Arcana (5 page)

Her eyes dance so merrily, I have to humor her though my interest in fashion is small. “Did you? I hope you have managed to keep it looking like a wedding dress.”

She grins. “Well, it is white, of course. There is no helping that. But I took some liberties with the silhouette and fabrics.”

“That does sound lovely. Perhaps you could draw it,” I say.

She smiles as she unfolds a piece of paper. “I already did.”

I can weave enchantment with the piano, but my sister can make even a simple drawing a work of art. In perfect detail, she has created a rendering of a dress with a heart-shaped bodice, intricate lace flowers blooming across the skirt, and delicate sleeves hanging just off the shoulder.

After a surreptitious glance around to be sure we are alone, she leans over me and touches the tip of her finger to the dress. “I thought you’d like to see the whole thing.”

The dress rises from the page, flat at first like a paper doll. As I watch, it fills out, like a miniature version of the real thing. The skirt rustles softly though there is no breeze. I laugh as it makes a slow pirouette so I can see it from every angle.

“Oh, Luce,” I say, “it’s beautiful. I’ll give this to Grandmama’s dressmaker as soon as we arrive.”

Her hands are clasped against her chest. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” She touches her finger to the rotating gown and it deflates before returning to a simple drawing.

“What say you, Robert?” I ask my brother, who has paid us very little attention. Instead, his focus is on Virgil’s
Aeneid.

“Lovely. You’ll be the belle of the ball,” he says without looking up from his book.

“You really should pay more attention to this, considering my entire future relies upon it,” I say with a wry smile.

“All the more reason I should
not
give my opinion. I would loathe myself if I were the sole reason my sister did not immediately secure the highest earning suitor in London.” He grins at me, and I shake my head.

I lean toward Lucy. “I think he’s simply jealous because his only arcana is an unnatural amount of charm. Perhaps that is why he always manages to escape his headmaster’s censure.”

“What nonsense,” Robert says, and Lucy giggles. “I cannot help the fact that the lion’s share of Mama’s abilities passed down to the females in the family any more than I can help the blue of my eyes.”

“It
is
true about your charm though, Rob,” Lucy says. “Everyone hangs on your every word.”

“Everyone but my silly sisters. They
never
heed my advice.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” I say.

“You think so, do you?” Robert asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Name a single instance where you’ve followed my advice.”

“Wren,” Lucy says, her hand on my arm. “Your reticule is glowing.”

I look at her with furrowed brows before glancing down at the bag at my feet. Belatedly, I realize Mama’s journal is within. I pull it out and find that it is indeed shimmering with a soft white light.

“I didn’t want to wake you last night,” I say to my siblings, whose eyes are riveted by the small leather book in my hand. “This was Mama’s. Papa gave it to me last night when neither of us could sleep.”

Lucy reaches out and touches the cover gently, a look of wonder on her face, as if she’s touching our mother’s skin instead of a journal. “What does it say?” she asks.

“It only reveals a page at a time, so it may not say anything,” I warn as I open it. For an instant, the light shines as brightly as the sun reflecting off water and then it fades away.

My mother’s familiar script appears, and Lucy and Robert crowd closer to me to see.

We fall into a hushed awe, our eyes scanning and rescanning her words as if she might at any moment appear before us.

“Well, that was ominous,” Robert says, frowning.

I squeeze Lucy’s hand as a tear spills onto her cheek. “It’s like she’s right here speaking to us, isn’t it?” I whisper, and she nods.

“I know caution is a foreign concept to you,” Robert says, “but I think for the first time, I must encourage you exercise it.”

“She said there’s no guarantee any of that will happen,” I say, and he gives me an exasperated look. “But of course I will be on my guard.”

Lucy leans forward and examines the journal entry. “Is that a rune?”

She points at a small mark near the bottom of the page. Shaped almost like a human eye is a rune with delicate swirls. It’s so faint, I never would have noticed if not for her.

“Where?” Robert asks, evidently having as much difficulty as I did in seeing it.

“Here,” I say. I press my finger to the rune. A little spark of energy, and then the train carriage fades away. In its place is crystal-clear water cascading over rock, filling a shimmering pool. A dark forest surrounds the water. I know this place. I see it every time I play my mother’s music. Something about it whispers to me, and a longing so strong wraps itself around my heart in a painful vise. Could this be a vision of Mama’s realm?

As if in answer, a creature that is like a deer, but not quite, takes a drink from the water. Its pelt is as white as the rocks with silver dappling. Leaves sprout from its antlers, and it’s as though it doesn’t have antlers at all, but tree branches instead. It’s joined by a creature that looks like a snow fox, but for the silver tips at the ends of its fur. It turns and appears to look right at me, its turquoise-colored eyes piercing me.

Katherine
, it whispers in my mind.

With a jerk, I take my finger from the rune, and the lovely vision fades.

“Oh yes, I see it now,” Robert says, as though no time has passed at all. The vision, it would seem, only appeared in my own mind.

“Lucy,” I say, “do you recognize that rune?”

She tilts her head as she examines it again. “I do, actually. Mama had an entire book of runes, and I used to love looking at them. They’re just so beautiful. This one means ‘homeland.’”

So that
was
my mother’s realm. Excitement and that painful longing war with each other in the center of my chest. “When I touched the rune, it showed me a vision of Sylvania.”

Lucy’s face brightens with awe. “May I try?”

“Of course,” I say and hand her the journal. She touches her finger to the rune and closes her eyes.

After a moment, her face falls. “I don’t see anything.”

I touch the rune again, but this time, nothing happens. “I don’t understand. It worked just a moment ago.”

“Wren, you shouldn’t tease Lucy,” Robert says. I glare at him.

“No, I’m sure she was being truthful,” Lucy says, examining the rune. “I think it may be a bit like my own arcana. The rune has only a single charge of energy stored. After that, it’s only a drawing on paper.”

“Then I am sorry I used its only charge.”

“Don’t be,” Lucy says. “I believe it was meant for you.”

The water so clear I can almost taste it, the cool shade of the forest, the beautiful creatures, all of these images run through my mind until I’m gripped by the desperation to see more. Why would Mama show me something I can never see outside of my own dreams? I think of what Papa said: that Mama was more mysterious than the stars. Though this was true, she never did anything without purpose.

A hiss of steam and a small jolt signals we’ve arrived at Oxford, and Lucy and I disembark with Robert, reluctant to part.

John, Robert’s valet, walks toward us from one of the rear railway carriages. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright. “I shall have your luggage brought to the coach straight away,” he says, and I cannot help but return his wide smile.

With her hand on Robert’s arm, Lucy points to the skyline just beyond the station. “Is that the university?”

We can just make out the taller spires from our vantage point. The sand-colored stone and gothic architecture makes it seem more like a monastery or cathedral than a place of study, though I suppose there are some who do see it as a place of worship. It’s the type of place that inspires a hushed sort of awe, and I wish with a sudden intensity that I could go with Robert.

A twinge of jealousy causes me to blush. I shouldn’t be jealous of my brother, but I cannot help but compare the freedom of his life at university to mine. How I would love to trade dresses and ballrooms for books and the classroom. But even in this modern age of electricity, new ideas, and advances beyond our imagining, the expectations for ladies still remain firmly planted in the Middle Ages. As a gentleman, Robert’s potential is limitless. For now, all he need do is concentrate on his studies.

I glance over to find Robert watching me with a grin. I return his smile. “I could stand here and stare at this architecture for ages.”

“I am of the same opinion,” Lucy says, her artist’s eyes wide, as if taking in every detail.

“I’m glad someone finds the old place impressive,” Robert says. “The only thing it inspires in me is a sense of dread for the essays I must write.”

“For shame,” I admonish. “Think of all the things you can learn here, and in such stately beauty.”

“We could trade places if you’d like. I will suffer through the frivolous balls, and you can stay here amidst ancient professors and moldy tomes.”

“I would gladly do so. Anything to avoid the season.” I grimace, and he laughs.

“It won’t be as bad as all that,” he says and pulls me in for a firm embrace.

“Will you be coming to town in a week for my coming out?” I ask. “I cannot think how Lucy and I will endure it all without you.”

“I shall check with the headmaster, but I’m sure it would be no hardship.” He signals John to bring the carriage ’round before turning back to me. “Good luck, dear sister. I know you will do extraordinarily well.”

He embraces Lucy, and we return to the train, a short ride ahead of us.

By the time we arrive in London, I’ve gone so quiet I can no longer carry on a decent conversation with Lucy. She, on the other hand, is flushed and has been chattering nonstop from the moment we disembarked from the train and found the coach Grandmama sent to meet us.

“Oh, London is simply incredible,” Lucy exclaims. “Look at the number of carriages on the road; there’s scarce room for ours.”

I give a brief nod as I struggle not to beg the driver to take us home at once.

London is everything I expected and more. It’s large, overly crowded, full of a curious mix of animals, pedestrians, elegant carriages carrying fashionable people, bicycles, and even a few motorcars. The size of the buildings towering over our carriage as we drive by causes me to feel closed in, restrained. A desperate need builds in me for the open space of the country, and I fear it will be a very long time indeed before I will feel free again.

Lucy presses her face closer to the window. “Wren, just look at those exquisite dresses. And the hats,” she says in an almost childlike squeal. “I’ve never seen such beauty. Do you not agree?”

I glance at a pair of ladies talking outside a stylish little shop. Their stiffly tailored dresses are of vibrant hues, a lovely contrast to the dreariness of the city. Both wear wide-brimmed hats with enormous feather plumes, and they carry color-coordinating parasols. I look around at all the mess left by the animals, the refuse and dirt on the streets, and it almost seems as though they are overdressed.

“Beautiful indeed,” I say.

“We must be close; these seem to be a row of houses. Which one do you suppose is hers? I hope we haven’t missed tea, though I don’t know if I could eat anything at the moment.”

My mind scrambles for a response, but all I keep thinking is,
Will Grandmama hate me?

The carriage rolls to a stop in front of a red brick terrace house with a black door. I stare at it with much trepidation as the coachman helps us out.

We thank him and move toward the door. With a shaky hand, I reach for the brass door knocker and let it fall with a hollow-sounding
thunk.
My heart beats faster as a servant in a perfectly pressed tail-coat shows us inside.

I glimpse an abundance of lovely things—richly colored paintings, vibrant red and gold carpet, marble pillars—before we are led up to the first floor by way of a sweeping marble staircase. My grandmother waits for us in the drawing room, and it is just as elegant as the entrance hall—but with a much more feminine feel. The walls are done in pretty robin’s egg blue hues with floral silk wall hangings, while the floor-to-ceiling windows admit the afternoon sun.