Arcana (4 page)

“Ah, yes. It’s very fine,” he says after a moment. Though it doesn’t seem possible, her smile grows even wider, and I decide to finally give in and rescue my brother before the determined girl attaches herself to him for the rest of the evening.

I swallow the rest of my drink in an un-ladylike gulp and thrust my glass at him. “Robert, would you be a dear and fetch me more lemonade? I’m terribly parched.”

Any other time, he would roll his eyes at my proffered cup and tell me to get it myself, but he smiles at me like I’ve offered him a gift of gold. “Certainly, dear sister. Do excuse me, Harriet.”

She stares after him forlornly for a moment before turning to me, but as I offer no marriage potential, she moves on to a young soldier. My good deed done for the evening, I glance around for Lucy, who was asked to dance soon after we first arrived. At fifteen, she will be too young to accompany me to the London balls, but I am glad she can enjoy herself tonight.

I watch and sigh as Mrs. Quinn makes her way toward me. She is dressed in a shocking red dress with a strange ostrich feather turban. I glance at the refreshment table where Robert carries on a lively conversation with one of father’s friends. No one will come to my rescue, it seems.

“Katherine,” she says before she’s close enough to talk at a comfortable level. “I simply must have you play for us.” I watch as everyone around us glances our way. Wonderful. Now everyone heard. At least I see nothing but normal curiosity in their expressions.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say and groan inwardly. I always come up with the worst excuses.

She loops her arm through mine and speaks at the same loud level. “Nonsense. It wouldn’t be an intrusion in the least. Come, you must see my new piano.”

She points to the gleaming instrument in the next room, and my fingers itch to play it. I shouldn’t play, but I can’t resist her offer.

The crowd parts for me as I walk to the piano and sit on the bench before it. I take a moment to arrange my skirt, the satin rustling as it settles. She hands me sheets of music, but I don’t even glance at them. I know which song I will play, though part of me whispers I would be foolish to release even a small amount of arcana. But there are times when I am unable to resist the lure of power inside me. This is one of those times.

Hauntingly beautiful music plays in my head before I’ve even touched the keys. My eyelids flutter closed for a moment as I listen to notes only I can hear.

This arcana is different from the kind I used to save Robert. I’ve always thought of it as part of Mama, as it is gentle like her but also strong, like the unexpected strength of silk. Ever since Papa and I spoke of Mama’s wishes, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of her.

I touch the tips of my fingers to the keys, and then I am swept away like a petal in the current of a river. My fingers know the song, one of a series my mother used to play—her music, the songs from her land. Music is the only remnant I have left of her homeland, as my mother gave up her immortality and ability to return to that land when she married my father.

“How can you lose your immortality, Mama?” I had asked when I was old enough to understand the meaning of the word.

It was the only time I’d seen her eyes dim with loss. “I was forced to leave my spirit behind, darling.”

I’d pictured a ghost at the time, but she explained later that all the Sylvani had spirit animals. Made entirely of energy, they provided the Sylvani a never-ending source of power.

The melody is slow and dark at first, weaving threads of sadness around each heart in the room. I don’t have to look at them to know; I can feel the emotion it’s evoking—I feel it in my own heart. The room seems to disappear until all I can see is the cool ivory keys beneath my fingers.

The music, more than her stories, would remind her of her lost realm. One night, when I was only five years old, I found her sitting at our piano. With her hair loose around her shoulders, she played the same haunting melody I play now. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but not a single tear shone in them.

“I’m sorry you miss your home, Mama,” I said.

She drew me close to her side and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “This
is
my home, darling.”

The melancholy of the beginning has given way to a sound so angelic it breathes hope into the darkness created with the first few bars. The tempo increases, building tension, and as one, each person in the room draws a deep breath. This music tells a story, though of what, I’ve never been able to determine. Images of a pristine forest always come to my mind, at the center of which is a silvery waterfall cascading over white rocks.

Tears slide down my cheeks, but I can’t stop playing. I’m glad I’m turned away from the crowd. This always happens when I play my mother’s music.

It reaches its crescendo, and I picture white birds, as big as eagles, taking flight amongst the trees. I finish with a flourish, my cheeks warm, and hastily wipe away the tears. I turn to the crowd, and they erupt with applause, their eyes shiny and wet.

Every man save my father and brother looks at me as if I’m the famed Helen of Troy, and every female save Lucy looks at me as though I am her goddess and she my priestess. I make a quick bow and dart from the room.

I had let the arcana free again.

The pillow is cool against my warm cheek. Why did I give in to my inner desires and play my mother’s music? Now I will have to avoid everyone who was there—at least until the enchantment has worn off.

I curl into a ball around another pillow. I wasn’t consciously weaving a spell, but my music always has that effect on people. They become enamored—not truly with me—but with the feeling the arcana gives them. Only my siblings are totally immune. My father gets teary-eyed, but only because it reminds him of Mama.

I close my eyes and picture her—I rarely let myself do so since it only stirs up my grief, but tonight the music conjures her memory. I think of her voice, so bright and clear, and the way she always knew exactly what to say. She was so kind and loving—Lucy inherited that gene. And, of course, she had the power in her.

In light of what happened this evening, I’m more wary than ever of going to London. So many more people, more eyes upon me. I’ll have to be careful of letting my power influence others.

I push the pillow away and get out of bed, tugging my nightgown down until it brushes the tops of my feet. The air is cool, so I pull a wrap around my shoulders. It’s very early in the morning. Still, I know Papa will be awake. He’s hardly slept since my mother died ten years ago.

When I enter his study, the warmth from the fire envelopes me like a wool coat.

“Come sit by the fire with me, Wren,” he says without looking up from his book. I sit, and he reaches over and pats my hand. “I miss her, too.”

A wan smile touches my lips. “I know. I’m sorry for playing tonight. I hope it won’t make things more trying for you.”

“No, I was glad to hear your mother’s music. It has been far too long.” He leans over to his side table and retrieves a small leather-bound book. “Since your mother is on both our minds, now is the time to give you this.”

I take the book from him, marveling at how buttery the leather is and at the beautiful silver tree tooled on the front. “Was this Mama’s?” I ask in hushed tones.

He nods. “She wanted you to have it before your coming out.”

I open the book eagerly—what if it will reveal more about her world?—but my eyebrows furrow when I see the pages. “They’re all blank.”

“It’s part of your mother’s arcana. It will prevent you from reading the whole thing at once. Only a page or two will reveal itself to you at a time.”

“How frustrating,” I say.

He smiles. “It was in your mother’s very nature to be frustrating. She was more mysterious than the stars. We are lucky she let me in on the secret to that little book, else we’d both be left staring at each other dumbly.”

“Mysterious indeed. Was this her journal?” I run my hands over the blank pages, imagining my mother’s slender fingers and feminine script.

As if she writes them before my eyes, words appear on the page. I gasp. “Papa, look.”

We watch as a letter to me forms.

I read and reread the words, but I cannot make the letter any longer. Her first letter to me, and it’s about potential suitors? I know it’s wrong, but I find my ire rising as I think on my mother’s words. I have no intention of falling in love in the first place. Perhaps if I do not give a man my heart, he will be unable to hurt me—or worse, control me.

I glance over at my father, but his eyebrows are drawn low over his eyes and his mouth is tight.

“This is very worrisome,” he says. “Your mother had a gift for knowing things before they came to pass, so we must take her words seriously.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t tempt fate by going to London, Papa.”

He tilts his head, as if considering my words, and my heart beats faster in my chest. “No, that’s not the answer either. Your mother wanted you to be presented at court, so you will leave on the morrow as planned.” His eyes scan Mama’s words again. “This line here—about others who know the truth—should encourage the utmost caution.”

“Have you heard of such people before?”

“No, indeed. Your mother never told me, but then, she often kept things from me she deemed ‘upsetting.’” He shakes his head and lets out a soft laugh. He pats his rounded belly. “As if I’m of such a delicate constitution I cannot handle troublesome news.”

Not for the first time, I think of how my mother never would admit to us whether other Sylvani could be found in this world.
Not all of our kind are like me, my darling,
she would say. But now her journal entry had admitted as much.

I close the book. “So there could be those who know the truth about what I am, but you would still have me go to London?”

He reaches over and takes my hand. “My darling, there are wolves in sheep’s clothing everywhere we look. It’s the world we live in. It’s the darker side of human nature. Do I want to protect you from that? Of course. But I also want you to have the life you deserve—with someone who deserves and respects you—and you cannot live caged up like a canary.”

I bite the inside of my lip to keep it from quivering. I have the strongest urge to burst into tears, but I swallow them down. As often happens in the dark of night, when fear reigns over common sense, I can’t help but succumb to the belief I’ve held since I was seven years old: no suitor will ever be able to accept the truth of my power. Even at that young age, I learned that to be absolute.

THREE

T
HE
train leaves the station with a puff of steam and a short whistle. We settle into one of the opulent first-class carriages, the lighting comfortably dim, the dining tables already set with crystal and china. Lucy sits beside me on a plush velvet sofa, with Robert across from us in a tufted leather chair. We have the railway carriage to ourselves, which comes as a pleasant surprise since I had hoped to have the chance to share Mama’s journal with my siblings.

Before I can retrieve the book from my reticule, Lucy loops her arm around mine. “I was awake all night dreaming up the perfect dress for Court.”