Renegade Magic

by Burgis, Stephanie

  “Mama—”

  “Perhaps we could continue this highly enlightening conversation later?” Angeline suggested. “After my sister is finally married? And perhaps …” Her dark gaze swept across the fascinated audience in the church pews and benches, including Squire Briggs, who looked ready to have an apoplectic fit, and Mrs. Briggs, who was listening with an expression of gleeful horror. “In private?”

  “Ha! I’ve no doubt you would prefer that.” Mrs. Carlyle sneered.

  “Yes, I would, for my sister’s sake,” said Angeline. “You may think nothing of interrupting an innocent couple’s wedding ceremony, but—”

  “What do you know of innocence?” Mrs. Carlyle shrieked.

  Even Angeline retreated. Her mouth dropped open. “How dare you say such a thing?”

  “Madam!” Papa said, more firmly than I had ever heard him speak in my life. “I must beg you to control yourself.”

  “Mama, that’s enough!” Mr. Carlyle snatched the parasol out of her hand, glaring at her. “Your behavior is outrageous. To speak in such a way of any young lady—”

  “Ha!” said Mrs. Carlyle, and scooped a letter out of her reticule. “Miss Angeline Stephenson is no lady. Miss Angeline”—she waved the letter—“is a witch!”

  Papa staggered back as if he’d been struck a blow. He had to clutch the altar to stay upright; his face had turned sickly pale. Stepmama let out a wail and collapsed in a swoon on her bench. Beside her, Charles scanned the high rafters as if searching for an escape.

  Whispers swarmed through the church, growing louder and louder. Mrs. Briggs’s face was filled with smug delight. Squire Briggs’s jaw wobbled up and down in wordless fury. Even Angeline and Mr. Carlyle looked transfixed with horror.

  It was obvious that no one else knew what to do. So it was time for me to take command of the situation.

  “That,” I said, pitching my voice to carry through the church, “is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

  “Ridiculous, is it? Ridiculous?” Mrs. Carlyle thrust the letter in my face, so close I had to blow it away from my nose. I went cross-eyed trying to read the handwriting before she snatched it away again. “I know it all! The whole sorry scheme!”

  “Someone has been telling you lies,” I said.

  “Lies? Lies?” Her face suffused with crimson until it matched her gown. “How dare you—you snip of a girl!—to cast aspersions on one of the most respectable women in all England!”

  I eyed her doubtfully. “I beg your pardon, but you don’t actually look terribly respectable just now.”

  “Ohhh!” She clenched her fist around the letter until it crumpled in her grasp. “I am not speaking of myself, you idiot child. I am speaking of the kind friend who sent me this news, Lady Fotherington herself!”

  “What?” I stepped back involuntarily. I had to force the words out around the shock in my chest. “Who did you say? Not—”

  “Yes! Lady Fotherington, the noted Society hostess! Lady Fotherington, one of the most admired leaders of London high fashion, and an intimate of Prince George himself! Even you have heard of her, I see. You can hardly cast aspersions on her honesty!”

  Oh, yes, I can, I thought. But the words stuck in my throat.

  Lady Fotherington wasn’t only a leader of fashion. Lady Fotherington was a Guardian—the Guardian who had discovered Mama’s secret experiments in witchcraft. Lady Fotherington was the Guardian who had brought about Mama’s expulsion from the Order, and had done so with malicious glee, as a final victory. More than that, she had tried her best to persuade the rest of the Order into “pacifying” Mama—a process that would have taken away all of her magical powers and damaged her mind, too.

  Three months ago Lady Fotherington had tried to make me her magical slave, and if I hadn’t accepted my own powers as a Guardian, she would have succeeded. I’d thought she’d given up her feud against our family once I became strong enough to withstand her.

  Obviously, I’d been wrong.

  “But I barely even met Lady Fotherington at Grantham Abbey.” Angeline’s voice didn’t sound like steel anymore; it sounded fragile, as if it might break at any moment. “She didn’t even arrive until the day after Frederick—Mr. Carlyle—arrived. Why would she say such things about me?”

  “About us,” Mr. Carlyle corrected her. He stepped up to her side and gave her his arm. As Angeline closed her hand around it, he turned to his mother, his jaw set. “Whatever rumors Lady Fotherington or anyone else passed on to you, Mama, they were mistaken. I am under no enchantments.”

  “What else could possibly explain your behavior? Walking all across England to this godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere? Abandoning everyone you knew? Of course you must have been bewitched!”

  Mr. Carlyle and Angeline exchanged a speaking glance. “I swear to you, Mama, I am not bewitched,” Mr. Carlyle said firmly, and I admired how well he’d sidestepped the question of what had brought him here in the first place.

  He might have forgiven Angeline for the spell she’d cast to bring her true love to her, but I couldn’t imagine his mother would be so understanding.

  She was sputtering now, almost too angry to talk. “I know about this—this dreadful family! Their mother—your future mother-in-law!”

  A whimper of horror came from the benches behind me. I recognized the voice.

  “Stepmama is perfectly respectable,” I said.

  “I am not speaking of her, but of your true mother, the disgrace! Everyone knows of her shame. Everyone knows how she ruined your father’s career—everyone knows she was a witch!”

  I looked to Papa, but he was only staring at the altar, his shoulders sagging. Of course, I might as well expect the altar itself to defend us as expect Papa to stand up to anybody, especially when it came to the question of Mama.

  So I took a deep breath and tried again. “Just because Mama was a witch doesn’t mean she taught any of us witchcraft. How could she? She died when I was born. Angeline was only five years old.”

  “I know your mother left her magic books behind,” Mrs. Carlyle said, and I sent a silent curse to Lady Fotherington for her thoroughness. “But that hardly matters. Even if the three of you were as pure as snow”—she sniffed—“as unlikely as that sounds, it would have no effect on me. My son will not be ensnared by a family that has been tainted with witchcraft! My son has all the birth and breeding that you lack. If you think I would allow him to ally himself with a family that has brought only scandal and disgrace—”

  “I shall,” said Mr. Carlyle. He was breathing quickly, but his voice was firm, and his handsome face had hardened into determination. “I am going to marry Miss Angeline Stephenson, Mama. So I would very much appreciate it if you would refrain from slandering her any further.”

  “You shall not!” Mrs. Carlyle snatched the parasol back and held it like a weapon. “I will never allow it!”

  “I will be one-and-twenty in three months,” said Mr. Carlyle. “And then neither you nor my guardian will have anything to say about the matter.”

  “No?” She let out a crack of laughter. “You haven’t spoken to your guardian about this yet, clearly.”

  He frowned. “Uncle Henry—”

  “You may come of age in three months, but under the terms of your father’s will, your uncle has the right to decide when and under what conditions to release your inheritance to you. And he is allowed to wait until you are thirty!”

  “What?” He stared at her. “No one ever told me that!”

  “It hardly mattered, when we trusted you,” Mrs. Carlyle said. “But the good son I took such pride in is gone. Bewitched! Defiled!”

  “Mama, I told you—”

  “I consulted your uncle before I came to rescue you,” said Mrs. Carlyle, “and we came to an agreement. Should you be shameless enough to enter into any clandestine betrothal with Miss Angeline Stephenson, we shall know you are unfit to be trusted with your father’s inheritance.”

  �
�Mama—”

  “You shall remain safely under my eye from now on,” she said. “And if you attempt any contact with Miss Angeline or any other member of her wretched family, your allowance will be entirely cut off. You will be penniless!”

  Mr. Carlyle’s face was pale with shock. “Mama, you cannot do this. Please, if you would only listen—”

  “I have listened enough!” Mrs. Carlyle swept her gaze across all of us. “This family is even more shocking and degraded than I had dreamed possible, and you will have nothing more to do with them. Do you understand?” She gestured to her own servants, who were clustered against the back wall of the church, looking nervous. “Jenkins! Prepare the carriage. Harris, fetch my son’s belongings from the vicarage. He won’t be going back there himself.”

  “This is absurd,” Mr. Carlyle said. “If you would only see reason …”

  “She won’t,” said Angeline. Her voice caught. “She doesn’t want to. All she wants is to take you away from me.”

  “It won’t work.” Mr. Carlyle turned to take her hands. “Listen to me, Angeline. I will be back. I’ll find a way around this.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” Angeline said. Her lips twisted. “I’m good at waiting.”

  He bent to kiss her hands. His mother’s parasol cracked sharply across his shoulder.

  “Ouch!” He turned around, glaring. “That’s enough, Mama!”

  “Indeed it is,” she said. Her cheeks were nearly purple now, but she held her head high. “You will precede me out of this church, Frederick, or your allowance will be withheld for the next six months!”

  Mr. Carlyle gritted his teeth. “As you say, Madam.” He released Angeline’s hands and stepped away. As he turned, I saw Angeline’s lips move. A faint but unmistakable flowery smell sprang up around her: the beginnings of a spell.

  Exactly what Lady Fotherington would be waiting for.

  I gritted my own teeth and focused, until the familiar electricity crackled in my ears.

  “No!” I hissed.

  Angeline’s spell was extinguished as quickly as it had begun. She fell back, grabbing Elissa’s arm for balance … then turned her glare to me.

  Later, I mouthed silently.

  She shot me a look that said she wouldn’t forget.

  I felt sick as I watched Mr. Carlyle walk down the church aisle away from us, past all the staring, whispering wedding guests. His mother’s footmen held the front doors open for him, their faces carefully expressionless. He passed through the doors ahead of his mother, then turned to look back.

  Mrs. Carlyle’s voice cracked through the air. “Now, Frederick!”

  The footmen slammed the doors in his face, leaving the church echoing behind them.

  Four

  The rest of the wedding went by in a blur. Papa read out his lines in a voice that sounded only half-full, as if it—and he—might blow away entirely in the next strong breeze. Elissa and Mr. Collingwood stumbled through their responses. Angeline looked ready to shatter into either violence or, worse yet, tears at the slightest provocation. Stepmama wept silently in her seat, while Charles dealt with all the misery around him in his usual manner—by falling snoringly sound asleep to escape it.

  The entire audience whispered throughout the ceremony, especially Mrs. Briggs, who looked to be haranguing her husband in their pew. Everyone in the village knew that ever since she’d married the squire, six months ago, she’d been trying to persuade him to dismiss Papa from his post, only because of the old scandal about Mama. I had a terrible feeling that Mrs. Carlyle might have just supplied the perfect new excuse.

  As I watched the ruination of my oldest sister’s wedding, and saw the frightened, lost look grow in Angeline’s dark eyes, my own rage expanded until I could barely see or think past it. Everything inside me wanted to erupt in a magic-destroying explosion. There were no magical spells here to combat, though, with my powers as a Guardian. No magic, only stupid, selfish Society’s prejudice and power, and neither of the women who wielded it were here to face my anger.

  I knew how to find one of them, though.

  As soon as the wedding ended, Elissa and Mr. Collingwood went straight to their traveling carriage without even waiting to attend the grand breakfast that Mrs. Watkins and the maids had laid out so carefully in the vicarage. There was no point in pretense; all the guests had already scattered to bear the delicious gossip back to their own homes. Squire and Mrs. Briggs hadn’t even bothered to give any congratulations to the bride and groom on their way out.

  At the side of the carriage, Elissa embraced Angeline as carefully as she would a delicate porcelain doll. She tried to whisper something in her ear, but Angeline pulled away and stalked back to the vicarage, leaving Elissa frowning after her.

  When I stepped forward for my own hug, Elissa said, “Take care of Angeline. Don’t let her …”

  “I won’t,” I said, and we exchanged a look of perfect accord. We both knew what our sister was capable of in a rage.

  I stood at the head of our drive waving to Elissa and Mr. Collingwood until the carriage finally disappeared around the winding curve that led away from our house and into their future. Then I picked up my skirts, turned for home, and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. If Elissa had still been here, she would have reproved me for being so unladylike, but my oldest sister was gone, and there was no one else who could stop me.

  The wedding breakfast was still laid out on the dining room table, looking lonely and unwanted. I heard Angeline’s door slam shut as I ran into the house. Stepmama’s voice rose and fell in another room, bewailing her misfortunes to Papa, whose defeated tones were nearly inaudible. Charles had disappeared. Of course. Well, I didn’t need his help this time.

  I snatched up a roll from the table, stuffed it into my mouth, and raced up the stairs to the ladder that led to my attic. The puce ruffles of my morning gown tangled in the ladder’s steps. I kicked them aside impatiently and listened to them rip with a feeling of distinct relief. At least Stepmama could never make me wear this gown again.

  I shoved a heavy case across the attic’s trapdoor, just in case. Then—safe at last—I reached into my reticule and drew out Mama’s magic mirror. It was my only inheritance from her, and the best one I could imagine.

  The round golden case glowed with heat against the palm of my hand. I heard the faint echo of voices coming from inside it. Good.

  I snapped the clasp open and dived inside.

  I landed in the Guardians’ Golden Hall, on my feet and seething. High, rounded walls surrounded me, rising to a shining arch high above. Three people stood together on the smooth open floor.

  “Why, Katherine.” It was my tutor, Mr. Gregson, small and dapper. He bowed politely, his bald spot shining in the warm, honey light. “Shouldn’t you still be celebrating with your family?”

  “I would,” I said, “except that no one’s celebrating anymore.” I turned my glare to the tall, black-haired woman who stood behind him: a perfect fashion plate in every detail, even down to the elegantly contemptuous sneer. “Lady Fotherington saw to that.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lady Fotherington arched her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “My dear, imaginative child. I have been here with Mr. Gregson and”—she nodded to the brightly clad man who stood beside her, peering down at me through his quizzing glass—“Lord Ravenscroft for the past hour or more, and, although this may surprise you, we had rather more important matters to discuss than your sister’s shameful little country wedding.”

  “There was nothing shameful about it.” I had to force the words through my gritted teeth. Even the sound of her voice was enough to clench my fists and jaw. The first time I’d met Lady Fotherington, she’d set a magic-working on me to force magical obedience, and I’d broken her nose. Once I had come into my natural powers and agreed to become a member of the Order, she had abandoned her attempts to control me with magic, and I’d promised Mr. Gregson not to hit her again.

  Now I was regretting
that promise.

  “No?” Lady Fotherington said, and her sneer spread into a smirk. “I see that your stepmother dressed you properly for the occasion, at least. One could hardly call you”—she looked pointedly up the multiple rows of puce ruffles on my gown—“less ruffled than the occasion called for?”

  Lady Fotherington’s gown, of course, had only a single, discreet row of ruffles. Even as I realized that, she nodded. “Yes, last season—or perhaps two seasons ago—that dress might have been considered fashionable enough for such a small, unimportant event. Although perhaps not when ornamented with a rip at the seam and—are those bread crumbs? Really, Katherine. At your own sister’s wedding …”

  Just one quick blow to her perfect face, the way Charles had taught me …

  Mr. Gregson coughed and stepped between us as hastily as if he’d read my mind. “What exactly did happen, Katherine? I take it not everything went as planned?”

  “It went exactly as Lady Fotherington planned,” I said, and fought to keep my voice steady. “Mr. Carlyle’s mother charged inside the church in the middle of the wedding to kidnap her son and inform all the guests that my sister was a witch who had bewitched him—exactly as her good friend Lady Fotherington had explained to her.”

  “Lydia?” Mr. Gregson frowned and turned to Lady Fotherington. “Surely there has been some mistake or misunderstanding. You could not have meant to—”

  “And was it a falsehood?” Lady Fotherington said to me, ignoring him. “Can you genuinely accuse me of anything but telling the truth to an innocent woman?”

  “She dragged him away!” I said. “She said if he contacts Angeline again, he’ll have his allowance entirely cut off. If he marries her—if he even becomes betrothed to her—he won’t receive his inheritance for another ten years!”