01 Sorcery and Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  It was exactly the opening I had been wondering how to arrange. "I do have a question," I said, "but it is not about anything you have taught me. It is a phrase I heard a little while ago, that made me curious. What are 'epicyclical elaborations of sorcery'?" This, you will remember, was the title of that book by Everard Tanistry that I noticed in Sir Hilary's library.

  Mr. Wrexton jerked his head around, and all the humor went out of his face. "Where did you hear of that... practice?" He fairly spat the last word, as if he could not think of anything awful enough to call it.

  "I don't remember," I lied. "Why? Is it so terrible?"

  "It is one of the most unethical, immoral uses of wizardry imaginable," Mr. Wrexton said. "Black magic, if you will. And there is nothing further you need know."

  I recognized the tone of voice well enough that I did not bother to argue. It seems, Kate, that even in wizardry there are things it is Not Proper to speak of before Young Ladies. Had I told Mr. Wrexton the full story of all that has happened with you and Thomas and Miranda and Sir Hilary in the past two months, I could perhaps have persuaded him that I did indeed require this extremely improper information. However, I did not feel that this business was mine to tell him of. I have no idea how deeply he is in James's confidence, and he may not know your odious Marquis at all.

  So I turned the subject to charm-bags, on which I am fast becoming a positive expert, and we discussed possible implications of adding willow bark to the herbal mixture and substituting Saint-John's-wort for the rosemary. In this unexceptionable fashion, we passed the rest of our drive.

  Mr. Wrexton's reaction makes me more anxious than ever to get hold of that book, though I cannot at present see how it is to be done. I hope it may shed some light on Miranda Tanistry Griscomb's methods, if not her motives.

  14 June

  I have just returned from my morning ride. Things are becoming more tangled than ever, and I cannot see an easy way of clearing up the mess. I am confident, however, that something will turn up; in the meantime, I suppose we must all simply forge ahead as best we can.

  I had my saddle put on Thunder this morning, as he is in need of exercise while Oliver is away. (And you know Oliver would never let me ride him, and I have been longing to do so this age.) Thunder is just as splendid a mount as I had thought; we fairly flew over the ground. I let him have his head for a little and we had a good gallop. After that he was willing to slow to a more sedate pace, so I turned him toward the little wood by the far pasture, which has always been one of my favorite riding places.

  No sooner was I well into the wood than I saw a horseman coming toward me through the trees. I reined Thunder in, wondering whether to turn away before I was seen. Then I saw that the rider was James Tarleton.

  "I am glad to see you at last," was his greeting to me as he rode up. "I have been waiting half an hour already today, and yesterday I missed you entirely."

  "Yesterday I rode by the lake," I said, blinking stupidly at him.

  He was frowning at Thunder with evident disapproval, and did not appear to notice my surprise. "That is hardly a lady's mount," he said harshly.

  "He is Oliver's," I replied, stung, "and I am perfectly capable of handling him. Would you like me to show you his paces?"

  "I saw you coming across the pasture," Mr. Tarleton said in a more normal tone. "You frightened me half out of my wits."

  "I like to gallop. Why haven't you come to call since last Thursday week?"

  His face darkened. "At first, because I didn't want to give Sir Hilary ideas. After, because—well, because it would have been dangerous."

  "Explain," I commanded, for I have been growing very tired of mysterious comments, and I was not about to put up with any more of them.

  "Sir Hilary has been watching me since Monday," he said.

  "Then he did see you!" I exclaimed.

  "What do you know of it?" James said sharply.

  I cursed my unruly tongue and told him, as briefly as I could, about the call Aunt Elizabeth and I made at Bedrick Hall. I did not mention the chocolate pot, but I did tell him that Sir Hilary had questioned me rather closely, and that I had seen James crossing the lawn as I turned away.

  "And I must tell you again, you are very bad at sneaking about," I added severely. "You should not have worn that black coat, and crossing the lawn to the pavilion was a completely chuckle-headed thing to do. If you must slink about in bushes again, ask me and I will advise you."

  "I will certainly keep your kind offer in mind," he said gravely, but I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  "I am quite serious," I said. "You have made a mull of it at least three times that I know of, and it is only your good fortune that no one but me has noticed until now."

  "You are more right than you know," he responded, and all of the amusement went out of his face. "Cecy, you told me once that your cousin, Miss Talgarth, is your dearest friend. Can you get a message to her?"

  "I write her regularly," I said in astonishment.

  He gave a sigh of relief. "Good. I hoped that was the case."

  "Why should you wish to send my cousin—" I stopped as the pieces fit themselves together in my mind like one of Aunt Charlotte's picture puzzles. "You want to send a message to Thom—to the Marquis of Schofield, and since Sir Hilary is watching you, you are afraid he will learn of it if you send it yourself," I said slowly. "But no one will think it at all odd if I write to Kate, and since they are betrothed, she can surely find an opportunity to tell the Marquis."

  "Exactly," James said. "I knew I could depend on you to see my reasoning." I felt obscurely pleased by this rather offhanded compliment. "Will you do it?" James went on.

  "Of course," I said at once. "What is the message?"

  "Ask your cousin to tell Thomas that Sir Hilary has returned and that he is watching me closely, so it is probably unsafe to send any messages directly. Also, that I believe Sir Hilary spent the early part of Wednesday evening working sorcery, probably of a moderately difficult nature. I am certain Hilary has the pot here. I will not make any attempt to recover it until I have heard from Thomas, but I do not think he has much time left. Can you repeat that?"

  I did so, adding "chocolate" before the reference to the "pot." James gave me a somewhat disgusted look, but let me finish. "What do you mean, he doesn't have much time left?" I said.

  "I suppose you had better say that there isn't much time left," Mr. Tarleton said. "I would not wish to disturb your cousin."

  "I shall tell her exactly what you said, so you had better explain it," I told him.

  "Tell her to ask Thomas," he said.

  "I've a good mind not to tell her anything at all!" I said angrily.

  "In that case, you'll be doing us all a disservice," he said. He looked me in the eyes with a very grave expression, which made me feel most peculiar. "But I don't think you'll fail us."

  "I'd better be getting back before Aunt Elizabeth begins to worry," I said in a rather confused manner.

  "Yes," he agreed with some reluctance. He started to turn his mount, then looked back at me. "Will you ride this way in the mornings sometimes? I dislike asking you, but if I need to get another message to Thomas, or if he sends a reply... It would be safer not to meet openly."

  "Of course I will," I said at once.

  "Thank you," he said, and rode quickly away.

  I rode home in an exceedingly thoughtful mood, and now I wonder what you will make of all of this. I should not, I suppose, have promised your cooperation without first obtaining your consent, but he seemed so worried, and so urgent, that I did so without thinking. I would therefore be much obliged if you would deliver Mr. Tarleton's message to the odious Marquis (for whom I am beginning to feel a little sorry, and about whom I am beginning to be more than a little worried). If you do not wish to act as a mail coach in the future, I assure you I will understand perfectly.

  I hope you can pry a little more explanation out of Thomas, by way of return for the favor of c
onveying Mr. Tarleton's message. I am seriously worried by the reference to Sir Hilary's sorcery, particularly in combination with the comment about not having much time left. It sounds as if Sir Hilary may be getting ready for something. Also, Mr. Tarleton's behavior was not of the sort that inspires confidence and reassurance; quite the reverse, in fact. I begin to feel that Sir Hilary is worse even than Miranda, and the thought that at least they do not seem to be working together any longer is small comfort.

  Your letter was waiting for me at home, and I think the conversations you reported are at least as disquieting as James's veiled hints. However, at least we now have some idea what Miranda's intentions are. I had not known it was possible to steal a wizard's magic; I will have to find a way of broaching the topic to Mr. Wrexton. (And I am more determined than ever to get hold of that book on epicyclical elaborations; judging from Mr. Wrexton's reaction, whatever it is about is quite horrid enough to be just the sort of thing Miranda would like.)

  I am still unclear as to Sir Hilary's role in all this. Perhaps he is afraid of Thomas for some reason, and does not want Thomas to be as powerful a wizard as he ought to be. This would explain why Sir Hilary aided Miranda in her attempt to steal Thomas's power, and also why Sir Hilary stole Thomas's focus. Unfortunately, it is all conjecture, and I do not like to rely too heavily on it. Also, this theory does not explain why James seems so very worried about Sir Hilary's spell casting. I wish we could persuade either Thomas or James to be more forthcoming!

  I found Lady Jersey's story about Miranda and Edward Schofield intriguing; I will have to see whether I can discover anyone here who remembers Edward (and who is willing to tell me the story!). Fortunately, Waycross is one of the Schofield estates, and it is certainly close enough to Rushton that someone will have been interested in the family's doings! And your betrothal to the Marquis is the perfect excuse to justify my questions.

  Aunt Elizabeth wishes me to ask you to remind Aunt Charlotte that she promised to send down a copy of Hannah More's latest work. I trust you will find a moment when Aunt Charlotte is very busy with something else to bring up this matter, as it is my personal opinion that there are quite enough books of an improving nature in this household already.

  Write soon, and I hope your news is better than mine has been.

  Your very worried, Cecy

  17 June 1817

  11 Berkeley Square, London

  Dear Cecy,

  My anxiety over Thomas's condition increased after I received your last letter. It seemed intolerable that I should have to wait until the Grenvilles' ball to see him again, so I sent a footman around with a note inviting him to tea that afternoon. The footman returned with Thomas's acceptance and I settled in to endure the hours until I should be able to convey James's message to him.

  Teatime arrived, but Thomas did not. Aunt Charlotte poured out for Georgy and me. The butler arrived to announce a visitor. Confident it was Thomas, I put down my cup and saucer so I could turn to greet him without spilling anything.

  "Mr. Strangle, Madame," said the butler, and withdrew his bulk to reveal Mr. Strangle in the hall behind him, looking like a garden rake with poor posture.

  I concealed my disappointment as best I could, while Aunt Charlotte made Mr. Strangle welcome. By the time Mr. Strangle had concluded an ad hoc oration on the impiety of the lower classes, all the macaroons were gone and I had resigned myself to Thomas's absence. Since he did not even trouble to send a note excusing himself, I could not but believe that the engagement had slipped his mind. An alternative explanation presented itself to me, but I refused to entertain it, even for a moment.

  As Aunt Charlotte was sending down to the kitchen for more macaroons, Mr. Strangle leaned his shoulder against mine to whisper in a very conspiratorial fashion. "The truth is," he hissed, "I came here on a quest. I am in search of Frederick Hollydean."

  "He isn't here," I said.

  "But do you not know his whereabouts?" asked Mr. Strangle.

  "No, I don't," I replied, "and I fail to see why you should think for one moment that I would."

  "How cold you are," Mr. Strangle replied, "to a lad who was your childhood playmate. And yet I would have judged you a very passionate young lady. Women with wide mouths often are, I've discovered."

  I felt a chill run down my spine. I am not sure which alarmed me more, his words, his expression, or his voice, but I felt shocked at his behavior, which is rather strange, when you think of it. There are so many things a properly brought up young lady is expected to be shocked at, it is very odd that this is the first thing that genuinely did shock me. In retrospect, I wish very much that I'd had the presence of mind to box his ears, but all I did was gape at him. Something in my manner alerted Aunt Charlotte, however, for she hovered close throughout the remainder of Mr. Strangle's visit, ready to pounce upon the least vulgarity. He did not stay much longer—nor did I wish him to.

  We were engaged for a musical evening at Countess Lieven's, where Georgy was prevailed upon to sing her Italian songs. She got off all the lines in the right order, which was a great relief. I was able to concentrate on the accompaniment fairly well, but once Georgy's songs were over I found myself unable to stop thinking of Thomas, and James's message.

  By the time we returned to Berkeley Square it was after midnight. My maid had waited up for me, but I did not let her help me to change out of my gown. Instead, I made her accompany me as I went back down the stairs and ordered the carriage to be brought round again. I was almost surprised when I was obeyed. The servants were certainly startled, but they did not refuse. I was able to sweep out unhindered, merely by saying I had just received news of Oliver.

  I was at the doorstep of Schofield House before I realized the enormity of what I had done. The butler, understandably, refused us entry. I explained who I was and demanded to know if the Marquis was in.

  "I shall go and see," the butler told us. As he moved off down the hall, I ordered the maid to stay where she was and followed him down the hall and into a dimly lit room, where the butler announced calmly that a young person had called.

  "Oh, really, Kimball," said Thomas, "are you out of your senses?" Then he caught sight of me and said, "Oh, of course. Much becomes clear to me. Well, as long as you're here, Kimball, make yourself useful and dispose of that."

  Thomas was seated at a card table set in the center of the room. Across from him sat another gentleman, slumped forward in his chair with his head pillowed on his folded arms. His face was turned away from me, but I could hear his gentle snoring. Thomas indicated the sleeping gentleman with a careless gesture and Kimball stepped forward obediently to lever the man up out of the chair. As he left the room, Thomas added, "More claret, if you please, Kimball."

  I watched Kimball depart with his burden and realized only as the sleeper's heels dragged across the threshold that Thomas's guest was Frederick Hollydean.

  "You'll forgive me if I don't rise, I trust," said Thomas. "Be a good girl and close the door, will you? You can have the horrible Hollydean's chair if you like. Make yourself comfortable."

  I stared at Thomas but to my relief he did not seem much altered since the last time I had seen him. He looked just as weary, not much paler. Perhaps the clearest sign of change was in his eyes, which were too bright and slightly hollow. I held his gaze and said, "I have a message for you from James Tarleton."

  He paused in the act of emptying the claret decanter into his glass. "What is the message?"

  "Sir Hilary has returned," I began. "He is watching James Tarleton closely, so it is probably unsafe to send any messages directly. Also he believes that Sir Hilary spent the early part of last Wednesday evening working sorcery, probably of a moderately difficult nature. He is certain Sir Hilary has the chocolate pot at Bedrick Hall. And I can tell you he does," I added, "for Cecy has seen it there."

  Thomas began to speak, but I forestalled him. "He will not make any attempt to recover it until he has heard from you, but he does not think you have
much time left. And he thought that a week ago, nearly. So that is why I am here. In case you meant to ask," I finished.

  "I see," said Thomas. He put down the empty claret decanter and picked up his glass. As he moved, I saw his wrist was stained red. I exclaimed and took an involuntary step forward. He regarded me with surprise for a moment, then glanced at his cuff with mild interest. "It's only claret, my dear. The horrible Hollydean has a head like teak. Under normal circumstances I might have been able to match him drink for drink, but I don't have time to trifle with such things at the moment. So I put much of my share of the claret down my sleeve. It's an old trick, but a good one. And it served my purpose. Sit down."

  I took Frederick Hollydean's chair. Between us on the table were two glasses, the empty decanter, a pack of cards, and a whist scorecard. The only light in the room came from the candles on the side table near the door and the fire in the grate. For a long moment, the fire was the only sound.

  "Thomas," I said finally, "do tell me what is wrong with you."

  Thomas took a sip of claret and put the glass down. It made a ring on the tabletop. He moved the glass and made another, then drew a fingertip across to connect the two. Idly, he went on making patterns with the wine stains all the time he spoke, as if he were reluctant to meet my eyes.

  "I told you about the chocolate pot," he said. "Sir Hilary was most unhappy when I left his tutelage. I didn't realize it, but his effort to prevent me from employing my own magic lingered on in the chocolate pot, even when I was expert at wizardry. On my return to England, it served him as a link to me. And when James surrendered the chocolate pot to him, it was only a matter of time until Sir Hilary discovered how useful such a link could be."

  "James gave him the chocolate pot?" I asked. From your description of how suspicious James Tarleton is of everyone, including you, I found this hard to credit.

  "He thought he was giving it to me," Thomas answered. "Dear old James." He took a sip of claret and regarded me with his brilliant, hooded gaze. "What a diplomat—I recall the winter after Salamanca. We were with Wellington in Frenada. James was one of his aides-de-camp, and found a way for us to hunt the Duke's pack of hounds. It was the one source of amusement all that dreadful winter—Frenada was quite the dirtiest village I ever saw on that whole campaign. Anyway, we hunted the foxes to extinction and had to start in on the neighborhood wolves. When the Duke learned of it, we were nearly extinct, I can tell you. But trust James to find a way to turn old Hooky up sweet. He had the Duke off to Cadiz and the lovely ladies there in a trice, and the whole staff along with him. Well, almost the whole staff. I was ordered to remain behind in Frenada, but that was small punishment in light of the crime."