren.”
“You are too kind,” I say, glancing over her person to find something I can compliment in turn. Her hair is frizzy, her dress is cut much too low and seems to feature entirely too much lace, but then I spot the pretty pearls around her neck. “I adore your necklace.”
She smiles brightly at me, and I’m glad I took the time to be kind. “Thank you.” She turns back to Robert. “What do you think of my dress? It’s new. Mother bought it especially for this ball. They say it’s the latest London fashion.”
I take a sip of my lemonade to hide my grin as my brother fidgets with the cuffs of his shirt.
“Ah, yes. It’s very fine,” he says after a moment. Though it doesn’t seem possible, her smile grows even wider, and I decide to finally give in and rescue my brother before the determined girl attaches herself to him for the rest of the evening.
I swallow the rest of my drink in an un-ladylike gulp and thrust my glass at him. “Robert, would you be a dear and fetch me more lemonade? I’m terribly parched.”
Any other time, he would roll his eyes at my proffered cup and tell me to get it myself, but he smiles at me like I’ve offered him a gift of gold. “Certainly, dear sister. Do excuse me, Harriet.”
She stares after him forlornly for a moment before turning to me, but as I offer no marriage potential, she moves on to a young soldier. My good deed done for the evening, I glance around for Lucy, who was asked to dance soon after we first arrived. At fifteen, she will be too young to accompany me to the London balls, but I am glad she can enjoy herself tonight.
I watch and sigh as Mrs. Quinn makes her way toward me. She is dressed in a shocking red dress with a strange ostrich feather turban. I glance at the refreshment table where Robert carries on a lively conversation with one of father’s friends. No one will come to my rescue, it seems.
“Katherine,” she says before she’s close enough to talk at a comfortable level. “I simply must have you play for us.” I watch as everyone around us glances our way. Wonderful. Now everyone heard. At least I see nothing but normal curiosity in their expressions.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say and groan inwardly. I always come up with the worst excuses.
She loops her arm through mine and speaks at the same loud level. “Nonsense. It wouldn’t be an intrusion in the least. Come, you must see my new piano.”
She points to the gleaming instrument in the next room, and my fingers itch to play it. I shouldn’t play, but I can’t resist her offer.
The crowd parts for me as I walk to the piano and sit on the bench before it. I take a moment to arrange my skirt, the satin rustling as it settles. She hands me sheets of music, but I don’t even glance at them. I know which song I will play, though part of me whispers I would be foolish to release even a small amount of arcana. But there are times when I am unable to resist the lure of power inside me. This is one of those times.
Hauntingly beautiful music plays in my head before I’ve even touched the keys. My eyelids flutter closed for a moment as I listen to notes only I can hear.
This arcana is different from the kind I used to save Robert. I’ve always thought of it as part of Mama, as it is gentle like her but also strong, like the unexpected strength of silk. Ever since Papa and I spoke of Mama’s wishes, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of her.
I touch the tips of my fingers to the keys, and then I am swept away like a petal in the current of a river. My fingers know the song, one of a series my mother used to play—her music, the songs from her land. Music is the only remnant I have left of her homeland, as my mother gave up her immortality and ability to return to that land when she married my father.
“How can you lose your immortality, Mama?” I had asked when I was old enough to understand the meaning of the word.
It was the only time I’d seen her eyes dim with loss. “I was forced to leave my spirit behind, darling.”
I’d pictured a ghost at the time, but she explained later that all the Sylvani had spirit animals. Made entirely of energy, they provided the Sylvani a never-ending source of power.
The melody is slow and dark at first, weaving threads of sadness around each heart in the room. I don’t have to look at them to know; I can feel the emotion it’s evoking—I feel it in my own heart. The room seems to disappear until all I can see is the cool ivory keys beneath my fingers.
The music, more than her stories, would remind her of her lost realm. One night, when I was only five years old, I found her sitting at our piano. With her hair loose around her shoulders, she played the same haunting melody I play now. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but not a single tear shone in them.
“I’m sorry you miss your home, Mama,” I said.
She drew me close to her side and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “This is my home, darling.”
The melancholy of the beginning has given way to a sound so angelic it breathes hope into the darkness created with the first few bars. The tempo increases, building tension, and as one, each person in the room draws a deep breath. This music tells a story, though of what, I’ve never been able to determine. Images of a pristine forest always come to my mind, at the center of which is a silvery waterfall cascading over white rocks.
Tears slide down my cheeks, but I can’t stop playing. I’m glad I’m turned away from the crowd. This always happens when I play my mother’s music.
It reaches its crescendo, and I picture white birds, as big as eagles, taking flight amongst the trees. I finish with a flourish, my cheeks warm, and hastily wipe away the tears. I turn to the crowd, and they erupt with applause, their eyes shiny and wet.
Every man save my father and brother looks at me as if I’m the famed Helen of Troy, and every female save Lucy looks at me as though I am her goddess and she my priestess. I make a quick bow and dart from the room.
I had let the arcana free again.
The pillow is cool against my warm cheek. Why did I give in to my inner desires and play my mother’s music? Now I will have to avoid everyone who was there—at least until the enchantment has worn off.
I curl into a ball around another pillow. I wasn’t consciously weaving a spell, but my music always has that effect on people. They become enamored—not truly with me—but with the feeling the arcana gives them. Only my siblings are totally immune. My father gets teary-eyed, but only because it reminds him of Mama.
I close my eyes and picture her—I rarely let myself do so since it only stirs up my grief, but tonight the music conjures her memory. I think of her voice, so bright and clear, and the way she always knew exactly what to say. She was so kind and loving—Lucy inherited that gene. And, of course, she had the power in her.
In light of what happened this evening, I’m more wary than ever of going to London. So many more people, more eyes upon me. I’ll have to be careful of letting my power influence others.
I push the pillow away and get out of bed, tugging my nightgown down until it brushes the tops of my feet. The air is cool, so I pull a wrap around my shoulders. It’s very early in the morning. Still, I know Papa will be awake. He’s hardly slept since my mother died ten years ago.
When I enter his study, the warmth from the fire envelopes me like a wool coat.
“Come sit by the fire with me, Wren,” he says without looking up from his book. I sit, and he reaches over and pats my hand. “I miss her, too.”
A wan smile touches my lips. “I know. I’m sorry for playing tonight. I hope it won’t make things more trying for you.”
“No, I was glad to hear your mother’s music. It has been far too long.” He leans over to his side table and retrieves a small leather-bound book. “Since your mother is on both our minds, now is the time to g
ive you this.”
I take the book from him, marveling at how buttery the leather is and at the beautiful silver tree tooled on the front. “Was this Mama’s?” I ask in hushed tones.
He nods. “She wanted you to have it before your coming out.”
I open the book eagerly—what if it will reveal more about her world?—but my eyebrows furrow when I see the pages. “They’re all blank.”
“It’s part of your mother’s arcana. It will prevent you from reading the whole thing at once. Only a page or two will reveal itself to you at a time.”
“How frustrating,” I say.
He smiles. “It was in your mother’s very nature to be frustrating. She was more mysterious than the stars. We are lucky she let me in on the secret to that little book, else we’d both be left staring at each other dumbly.”
“Mysterious indeed. Was this her journal?” I run my hands over the blank pages, imagining my mother’s slender fingers and feminine script.
As if she writes them before my eyes, words appear on the page. I gasp. “Papa, look.”
We watch as a letter to me forms.
My dearest Katherine,
I have asked your father to keep this journal safe until you come of age. I know you will be reluctant about finding a suitable husband, but believe me, it’s for your own protection.
Two gentlemen will present themselves to you as potential suitors. They will be two sides of the same coin, one dark, one light. Only you will be able to discern which is which, and this will be your greatest challenge. Guard your heart, my darling, for one of these men will be drawn to your power and will seek to ruin you.
There are those who know the truth of our abilities, those who will use their power and influence to have you for their own. In a city as large as London, you must be on your guard at all times.
I am so sorry I cannot be there to see you come into your own, my darling, but it is my hope that this journal will provide a semblance of comfort.
With much love and tender affection,
Mama
I read and reread the words, but I cannot make the letter any longer. Her first letter to me, and it’s about potential suitors? I know it’s wrong, but I find my ire rising as I think on my mother’s words. I have no intention of falling in love in the first place. Perhaps if I do not give a man my heart, he will be unable to hurt me—or worse, control me.
I glance over at my father, but his eyebrows are drawn low over his eyes and his mouth is tight.
“This is very worrisome,” he says. “Your mother had a gift for knowing things before they came to pass, so we must take her words seriously.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t tempt fate by going to London, Papa.”
He tilts his head, as if considering my words, and my heart beats faster in my chest. “No, that’s not the answer either. Your mother wanted you to be presented at court, so you will leave on the morrow as planned.” His eyes scan Mama’s words again. “This line here—about others who know the truth—should encourage the utmost caution.”
“Have you heard of such people before?”
“No, indeed. Your mother never told me, but then, she often kept things from me she deemed ‘upsetting.’” He shakes his head and lets out a soft laugh. He pats his rounded belly. “As if I’m of such a delicate constitution I cannot handle troublesome news.”
Not for the first time, I think of how my mother never would admit to us whether other Sylvani could be found in this world. Not all of our kind are like me, my darling, she would say. But now her journal entry had admitted as much.
I close the book. “So there could be those who know the truth about what I am, but you would still have me go to London?”
He reaches over and takes my hand. “My darling, there are wolves in sheep’s clothing everywhere we look. It’s the world we live in. It’s the darker side of human nature. Do I want to protect you from that? Of course. But I also want you to have the life you deserve—with someone who deserves and respects you—and you cannot live caged up like a canary.”
I bite the inside of my lip to keep it from quivering. I have the strongest urge to burst into tears, but I swallow them down. As often happens in the dark of night, when fear reigns over common sense, I can’t help but succumb to the belief I’ve held since I was seven years old: no suitor will ever be able to accept the truth of my power. Even at that young age, I learned that to be absolute.
THREE
THE train leaves the station with a puff of steam and a short whistle. We settle into one of the opulent first-class carriages, the lighting comfortably dim, the dining tables already set with crystal and china. Lucy sits beside me on a plush velvet sofa, with Robert across from us in a tufted leather chair. We have the railway carriage to ourselves, which comes as a pleasant surprise since I had hoped to have the chance to share Mama’s journal with my siblings.
Before I can retrieve the book from my reticule, Lucy loops her arm around mine. “I was awake all night dreaming up the perfect dress for Court.”
Her eyes dance so merrily, I have to humor her though my interest in fashion is small. “Did you? I hope you have managed to keep it looking like a wedding dress.”
She grins. “Well, it is white, of course. There is no helping that. But I took some liberties with the silhouette and fabrics.”
“That does sound lovely. Perhaps you could draw it,” I say.
She smiles as she unfolds a piece of paper. “I already did.”
I can weave enchantment with the piano, but my sister can make even a simple drawing a work of art. In perfect detail, she has created a rendering of a dress with a heart-shaped bodice, intricate lace flowers blooming across the skirt, and delicate sleeves hanging just off the shoulder.
After a surreptitious glance around to be sure we are alone, she leans over me and touches the tip of her finger to the dress. “I thought you’d like to see the whole thing.”
The dress rises from the page, flat at first like a paper doll. As I watch, it fills out, like a miniature version of the real thing. The skirt rustles softly though there is no breeze. I laugh as it makes a slow pirouette so I can see it from every angle.
“Oh, Luce,” I say, “it’s beautiful. I’ll give this to Grandmama’s dressmaker as soon as we arrive.”
Her hands are clasped against her chest. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” She touches her finger to the rotating gown and it deflates before returning to a simple drawing.
“What say you, Robert?” I ask my brother, who has paid us very little attention. Instead, his focus is on Virgil’s Aeneid.
“Lovely. You’ll be the belle of the ball,” he says without looking up from his book.
“You really should pay more attention to this, considering my entire future relies upon it,” I say with a wry smile.
“All the more reason I should not give my opinion. I would loathe myself if I were the sole reason my sister did not immediately secure the highest earning suitor in London.” He grins at me, and I shake my head.
I lean toward Lucy. “I think he’s simply jealous because his only arcana is an unnatural amount of charm. Perhaps that is why he always manages to escape his headmaster’s censure.”
“What nonsense,” Robert says, and Lucy giggles. “I cannot help the fact that the lion’s share of Mama’s abilities passed down to the females in the family any more than I can help the blue of my eyes.”
“It is true about your charm though, Rob,” Lucy says. “Everyone hangs on your every word.”
“Everyone but my silly sisters. They never heed my advice.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” I say.
“You think so, do you?” Robert asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Name a single instance where you’ve followed my advice.”
“Wren,” Lucy says, her hand on my arm. “Your reticule is glowing.”
I look at her with furrowed brows before glancing down at the bag at my feet. Belatedly, I realize Ma
ma’s journal is within. I pull it out and find that it is indeed shimmering with a soft white light.
“I didn’t want to wake you last night,” I say to my siblings, whose eyes are riveted by the small leather book in my hand. “This was Mama’s. Papa gave it to me last night when neither of us could sleep.”
Lucy reaches out and touches the cover gently, a look of wonder on her face, as if she’s touching our mother’s skin instead of a journal. “What does it say?” she asks.
“It only reveals a page at a time, so it may not say anything,” I warn as I open it. For an instant, the light shines as brightly as the sun reflecting off water and then it fades away.
My mother’s familiar script appears, and Lucy and Robert crowd closer to me to see.
My dearest Katherine,
When I realized I would never recover from the strange disease taking over my body, I knew I had to find a way to reach out to my children even when I was no longer with them. You were so young I never had the chance to explain some of my abilities. One of them is the gift of premonition, though it is by no means exact. I see so many versions of the future, it’s difficult to determine which will actually come to pass. But I feel I must warn you of the most dangerous scenario.
There is a brotherhood of both men and women who have their own power. Instead of arcana derived from the sun as we use, they wield the power of knowledge and societal influence. You may think this is nothing compared to what we can do, but always remember, we live in their world and follow their rules.
Your father and I sheltered you from so many things, and maybe we were wrong to do so, but I hope you will take my warning of this brotherhood seriously. They call themselves The Order of the Eternal Sun, and I am afraid to think of what they might do if any of them discovered who you really were. Don’t underestimate their power and influence.
There were whispers of a certain ability some of the members possessed that allowed them to steal away our energy. We have never been able to determine what it is they do with our power, but it is a dark art, one which should be avoided at all costs.
Arcana Page 3