Amy glared at her sister, but Bea was too absorbed by that damned cat to notice. Bea’s stroking was having its effect. Grimalkin had ceased to meow and struggle to escape. The cat had relaxed, beginning to trust Bea. Stupid creature.
“So what do you suggest we do?” Amy asked sullenly.
“Keep watch over Sir Patrick and this lady he has brought back from France, but make no attempt to approach her until we find positive proof of her identity.”
“Of course, I had already thought of that myself,” Amy replied loftily. “And I will consult my water oracle, see what I can learn of what the future holds.”
The thought lifted Amy’s spirits and she bustled over to the chest to fetch her copper bowl and candles, even though it did bring her in closer proximity to the cat, which caused a fit of sneezing.
Bea cuddled the creature close to her. “You and your hydromancy. If you want to predict the future, everyone knows that reading entrails works much better.”
“Ugh. But it is so bloody and messy.”
“Yes, but unlike you, my dear sister, I always clean up after myself.” Bea smiled and stroked the little cat’s throat.
“Be a love, Amy, and lend me your knife.”
Chapter Nine
MEG TOSSED AND TURNED, KICKING THE COVERLET ASIDE. Even though the four-poster bed had two thick mattresses supported on a lattice of tied leather strips, even though her pillow was stuffed with down, she could find no ease from her dream.
Meg raced through the narrow streets, the landscape of her nightmare hauntingly familiar this time. She knew why she was here.
The fire had not yet been lit. The two figures were just being dragged to the stakes. She could see the old woman, her withered features suffused with hatred as she spewed out her rage against the king.
“Damn ye to hell, James of Scotland. May ye one day also perish in fire. My curse upon the House of Stuart!”
The wails of the young girl could scarce be heard above the old woman’s fury. As the pair was shackled to the stakes, Meg struggled to reach the girl, but her feet felt weighted down as though she was the one in chains.
Someone else also fought to save the girl. A lanky boy battled with the guards that surrounded the pyre. It took two full-grown men to wrestle him to ground.
“Robbie!” the girl cried as another guard lit the pile of faggots heaped around her feet. Meg staggered forward, realizing in despair that she was again too late.
The girl was lost in a haze of smoke and crackling flames. Meg could hear harsh racking sobs, but the sounds did not emanate from the girl.
It was the boy …
Meg jerked awake, her cheeks wet. For a moment she thought she was soaked in sweat, a consequence of her harrowing nightmare. But as she brought her hands to her face, she realized the moisture came from her eyes. She had been crying in her sleep and small wonder. Even awake, she could still hear that boy’s harrowing cries.
Meg rubbed her hands down her face to wipe away her tears and the last vestiges of the dream, the same one she had been having ever since she had arrived in London three nights ago. The stakes, the fire, the venomous old woman, the terrified young girl, and the boy who fought to save her.
“Robbie,” Meg murmured as she sat up, leaning back against the pillows. Just saying his name filled her with an inexplicable sorrow and confusion.
During her youth, she had experienced vivid dreams about people she knew, dreams that seemed to warn her of future events, some she had been able to prevent. But why should she keep having these nightmares about complete strangers, a past that she had never witnessed and was powerless to change? It made no sense.
“But dreams often don’t.” Meg recalled the echoes of her own voice as she had comforted an old soldier who had ventured to Faire Isle seeking relief from the sleeplessness and nightmares that plagued him.
“Dreams are usually the result of an unquiet mind or some great stress. Find peace during your waking hours and the dreams will fade,” Meg had told the old man, giving him a draught that would aid with his sleep.
Meg frowned at the recollection of her simple advice, so easy to give, so difficult to apply to oneself. She doubted she could brew a potion strong enough to make her nightmare vanish, nor did she expect to find peace anytime soon, certainly not today.
Sir Patrick had finally been able to arrange for her meeting with the king. The mere thought of it was enough to tie a knot in Meg’s stomach. She tried to put it out of her mind as she rose from the bed, noting the empty pillow beside her.
Although it was barely light outside, her bedfellow was already absent, but Meg had ceased to be surprised by that. Sir Patrick Graham’s house was a comfortable, but modest one. She and Seraphine had been obliged to share a bedchamber.
It did not matter, because each morning, Seraphine had arisen early and been off upon her own errands. Meg often forgot that her good friend was also the comtesse. As such, she had once traveled to London as part of the French ambassador’s train with her reluctant husband, Gerard, in tow. Seraphine was not without acquaintances among the English nobility and she intended to use those connections to find another residence.
Madame la Comtesse did not like being lodged under Sir Patrick’s roof. She did not trust the man and she was determined that she and Meg move to someplace where they could be more comfortable and at ease.
Meg would not find any comfort until she could return to Faire Isle, but she did nothing to discourage Seraphine. Meg did not care to be so beholden to Sir Patrick either. Although the man continued to show her every kindness and courtesy, she had seen little of him these past three days.
Claimed by his duties at Whitehall and his efforts to arrange her meeting with the king, Sir Patrick had been absent as much as Seraphine, both of them leaving Meg on her own far too much, to worry about the possible resurrection of the Silver Rose coven, to fear that it might somehow be connected to her mother.
She would have welcomed any diversion, even Blackwood’s company, despite how provoking and teasing he could be. But she had not seen him since the evening they had arrived in London. He had disembarked from the barge, melted into the crowd upon the landing, and just disappeared. He had not even bothered to say good-bye, although she had no idea why that should trouble her.
She had little expectation of ever seeing Blackwood again now that he had returned to London. She was sure he must be preoccupied with dicing, drinking, attending cockfights, however such a man passed his time. She could not imagine him devoting himself to the care of the sick, and given what she knew of his medical abilities, that was likely just as well.
She would not have given Blackwood another thought except for the tension and tedium of these past days. She was not accustomed to such idleness, to being so restricted. Both Seraphine and Sir Patrick felt it wiser and safer for her to remain quietly at his house, awaiting her audience with the king. Meg had agreed—for the present. If she hoped to uncover the source of this mysterious threat against His Majesty, she needed to begin by speaking with James Stuart. But after that Meg also had connections in London …
She donned her dressing gown and drifted over to the window that afforded a pleasant vista of Sir Patrick’s garden, the tidy beds arranged in an orderly and controlled fashion. But it was a foggy morning and the view was obscured by the mist.
Meg saw someone stirring near the apple tree and thought it must be Hubert Chalmers, Sir Patrick’s gardener. A pleasant man of middle age whose paunch had begun to make kneeling difficult, he had welcomed Meg’s help with the pruning and weeding, aid that Meg had been eager to offer. She had never been fond of needlework and was far too distracted to focus on a book. But working in the garden, burying her fingers deep in the rich soil, was an activity both familiar and comforting to her. It had helped ease this time of anxious waiting and she was grateful to Mr. Chalmers for affording her the opportunity.
She lifted her hand to rap on the glass to gain his attention and wave a gre
eting. But she froze, her knuckles poised in midair.
It was not Chalmers, but a woman, her slender form concealed beneath a long gray cloak, her hood pulled forward to conceal her features. It could not be Seraphine because the woman was far too short. One of Sir Patrick’s serving maids perhaps?
No, none of them required the use of a cane and this woman relied heavily on hers, employing it to ease her way to the edge of the garden path.
Meg thought she saw the woman drop something, but perhaps she was mistaken. Instead of bending to retrieve anything, the woman paused and tipped up her head to peer toward the house. Meg’s hand dropped back to her side, her heartbeat quickening. She could make out nothing of the stranger’s features and yet she had a sense that the woman was staring straight up at her.
Meg fought against the urge to shrink away from the window. The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled and she felt a chill course through her unlike anything she had known. Not since the last time she had stood trembling before Cassandra Lascelles.
“Maman?” Meg whispered.
She jumped and spun away from the window when her bedchamber door opened and Seraphine sailed in, brisk and full of purpose.
“You are awake. Good. Because there is much to be done and little time—” Seraphine broke off, studying Meg’s face. Meg could only imagine how pale she must appear.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I—I—” Meg turned back to the window to gesture toward the woman in the garden. But there was no one there. She had simply vanished if she had even been there at all. Perhaps James Stuart was not the only one seeing ghosts from his past.
“I thought—”
What? That she had seen her mother return from the dead?
“Nothing,” Meg mumbled, feeling foolish over the way she had allowed her imagination to leap out of control.
Ordinarily Seraphine would not have been satisfied by such a vague answer. She would have pressed Meg until she had the truth, but Seraphine seemed distracted herself. She had a retinue of maidservants trailing in her wake.
Three young women labored under a pile of parcels, steaming water buckets, and a tray of food. They were followed by a footman toting a hip bath.
“What is all this?” Meg asked.
“Your armor. You are not meeting the king unprepared.” Like a general supervising her troops, Seraphine ordered the setting up of the bath and then dismissed the footman. While two of the maids filled the tub with hot water, the other one piled the parcels upon the bed. Meg watched all these preparations with mounting trepidation even though she attempted to jest.
“Armor? Do you mean you have purchased me a padded vest to wear beneath my gown? Don’t you think I will look rather foolish, all puffed up like pigeon?”
“My dear Meg, by the time I have finished with you, you will not look like any sort of feathered creature unless it be a bird of paradise.” Seraphine stripped the wrapping away from the largest parcel, triumphantly displaying a blue gown of richest velvet.
“Oh, ’Phine, what have you done? I thought we agreed any finery was unnecessary.”
“You may have agreed. I never did. Sir Patrick may smuggle you up the back stairs, but when you stand before the king, you will be resplendent, commanding the respect owed to the Lady of Faire Isle. Proud, your head held high like the grandest queen in Christendom.”
“It will take more than a fine gown to effect such a transformation.” Meg fingered the soft folds of the gown. It had been many years since she had owned anything so fine, not since those long-ago days when she had lived with her father in London. After Martin Wolfe had rescued Meg from the horrors of her mother’s coven, he had done his best to erase Meg’s past. He had installed her in an elegant home, bought her all the fripperies, pretty gowns, and jewels any normal girl could desire. Poor Papa had been so determined to transform his plain little witch into a dazzling princess. It had not worked then and Meg doubted it would now.
But gainsaying Seraphine was like trying to steer a straight course in the face of a hurricane gale and Meg could not summon up the energy to fight her friend on this. Meg simply did not care what she wore, but since it was a matter of importance to Seraphine, Meg submitted.
She could have actually enjoyed soaking in the hip bath if she had been allowed to close her eyes and drift off into the quiet place in her mind. But that was quite impossible with one maid buffing her nails, another vigorously scrubbing her back, while Seraphine stuffed her with bread and honey.
Meg had no appetite, but Seraphine insisted that Meg could not face her meeting with the king on an empty stomach and Meg conceded that she was right.
After she was toweled dry, Meg stood meekly while they commenced dressing her, although she felt like a cloth doll being pulled this way and that by four eager girls. She had heard of what knights endured to be readied for battle, how long it took to be encased in a full suit of armor. Meg thought it could hardly be worse than this as garters were fastened to hold up her stockings, her waist was cinched by a corset, followed by a farthingale and layers of petticoats. She wondered how she would even move without tripping, especially in the white kid shoes that pinched her feet, the wooden heels far higher than she was accustomed to wear.
After the velvet gown was draped over Meg’s head, Seraphine dismissed the maids, much to Meg’s relief.
“I will finish attending to milady myself,” Seraphine said, shooing the young women out the door. As Seraphine fetched the sleeves, Meg smoothed her hands down over the gown, marveling at the snugness of the fit.
“How were you able to acquire a gown exactly to my measurements?” Meg asked.
“Easily. I took that old brown frock of yours and allowed the seamstress to pick it apart for a pattern.”
“Seraphine!” Meg shifted to scowl up at her friend. “That frock was my favorite.”
“It was hideous.”
“It was also excessively comfortable and practical, which this gown most definitely is not,” Meg complained.
Oblivious to Meg’s grumbling, Seraphine merely ordered her to hold still. Meg subsided, feeling slightly ashamed as she realized how peevish she sounded.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. The gown is lovely and I do thank you for it. How did you manage to have it readied in only three days?”
“I told you,” Seraphine replied, frowning as she concentrated on the hooks that fastened the demi-cannon sleeves to the bodice of the gown. “I am not without acquaintance in London. When I explained my urgent need, the Countess of Shrewsbury was kind enough to lend me the use of her seamstresses, and by court standards, this is not a very elaborate dress.”
It seemed quite elaborate to Meg and costly. She asked uneasily, “And did the countess lend you money as well?”
Seraphine laughed. “Bess Throckmorton? Hardly. That woman did not amass a fortune by doling it out to others.” She sobered as she moved on to the other sleeve. “I am not without funds of my own, Meg. Even though I am separated from Monsieur le Comte, I may draw upon his agents as I please.”
“Another man might have tightened the purse strings in order to bring his wife to heel,” Meg could not help pointing out.
“Gerard would never do that. He has never been mean in that regard. He has always tried to give me anything I wanted. Unfortunately, he cannot give me what I desire the most.”
“And that is?”
“My little boy. I want my son back.” Seraphine’s eyes filled and Meg hoped her friend would at last give vent to the grief she had dammed up for so long. But Seraphine blinked hard. She strode to the bed to fetch the starched cuffs and ruff, and when she returned, she changed the subject.
“This gown would never do at our court in France. The neckline is far too high, but Bess warned me that King James is something of a prude.”
“Did the countess tell you anything else that might be of use?”
“She said that like most monarchs, James
likes lavish compliments. Do you have any idea how you should address the king?”
“I assume it would be incorrect to call him ‘Most high and royal witch burner.’ ”
Ordinarily Seraphine would have returned a witty rejoinder, but she frowned instead. “This is no matter for jests, Meg. Royalty, even the most liberal minded of them, are extremely jealous of their position. One must handle a king with care.”
As Seraphine proceeded to educate her in the intricacies of court etiquette, Meg was tempted to remind her this would not be the first time she had been given a private audience with royalty.
But she supposed she could not count when she had been the prisoner of Catherine de Medici and Meg had been steeling herself to kill the Dark Queen. There could be no question of protocol when one was plotting regicide.
There had also been the time during her childhood days in London when Meg had run away to fling herself, trembling, before Queen Elizabeth. She had idolized the English queen with a youthful adoration, blind to all the woman’s faults, so that meeting had gone well enough. Meg had secured the boon she had desired, the release of her older friend, Lady Jane Danvers, from the Tower.
Elizabeth had been intrigued by Meg’s power to use a gazing globe to peer into the future … intrigued and disconcerted. When she had restored Meg to her father, Elizabeth had commanded Martin Wolfe:
“We would strongly advise you to convey her to this Faire Isle as soon as possible. Besides being a remarkable girl, Margaret is also one of the most unnerving we have ever met. Therefore we think our English climate might not prove at all suitable for such a rare French rose.”
It was as well Seraphine knew nothing of that meeting. If Seraphine had any idea that Meg had been banished from England, her friend would have never allowed Meg to return to London.
But that was over twenty years ago. Queen Elizabeth was dead, most of the ministers who had served her deceased as well or retired from their high offices. Meg doubted that anyone would recollect the encounter between the late queen and an insignificant little girl, but that was a chance that Meg had to take.
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