What was I to do?
Up ahead, a clutch of young men crowded together. Fearing they might be more suitors, I darted away through a narrow doorway—and bumped into Penebrygg.
“My dear!” He fumbled for his hat, which had slipped down to meet his spectacles. “I’m afraid I walked right into you.” And then, after straightening his spectacles, “My dear Lucy, are you quite all right?”
It was quiet around us; no one was there to overhear. “No,” I said. “No, I’m not.” And I told him about the audience with the King.
Dear old Penebrygg! His brow furrowed in sympathy as I spoke.
“. . . and so there’s no hope,” I finished.
“I would not go quite so far as that, my dear. It is not a good situation, I agree. But of course there is hope. As of yet, the Council cannot agree who is to be your husband. As you can imagine, it is a contentious subject. The Earl of Wrexham, for instance, has suggested it should be his son—”
“His son!”
“You might not want to speak quite so loudly, my dear.” Penebrygg looked cautiously about. Seeing no one, he continued in a low voice, “Really, it shouldn’t surprise you: Wrexham craves power, after all, and he would like to commandeer yours for his family. Yet there are obstacles. For one, his son is not yet fifteen, which is rather young for marriage.”
“And rather young for me,” I put in.
“Yes. And it’s said he takes after his mother and is rather frail. Wrexham denies it, of course, but we all notice he has yet to bring the boy to Court.”
It sounded as if a match with Wrexham’s son was not so likely after all. My spirits rose a notch.
“And, of course,” said Penebrygg, “others on the Council wish to advance candidates of their own—sometimes even themselves.”
“So I’ve gathered.” And I had a mountain of bouquets to prove it.
“Indeed, there are so many rival candidates that the Council has been deadlocked. I expect it will be some months before any decision can be reached. And perhaps before then you will be able to put an end to the discussion altogether.”
“How can I do that when the King won’t even listen to me?”
Penebrygg pushed back his velvet cap. “He would listen to you, my dear, if you found the crucible for him.”
It was true: if I could find the crucible, the King would almost certainly grant me a hearing—and possibly much more than that. I remembered how eager he’d been to reward me the last time I’d helped him.
“But I don’t know any song-spells for finding it,” I told Penebrygg.
Indeed, the situation was a hundred times worse than that, though I didn’t tell Penebrygg so. He was a good friend, but the fewer people who knew how weak I was, the better.
“Well, that’s a pity,” Penebrygg said. “But I wouldn’t assume all is lost. Something may come to you. And you might be able to set us on the right trail without magic. Singing isn’t your only gift. You have a good head on your shoulders too. Perhaps you will see something the rest of us have missed.”
“After all this time?”
“Time is often the friend of truth,” he said. “And of course I will help you in any way I can.” He pushed his spectacles down his nose. “It might be useful, for instance, if you knew a bit more about alchemy—and about the crucible as well. Sir Isaac gave a good summary yesterday, but there’s more to learn if you care to hear it.”
As ever, there was something cheering in Penebrygg’s commonsense approach to even the most deplorable circumstances. If nothing else, he made me realize that I was accepting defeat too easily.
“All right, then,” I said. “I’d like to hear more about the crucible. And about alchemy, too.” Whatever Nat thought of the Philosopher’s Stone, it was clear Penebrygg was staking everything on it. And when it came down to it, he had far more experience than Nat had—and so, of course, did Sir Isaac. I ought to learn as much as I could from them. Perhaps it would help me to see the situation more clearly.
Penebrygg’s eyes gleamed. “It’s a fascinating subject, my dear—”
He broke off as a footman came racing up to us.
“Doctor Penebrygg!” The footman bowed, panting for breath. “The Inner Council calls you to the Crimson Chamber. They have questions about the alchemical furnace. You’re to bring the calculations on fuel.”
“Ah.” Straightening his floppy cap, Penebrygg gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid the Inner Council waits for no man, my dear, especially on a matter concerning alchemy. I must go. But shall we talk again soon?”
“Please,” I said.
After he followed the footman out, I walked on, feeling encouraged for the first time since my magic had gone. Penebrygg was right: I might not have magic, but that didn’t mean finding the crucible was impossible. I could keep my eyes and ears open—and while I was at it, I might also discover some clue to why my magic had gone.
Long odds, perhaps, but it seemed a better prospect than huddling in my room with Margery.
I could start, perhaps, by visiting the Treasury and talking to the guards. Or by going to the alchemy laboratory myself—
Slippers tapped behind me. I whirled around.
“There you are!” Sybil bounced toward me, her carnation skirts swaying like petals in a storm, her hair charmingly topsy-turvy. “You must come and visit me. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Have you?” I made myself smile, but it was difficult. A visit with Sybil wasn’t part of my plan.
“Oh yes. Your maid is quite upset with you for vanishing, you know. But never mind.” Sybil laced her arm through mine. “I’ve found you first, so I shall claim you. Come see my rooms.”
She tugged my arm, but I remembered Nat’s warning and slipped free. “I’m not sure I can. I need to”—it seemed unwise to tell her the truth—“to see the seamstresses.”
“Oh, that’s all settled. I heard your maid say that you’re to visit them this afternoon. But that’s not for a few hours, so you’ve plenty of time to stop by my rooms. They’re just around the corner.” She looked closely at my face. “My dear, are you sure you’re quite well? Perhaps I should call Margery after all.”
So she knew my maid’s name. Hardly sinister, I supposed, but it threw me. Surely they weren’t allies?
“No,” I said quickly. “No, I’m fine. I didn’t have breakfast, but—”
“No breakfast? Then you really must come to my room.” Sybil took my arm again. “I’ve loads to eat.” When I still hesitated, she teased, “If you don’t come, I’ll tell Margery you’re on the verge of collapse. And then your life won’t be your own.”
Her voice was merry and kind, but she’d boxed me in. Seeing no way out, I agreed to go with her.
With a squeal of delight, Sybil whisked me off, and I wondered what was in store for me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PROSPECTS
Sybil’s rooms, unlike mine, were locked. A slender key sufficed to open them, and she led me in. The main chamber was smaller than mine, but it was hung with equally fine tapestries—of the moon goddess Diana—and it had an equally warm fire.
It also held a great many nosegays.
Sybil caught me looking at them. “So many flowers!” She bent down to smell some violets, then glanced at me, eyes laughing. “Though not half as many as you received yourself, I hear.”
I was still taking in all her own tributes—a comforting sight, especially since many were an exact match of mine. Perhaps I had not been singled out after all. Or at least not as much as I’d feared.
“It seems you had plenty of visitors too,” I said. “And what’s more, yours were clever enough to bring vases.”
“Oh, they didn’t think of vases. My maid Joan did.” Sybil’s rich voice rang out like a bell. “Joan?”
Wizened as a dried crabapple, a head popped out from behind a small connecting door.
“Ah, there you are.” Sybil threw her arm around the tiny woman. “Come a
nd meet the Lady Chantress, if you please. Do you remember when she came to visit us, years ago? Or no—you were with Aunt Goring that summer, weren’t you?”
So Joan couldn’t prove or disprove Sybil’s story. How frustrating. I wished yet again that Norrie were here; she would have known the truth of the matter. After all, Sybil had claimed she had come on the visit too.
Which, come to think of it, was a great point in Sybil’s favor. Why make such a claim if Norrie could disprove it once she arrived? I felt myself relax a little.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Wrinkles deepening as she drew closer, Joan bobbed a curtsy.
I flushed. I’d had people curtsy to me at Court last year, after Scargrave’s defeat, but I still wasn’t used to it. I turned to Sybil, feeling clumsy and out of my element—and badly dressed as well. In bright midday light, it was all too obvious that I had outgrown my mulberry silk. Sybil, in her billowing curves of satin, looked far more elegant.
Sybil gave no sign that she noticed any difference between us. “Come and have something to eat,” she urged me. “I’ve biscuits here and currant buns, and a basket of fruit. Do you like grapes? Peaches?”
Her side table, overflowing with delicious tidbits, would have tempted even someone far less hungry than I.
“Is that a pineapple?” The fruit was so rare that I’d only tasted it once before, when I’d been King Henry’s guest last year.
“Yes.” Sybil’s cheeks turned rosy as she laughed. “King Henry sent it—I think as a way of making amends for our prolonged stay here. I haven’t a knife big enough to cut it, though. Not here. Perhaps you’d prefer an apple instead?” She held one out to me, bloodred and perfect.
It looked almost too good to be real—and despite Sybil’s warmth, I couldn’t entirely forget Nat’s warning. I needed to be on my guard.
“I’ll have this orange instead.” Still in its peel, plucked from the bowl at random, it seemed a safer bet than a hand-picked apple.
But it seemed my fears had been overblown, for Sybil accepted my choice with cheerful good grace. “Please, take whatever you like.” She handed me a plate and turned to Joan. “I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid Aunt Goring’s run out of red silk for her embroidery. She wants you to run some more down to her.”
Joan rummaged through a sewing basket. “I told her she’d need more.” With another small bob to me, she left.
I took a bun from the basket—Sybil had already eaten several, to judge from the crumbs—and added it to my plate. Seating myself in an embroidered chair, I smiled at Sybil. While I was here, I might as well try and learn as much about her as possible.
“I don’t think I’ve met your aunt,” I said.
“She has the adjoining room to mine. But she’s out now. Working on her everlasting embroidery and drumming up a match for me while she’s at it, no doubt.” For the first time, Sybil’s laugh sounded strained.
“You don’t care for the prospects she has in mind?”
“It’s not that I don’t care for them, exactly. It’s just that it’s hard to have her hawking me about like a prize cow.” Sybil deepened her voice to an auctioneer’s patter: “Finest cow in three counties, of excellent breeding and fortune, comes with her own golden bridle . . .”
She caught my eye and grinned. “Well, I suspect Aunt Goring doesn’t put it quite like that. . . . Still, it’s a humiliation to know that she’s flogging my charms to anyone who will listen.” She shook her head. “But what am I doing, complaining to you? At least I don’t have the entire Council talking about me as if I were a brood mare.”
My hands stilled on the half-peeled orange.
Sybil touched her hand to her lips. “Oh dear. That came out all wrong. And now I’ve offended you.”
“I’m not offended.” I started peeling the orange again. After all, what she’d said was no more than the truth. “I’m just . . . surprised. I didn’t know the Council’s plans for me were common knowledge.”
“I’m afraid it’s the talk of the Court.” Brightly, she added, “But I don’t believe it’s reached most of London yet. Or so Aunt Goring says. And she should know, as she’s the worst gossip of them all.”
I winced. It had not even occurred to me that the affair would be discussed in London.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Sybil said. “In the end, it’s just talk, you know.”
“Just talk?”
Sybil nodded. “We’re lucky, you know. Most girls have their husbands chosen for them. But you’re like me—you don’t have to marry if you don’t want to.”
It wasn’t as simple as that, I thought, but all I said was, “You don’t?”
“No. I’ve some money from Mama, you see, and a larger inheritance that comes to me when I turn twenty-one, according to Father’s will. I needn’t rush to marry anyone.”
So Sybil was rich. I ought to have guessed that from her beautiful clothes and her confident manner. “And yet your aunt is trying to find you a husband?”
“Oh, Aunt Goring is a born meddler. She and Uncle want me to marry well and give luster to the family name.” Sybil rolled her eyes. “It drives me mad, the way she goes on about it. But what can I do? I’m only seventeen. If I went about on my own, it would be a scandal. And when you come down to it, Aunt Goring’s bark is worse than her bite. She fancies herself a matchmaker, it’s true, but she’s not actually tried to make me marry anybody. And she doesn’t watch me closely; she’s too much of a gadabout for that. If I ever wanted to, I expect I could elope without too much trouble.”
I stopped eating my orange. “And do you? Want to elope, I mean?”
“Heavens, no! I’m not attached to anyone that way.” Sybil blushed. “The men who flock around me are mostly fortune-hunters. I’d rather have my independence.” She cast me an inquiring glance. “Though I hear it’s different with you?”
I carefully freed another section of orange. “Is that part of the gossip too?”
“There’s something between you and Nat Walbrook, isn’t there? Is he as dangerous as he looks?”
“Dangerous?”
“So still and watchful, and yet so sure when he moves. And then there are those eyes, and those shoulders.” She gave a playful shiver. “I noticed him right away—and I’m not the only one, I can assure you. But he’s not one to flirt. I learned that quite quickly. And then I heard about the two of you, and how you were in love, and everything became clear.” She sighed. “It’s so romantic.”
I shook my head. “The Council doesn’t think so.”
“Well,” said Sybil, “from their point of view, it’s an unconventional match, you have to admit.”
“Unconventional?”
“Well, he hasn’t much money, has he? And no one knows where he comes from. And he’s not exactly made a name for himself at Court. Last I heard, they nearly kicked him off the Council.”
I bristled.
Sybil saw. “I’m not speaking for myself, my dear. I’m just explaining how the Council sees it. And then, of course, there’s the question of children and magic. That matters very much to the Council too.” She looked at me questioningly. “It doesn’t matter to you?”
“I—I’ve never thought much about it.”
“No?” Sybil dimpled. “Lucky you. I’ve spent half my life listening to talk about children and magic and bloodlines. Mama went on about it endlessly.”
Did she, indeed? I leaned forward. Maybe it was unwise to expose my own ignorance, but how was I to learn anything if I didn’t take some chances? Besides, it was time I turned the tables: I wanted to be the one asking the questions, not answering them.
“Sybil, is it true what they say?” I asked. “Can a Chantress only pass on her magic if she marries a man with Chantress blood?”
Sybil shot me a puzzled look. “You don’t know? No one ever explained it to you?”
“No.” My mother’s brief letter had not mentioned Chantress marriage. Nor had my godmother said anything about it. Though come t
o think of it, Lady Helaine had taken a great interest in ancestors and bloodlines. Perhaps this was why.
I lowered my voice. “Tell me everything you can, please. I need to understand how it works.”
Sybil was happy to explain matters to me. “A great deal depends on the Chantress’s magic, you know. If she has a tremendous amount—as they used to, in the old days—then her daughters will have magic too, even if the father is of ordinary lineage. It won’t be as strong in them, however, and that’s the trouble. Eventually the blood gets so weak that the magic is lost altogether.”
“Is that what happened in your family?”
“Yes. My grandmother had magic, but only a little, and when she married out, that was the end of it. Her daughters—my mother and her sister—had none.”
“You mean the magic is gone from your family forever?”
She nodded. “I must say, it ate away at Mama. She married my father in part because he had Chantress lineage—quite a few old families do—and when I was born, she was convinced I would be a Chantress. But our family’s ability to work magic is truly gone, even if it took Mama a long time to accept that.” She took a biscuit and asked curiously, “What about you? Did your mother marry in?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if she knew. My father died before I was born.” Was it all right to tell her this? I wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t as if it revealed very much.
“Who was he?”
“His name was John.” I only knew that because of what my mother had written in her letter. “He was a music teacher, my mother said.”
Sybil’s eyes widened. “A music teacher? And your mother was being raised by Lady Helaine Audelin? That was daring.”
“She was a daring sort of woman, I think.” Once again, I wished—oh, how I wished!—that I had known her better.
“She loved him?”
“Yes.” That had come through in every brief word she’d written about him.
“That must have helped, then. And a musician, too: that’s good. They’re more likely to have Chantress blood, you know.” She looked at me appraisingly. “Maybe that’s why you’re so powerful.”
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