01 Sorcery and Cecelia

by Patricia C. Wrede

  He broke off and eyed me fiercely. "You're not drinking your claret."

  "It's Frederick Hollydean's claret," I said.

  "Well, don't you like it? Or do you only drink tea and ratafia?"

  "I've never tasted anything stronger than ratafia," I confessed.

  "What? You mean to tell me that your cod's head of a cousin never even gave you a taste of your uncle's brandy?" I shook my head.

  "Well, then, what are you waiting for? I'd give you some from my glass, but it's nearly gone. Drinking from Hollydean's won't hurt you."

  It seemed the only way to get him to stop carping at me. After the first sip flared and faded, I took another.

  "Well?"

  "It's not as nasty as ratafia," I admitted. "But I hardly think it can be very good claret."

  Thomas gaped in amazement. "The devil you say, girl—how could you tell that from your first two sips? You're roasting me."

  "I don't think you would serve the best claret to Frederick Hollydean," I pointed out. "Particularly if you planned to pour the greater share of it down your sleeve."

  "Oh," said Thomas. "I begin to see how you find yourself in scrapes like taking chocolate with Miranda. Your trouble, my girl, is that silly trick you have of nodding and looking intelligent while you produce the most amazing pieces of information. How the devil am I to guess what you know and what you don't know?"

  "You might try explaining things to me," I suggested. "For one thing, what did you hope to accomplish by pretending to be in love with Dorothea?"

  "I hoped to keep Miranda to a program of events I was already familiar with. I knew what to expect from her while she thought Dorothea had some influence over me. Miranda requires me to be close at hand, you see. At any point up to actual matrimony, I would have been safe enough. I didn't expect her to be quite so ruthless about terminating our engagement. According to Frederick Hollydean, she has taken a really amazing dislike to you, Kate." Thomas sighed and drained his glass. "Where can Kimball be with the other decanter?"

  He rose and crossed the room to ring for Kimball. Watching Thomas move, I found it difficult to believe he was the same man who had waltzed with me at Almack's. He walked like an old, old man. The claret might account for some of the hesitation in his step, but I was sure his unnatural fatigue played a part as well.

  "Who is doing this to you?" I asked. "Sir Hilary or Miranda?"

  "For all her bad intentions, Miranda hasn't harmed me yet," Thomas replied. From the bellpull he moved to his writing desk where he rummaged industriously. After a brief search, he returned to the table with a ring, which he handed to me as he took his place. I examined it closely. It was a narrow band of dull metal, marked inside and out with curious little glyphs.

  "Does it fit?" Thomas asked.

  I put the ring on my left index finger. Thomas took my hand and examined the effect. "Good," he said. "Keep it. And mind you wear it. If Miranda tries to turn you into a goat, I should like to be able to find you in short order. The horrible Hollydean says she finds you perfectly mystifying. On the one hand, it's obvious you are merely a social nuisance. But on the other, how is it that you were able to find the door to Sir Hilary's garden without help? Miranda's taken the cork-brained notion into her head that you are working with him."

  "Absurd," I said hastily. "How did I find the door?"

  Thomas smiled, for once without a trace of derision. "It might be interesting to conduct a few tests when this is all over. I expect you must have some degree of natural aptitude in order to see the door with an utterly untrained eye. After all, I worked on the equations."

  "Yes, so you told me," I said.

  Kimball entered the library without the formality of knocking. "Your pardon, my lord," he said, "but there is a lady here to see you."

  "Come now, Kimball," said Thomas, "this is most unlike you."

  "So this is where I find you," said Aunt Charlotte in a voice of iced vitriol, "playing cards and drinking claret with this—nobleman." She stepped around Kimball and seized me by the tip of my left ear. "You sadden me, Katherine."

  I winced and rose in obedience to her grip on my ear. Thomas got to his feet and began an explanation as bonelessly smooth as it was utterly false.

  "As for you," Aunt Charlotte said, fixing him with a look so filled with scorn that even Thomas's glib words slowed, "there is only one thing that could spare you from disgrace."

  "Oh, Aunt Charlotte," I said, "rip up at me all you please, only not here. He had nothing to do with it, I promise you."

  "Yes, very likely," she agreed with a savage tug at my ear to demonstrate her skepticism. "I feel quite certain he has nothing to do with 'news of Oliver.'"

  "Oh, yes," I faltered, "news of Oliver."

  For a moment I dared to hope that my calm voice might produce some plausible lie without interference from my brain, but the moment passed and I felt myself surrender hope. Silently, I awaited Aunt Charlotte's wrath.

  "Yes, Madame," said Thomas in a tone of bland interest, "what precisely was it that you wished to know about young Oliver?"

  Aunt Charlotte gave my ear a savage twist but in perfect fairness to her I think it was done in astonishment, not anger. "His whereabouts," cried Aunt Charlotte. "I wish to know where the boy has gone! He was in my keeping, sir!"

  "Perhaps you would care to see a letter written to me by one of the friends with whom he is staying?" replied Thomas. "A very well respected gentleman, highly thought of by Wellington himself."

  Aunt Charlotte said nothing, but Thomas returned to his writing desk and conducted another brief rummage, which produced a single sheet of paper. Aunt Charlotte accepted it from him without releasing her grip on my ear in the slightest. For a moment or two the fire made the only sound in the room, then Aunt Charlotte sniffed disdainfully and handed the letter back to Thomas.

  "And just who is this Michael person?" she inquired. "He has neglected to furnish the direction of his letter. This says no more than those vague scrawls of Oliver's to his father— that he arrived safely and seems to be well looked after."

  "Well, Aunt—," I began.

  Thomas cut in before I could begin the vague protest I meant to utter. "You wished to know his whereabouts, Miss Rushton. He is staying in the country with this gentleman. If this news does not allay your anxiety, I apologize, but it is all the news of Oliver I possess."

  "And for this news," said Aunt Charlotte with a twist of my ear that I'm sure was done deliberately, "you have risked utter social ruin. I hope you are perfectly satisfied with yourself, Katherine."

  "Miss Rushton," said Thomas very softly, "I see no need whatever to indulge in idle speculation of this kind. Perhaps I am more than usually vain, but I do not think the Ton will count Kate's marriage to me as social ruin. If you wish, I am prepared to procure a special license and marry her at once. The Archbishop was a great friend of my Father's, and I fancy he would be able to hasten the matter along at whatever pace you wish."

  "Nonsense," sniffed Aunt Charlotte. "It is no intention of mine to allow a breath of this encounter to come to the knowledge of anyone outside this room. As far as I am concerned, the coachman misunderstood my orders and left without me. We shall drive back together, of course."

  "I think that's perfectly clear, don't you, Kimball?" said Thomas.

  "Indeed, my lord," said Kimball.

  "Good," said Thomas. "By the way, Kimball, where's my claret?"

  "We shall say good evening, then," said Aunt Charlotte, and we took our leave of Thomas. He resumed his place at the card table and began to fold the letter from Michael into a cocked hat as Aunt Charlotte tugged me out into the hall.

  Aunt Charlotte was perfectly silent all the way home. The maid yawned and I spent the drive rubbing my ear and wondering about Miranda's plan for Thomas, and Sir Hilary's method of harming Thomas even from a distance. The trouble with talking to Thomas is that even when he is in a perfectly forthcoming mood, I seldom have the opportunity to cross-question him.
For example, I now wonder very much about his order to Kimball concerning Frederick Hollydean's disposal. Dare Thomas release the horrible Hollydean if he is in Miranda's employ? Dare he lock him up? After all, however horrid he is, people will be bound to inquire if he simply disappears. And what about Mr. Strangle? If Frederick is working with Miranda, might I not assume that Mr. Strangle is, too?

  And if Aunt Charlotte had insisted, could Thomas really have persuaded the Archbishop to grant him a special license?

  Your, Kate

  P.S. And if Aunt Charlotte is determined to hush up my night's outing, how will she be able to punish me suitably? She can scarcely keep me confined to my room for a crime I am not supposed to have committed. And by this time, I know my collect backward and forward.

  18 June 1817

  Rushton Manor, Essex

  Dearest Kate,

  I have finally got hold of that Epicyclical Elaborations of Sorcery book of Sir Hilary's, and I must confess that it is even worse than I had suspected. I do not blame Mr. Wrexton in the least for not wishing to discuss it with me. I was strongly tempted not to tell you anything about it, but that is exactly the sort of trick James or Thomas would play, and I refuse to stoop to such a level. Also, I think it wise for you to have some idea of what Miranda is up to.

  After my failure with Mr. Wrexton last week, I was more determined than ever to find out about epicyclical elaborations. Since it was clearly inadvisable for me to return to Sir Hilary's library, I cast about for a way to have the book brought to me (or at least, brought somewhere easier for me to get it). I hit upon a method almost at once. (I cannot think why it did not occur to me sooner. It is probably all this conversation with the all-too-straightforward Mr. Tarleton.)

  I went to see Papa. He had, as usual, a dreadfully long list of books he wishes to examine for his latest paper (Aunt Charlotte will probably be receiving another request in the near future). I was able to remind him that Sir Hilary had offered him the use of the Bedrick Hall library, and that, as Sir Hilary was now in residence once more, Papa could perfectly well send someone over to borrow the books. (I do not know why Papa will not do this when Sir Hilary is absent; it is all handled by the servants, after all, and I doubt that Sir Hilary ever knows anything about it.)

  I am sure you can guess the rest. I offered to give Papa's list to one of the grooms, and before I did so I added the Tanistry book to the bottom. Then I sent Jenkins off to Bedrick Hall quite early in the morning (because I thought it likely that Sir Hilary would be out shooting then, and because Mrs. Porter has a fondness for Jenkins). I haunted the hallway until Jenkins returned, collected the books from him, and took them in to Papa. It all worked quite perfectly, Kate; the Tanistry book was the second volume, and I was able to abstract it without any difficulty whatever.

  I spent the remainder of the morning developing a most convincing sick headache, so that I was able to spend the afternoon and much of the evening reading Tanistry's Epicyclical Elaborations of Sorcery. And I must tell you, Kate, that it is quite the most appalling book I have ever read. It is all about how to steal another person's magical ability and use it oneself, and the very best ways appear to involve binding the person to one in some way (such as marrying him or being his tutor) and then, well, sucking all the magic out of him. This quite frequently kills the unfortunate person whose magic is being stolen, and the author actually appears to approve of it!

  There is a whole chapter on how to pick out the best person to steal magic from (magical ability apparently runs in families, and the author recommends choosing someone who is adult but relatively young, at the height of his power, and preferably untrained) and another on how to get the person one has chosen into the most convenient position for having his magic stolen. If Miranda is related to this Everard, she comes from a truly dreadful family, and I am not at all certain Thomas was right when he told you she did not intend to poison him with that chocolate. At least, that may not have been the main thing the chocolate was supposed to do, but I would not be in the least surprised to discover that he would have died all the same. And he referred to it as "uncomfortable"!

  I have managed to get about halfway through the book, and I am strongly tempted to burn it instead of returning it to Sir Hilary. I continue on in hopes of discovering whether there is anything that can interfere with this insidious process. For it seems obvious from reading the book (and from your rather elliptical conversations with Thomas) that both Miranda and Sir Hilary are trying to get hold of Thomas's magic. (I must say, I would never have thought it of Sir Hilary, but why else would he own such a dreadful book?) Their success would, I am sure, be quite unfortunate for Thomas.

  I am inclined to think that Miranda is the more pressing threat, for the distance between Rushton and London is far too great for Sir Hilary to have any success with the epicyclical spells. (And I must add that it is entirely possible that Miranda is related to the author, for he mentions a daughter named Miranda. Miranda Tanistry Griscomb is far too young to be the same Miranda [she would have to be about seventy!], but perhaps she was named for an aunt.)

  I shall continue to study the dreadful Tanistry book, and if I find any way of interfering with the spells I will add it to this letter. In the meantime, I must give you the rest of the Rushton news.

  Mrs. Everslee paid us a morning call yesterday (before I retired with my "sick headache"). Apparently Sir Hilary does indeed intend to have a party to celebrate his elevation to the Royal College. (It is not clear to me whether this has been his intention all along, or whether Mrs. Everslee managed to bring him to a sense of his obligations.) Mrs. Everslee is extremely pleased by this; her expectation was marred only by the possibility that Aunt Charlotte might bring Georgina back from Town prematurely (that is, in time to attend). Upon being assured by Aunt Elizabeth and myself that this was unlikely, she expressed her regret that you and Georgy would miss such a glittering affair, and returned home in perfect happiness to flutter over Patience's preparations.

  While I am on the subject, Kate, do you suppose you could find me a length of taffeta or organdy that I could have made up into something stunning for Sir Hilary's party? I could, I suppose, wear my pomona green crape again, but I wore that to Lady Tarleton's ball already. It is not that I have a desire to shine down Patience Everslee (and, indeed, she is an amiable girl and deserves a more pleasant mother), but I really do not think Mrs. Everslee should have it all her own way. In the absence of you and Georgy, it will be up to me to represent the family properly. I suppose it is possible that Sir Hilary will not send us a card, but it seems unlikely. It would be much too obvious a slight, for no reason that anyone here would know, and Sir Hilary is not foolish enough to make himself (and us) a nine days' wonder in the County.

  20 June

  Your letter arrived yesterday, and I was shocked and appalled by how thoroughly I had been misled. For from what you said (or rather, what Thomas said), it seemed clear that he believes it is not Miranda but Sir Hilary who is responsible for his weariness, and that Sir Hilary has somehow been using the chocolate pot to achieve his most reprehensible ends. As soon as I reached this conclusion, I brought out your letters and reread them most carefully, paying special attention to everything your odious Marquis has told you about his wretched chocolate pot. And, of course, as soon as I did so, I realized that it must be the "whiff of Sir Hilary's magic" in the chocolate pot that is allowing Sir Hilary to do whatever he is doing.

  I was quite sure of this in my own mind (and, indeed, I felt rather foolish for not seeing it before), but upon consideration I decided that it would be best to get some confirmation of my fears. I thought of applying to James, but quickly rejected that idea. I doubt very much that I could get James to reveal anything regarding Thomas; he is so irritatingly discreet. I decided, therefore, to ask Mr. Wrexton, instead. Fortunately, he has got into the habit of calling in the afternoon to take me for my magic lessons.

  It took me a little time to work around to the subject i
n a way that would not arouse his suspicions, but I managed it at last. I recalled one of those old tales Papa is so fond of, the one about the twin sorcerers who used the same emerald as their focus, and I told him the story; then I asked, as if it were mere idle curiosity, why on earth they would wish to do such a thing. "For it seems to me that it would be most inconvenient, always having to go and get the thing from someone else when one wanted to do a spell," I said.

  Mr. Wrexton smiled. "It would indeed be inconvenient, but there are compensations. If two people mix their magic in a single focus, each can draw on the other's power in the same proportion it was used in making the focus. I don't advise it. One must trust the other person absolutely, and if the trust is misplaced... And even if both parties mean well, the trust may be accidentally abused."

  "Abused?" I said. "What do you mean?"

  A shadow crossed his face. "It can kill a man, to have too much of his magic drawn into a joint focus by someone else."

  "I thought that focuses were harmless!" I said. I was beginning to be really frightened, but I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  "You are quite correct, in the normal course of things," Mr. Wrexton said, smiling at me reassuringly. I believe he thought that I was worried about creating a focus of my own, and whether it might be used against me. I hope I am not so poor-spirited, but I did not wish to correct his misapprehension and cause him to stop his explanation. "When a wizard uses a single focus, his magic is used and returns to him, and no harm is done. When a joint is used, however, the power leaves both of those who made it, but it returns to only one, the spell caster. By drawing on his power without replenishing it, a joint focus weakens the magician who is not using the focus. If too much is done too quickly, the nonusing magician dies."