Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (23 page)

“Your cousin?” he said, and there was an undercurrent to the words that I did not like. “If I remember correctly, her coloring is much like yours. This particular shade of blue would never do for her.”

“You are thinking of Kate,” I said, feeling my mouth go dry. “I was speaking of Georgina.”

“Quite right,” said Sir Hilary. “I was indeed thinking of the elder Miss Talgarth.”

“Dear Kate!” said Mrs. Everslee in sentimental tones. “Do you know she is betrothed, Sir Hilary? And to the Marquis of Schofield!”

“Yes, I saw the announcement in the
Gazette
some weeks ago,” Sir Hilary replied. His eyes flickered back to me. “Your cousin is to be greatly complimented on her good fortune.”

“I will tell her you have said so, when I see her again,” I said.

Aunt Elizabeth had poured herself a cup of tea, and was just beginning on a second cup for me. “No thank you, please, Aunt Elizabeth,” I said. “I will have chocolate. It was so good the last time we were here,” I added to Sir Hilary as I leaned over and picked up the chocolate pot.

As soon as I touched it, I was quite sure that it was Thomas’s, for I could
feel
the magic in it sending tingles up my arm. I kept my composure as well as I could and poured half a cup of chocolate very slowly. Then I raised my head and stiffened, as if I had heard something. “Oh, what was that?” I said, looking toward the windows. As I spoke, I started to rise, still clutching the handle of the chocolate pot.

Everyone, including Sir Hilary, looked automatically toward the windows for the briefest fraction of a second. And in that second, Kate, I put my knee under the edge of the tea table and tipped it over. It was rather difficult to manage in a casual fashion, but I believe I succeeded admirably.

“Oh, dear!” I cried, and gave a little jump backward. This, of course, let me knock into the chair, and as I pretended to struggle for balance I threw the chocolate pot (with as much force as I could conveniently manage) down on top of the whole tangle of tea things. For an instant I was afraid it would not break, but it hit the edge of the tea table with a most satisfactory crash and splintered into a thousand pieces, sending chocolate flying everywhere.

I fell on top of the chair, and for a moment everyone was busy sorting things out. Mrs. Everslee fussed, Aunt Elizabeth scolded, and Sir Hilary rang for the servants to clear up the mess. I, of course, was busy scrubbing at the chocolate stains on my gown, spreading them around as much as I could so as to ruin the gown completely, if possible. I was determined that this would be the very last time I would wear this particular make-over of Georgy’s.

Aunt Elizabeth noticed, and changed course in midscold. “Stop that, Cecy, you’re only making doings worse,” she said. “I shall have to get you home at once. How
did
you come to be so clumsy?”

“I thought I heard something outside,” I answered. “And,
indeed
, Sir Hilary, I am very sorry.”

I looked at him as I spoke, and went cold all over. Sir Hilary was looking at me with all the affability of a cobra, and when I saw his eyes I was suddenly quite sure that he
knew
that what I had done was deliberate. I clutched at my reticule, feeling very frightened and small, and it was just then that Aunt Elizabeth tried to wrap my shawl about me to hide the chocolate stains.

“There, Cecy, I think this will—What have you got in your pocket?” she said. “Cecy, you know I have told you not to carry books in your shawl; it spoils the hang, and—” She drew the book out of my pocket as she spoke, before I even realized what was happening. And so I could not stop her from seeing
Epicyclical Elaborations of Sorcery
on the spine.

Aunt Eli
zabeth immediately had an absolutely frightening attack of the vapors. When she began to recover herself a little, I braced myself for another, far worse scolding. To my utter amazement, she did not tear into me, as I expected, but began abusing
Sir Hilary
in the most amazing manner.

“How dare you, sir?” she demanded, shaking the book in Sir Hilary’s face. “How dare you attempt to corrupt my niece? Well, I shall not allow it!”

“Aunt Elizabeth, pray—,” I started, but she cut me off with a wave.

“You be quiet, Miss! I’ll speak with you later.” She looked back to Sir Hilary, and her eyes were positively flashing fire. “I could not keep you from destroying my William with your filthy magic, but this time I will not be alone in my efforts. You may be sure Cecy’s Papa shall know the whole before the day is out.”

“I believe you are seriously overset, Miss Rushton,” Sir Hilary said calmly. He appeared no more put out than was reasonable for a gentleman having an inexplicable scene enacted in his sitting room, but when he looked at me his eyes were even colder than before. By this time, however, I had resigned myself to his realizing that I was involved in Thomas’s affairs, and that I might well have some magical ability of my own, so I was able to meet his glare with tolerable composure.

“Overset!” Aunt Elizabeth raged. “I’ll show you overset!” And she threw the book at Sir Hilary’s head.

Sir Hilary ducked, and the book knocked a bit of plaster out of the wall behind him. Aunt Elizabeth glared at him, then turned to me with magnificent unconcern. “Come, Cecy,” she said in a controlled voice. “It is high time we were going.”

I could not have agreed more. The next half hour was, however, the worst I have ever spent in my entire life. Aunt Elizabeth berated me in low tones for the entire drive home. She appears to labor under the impression that Sir Hilary has been teaching me magic, and that he had provided me willingly with the dreadful Tanistry book. I did not feel able to set her straight, as it would have involved lengthy explanations of Thomas’s business, as well as that of James and Mr. Wrexton. Upon reflection, however, I cannot help but wonder why she was so certain the book was Sir Hilary’s, and what exactly she meant by the accusations she hurled at his head. Who, for instance, was William? And whatever did Sir Hilary do to him?

I shall not, I fear, have much chance to investigate these interesting tidbits. When we arrived home, Aunt Elizabeth stormed up to my room and went through all my things. Naturally, she discovered my charm-bag and my supplies for making others. She confiscated everything, and opened the charm-bag despite my protest that it was only a protective spell. It is just as well, therefore, that I am now confined to my room until further notice. I do not think I would feel at all safe going about in public without the protection of the charm-bag, particularly now that Sir Hilary is aware that I know more than I had let on.

I expect Aunt Elizabeth will write to Aunt Charlotte very soon. I suggest, therefore, that you find a
very good
hiding place for all the various charm-bags I have sent you, though I suppose you might contrive to pass them off as presents from Thomas. I don’t suppose Aunt Charlotte would find it at all out of the ordinary for a wizard to give such things to his betrothed.

You may also tell Thomas that I apologize very much if he does not like it, but I have smashed his chocolate pot to smithereens. It is unfortunate that it was necessary to do so, but the pot was not doing Thomas any good where it was, and I saw little likelihood of its being recovered. This way, Thomas will have to make himself a new focus, but at least Sir Hilary will not be able to use the chocolate pot against him any longer. (Thomas and James seem to have been determined to get the thing back, instead of being practical, which is just the sort of thing men do when they are being stubborn. You need not tell him I said so, however.)

27 June

I had intended to write more of my conjectures today, as I am still confined to my room and have little else to do. I find, however, that I am nearly too tired to lift my pen; I believe that I may be sickening of the influenza. So I shall ask Mary, the little upstairs maid, to smuggle this off to the post.

I do wish I had had the chance to reassure James, but even if Aunt Elizabeth would have allowed me to do so, I do not think I have the energy to have ridden out.

Your loving cousin, Cecy

30 June 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Cecy,

Bless you and keep you, cousin!
Bless you
for smashing that wretched chocolate pot. And keep you from the influenza. Fortunately, Aunt Elizabeth is a splendid nurse. Please take great care of yourself. It is sometimes hard on one’s temper to be treated as an invalid.

On Thursday, I accepted Lady Sylvia’s invitation to tea to Schofield House. She was kind enough to send a carriage round to collect me, so I was able to visit unattended by Aunt Charlotte. By the time the invitation arrived, I had taken pains to inquire about Lady Sylvia Schofield and was able to discover that although she is perfectly respectable, she has a considerable reputation for eccentricity.

In the first place, she has never put off mourning since her elder son’s death. In the second place, after her husband’s death she left England and has since traveled about the world. In the past year she took up residence in Paris and no one expected her to return, even for Thomas’s wedding. In the third place, she has a reputation for outspokenness that puts even Thomas to shame. Apparently she once told the Archbishop of Canterbury that marriage among the clergy was the only factor that prevented English village life from degenerating into utter savagery. (No wonder Thomas did not say the Archbishop was a particular friend of his
mother’s.
) In the fourth place, and I have saved the best for last, Lady Sylvia Schofield enjoys considerable notoriety for her skills as a wizard. (In addition to her independent interests, she is said to have given Sir David Brewster the idea for his kaleidoscope.)

Thus it was that I arrived at Schofield House with my reticule stuffed fat with the charm-bag you stitched for Thomas.

As I feared, Thomas was not well enough to come down to tea, but Lady Sylvia received me in the library, over a tea table laden with good things.

“Now then, Kate,” said Lady Sylvia, pouring tea, “you must tell me how long this nonsensical behavior of Thomas’s has been going on.”

I took a steadying sip of India tea and began with the day of Sir Hilary’s investiture. When I was finished, I produced your charm-bag for Thomas. “It requires a lock of Thomas’s hair to complete,” I said, as I handed it to her, “but I thought it might prove useful—or at least do him no harm. He seems so
weary
—” I broke off helplessly.

Lady Sylvia refilled my teacup and gave the charm-bag her full attention for several minutes. “Good work,” she said at last. “Nothing extravagant, just good wholesome basic craft. A five-finger exercise. Your cousin’s doing, you say? Hmm. There’s talent there. I should like to hear her orisons and invocations. Still, that can wait. By all means, I shall crop a lock of Thomas’s hair for it. I’m sure it cannot harm him. And they do say cutting hair is most beneficial to some fevers, do they not? Oh, come. Don’t look so stricken.” She poured herself more tea, but neither of us drank any.

“If only we knew what Sir Hilary is
doing
,” I said finally. “Thomas gets worse and worse and we’re powerless.”

“Now, stop that, dear child,” said Lady Sylvia, moving the plate of ratafia biscuits away from me. I realized belatedly that I had ground several of the biscuits into powder while my thoughts wandered. As I brushed futilely at the crumbs, Lady Sylvia rose and went to rummage in Thomas’s writing desk. After a moment she returned with his ink pot, which she put down on the tea tray.

“This should show us a little of Sir Hilary’s actions,” she said, “though the knowledge may do us no good at all. Unfortunately, the spell only works with the single sense of vision. Still, it may prove interesting.”

She clasped the ink pot in her hands for a moment, her dark eyes steady on mine, then passed her left hand over the top, unstoppered it, and seized my right hand in hers. She spoke, but I could not catch her precise words. They sounded to me like classical Greek as Uncle speaks it. “Now we both look,” she said, and tilted the ink pot a little in her free hand. It took several moments for her to find an angle where we could both peer into the ink pot, but when she did, I could see the bright, distorted reflection of the library windows on the surface of the ink. “Oh, good,” said Lady Sylvia. “It’s very clear. Perhaps it helps that you’re a virgin.”

Despite this rather shocking remark, I kept my eyes on the reflection in the ink, for as I watched, I saw the brightness change. As if from a great distance, I could see Sir Hilary presiding over a crowded tea table. I saw you jump up from your chair, chocolate pot in hand, and in a series of movements as devastating as my most inspired clumsiness reduce the entire tea table, chocolate pot and all, to wreckage. You fell down as Aunt Elizabeth sprang up—and the ink rippled as Lady Sylvia’s hand trembled.

From upstairs came the sound of glass breaking.

I glanced up. Lady Sylvia had lifted her head to listen. Swiftly, she put the ink pot down and rose, ivory walking stick in hand. I followed her as she rushed from the room and upstairs to the open door of Thomas’s room.

He was in bed, awake, propped up against many pillows. On the floor in the center of the room, a shattered drinking glass lay in a pool of viscous milky liquid. At our entrance, Thomas looked up and smiled. He was still very pale, but his smile was his old derisive one, and his voice, though weak, held unmistakable satisfaction as he said, “If you have come to give me more barley water, Mother, I warn you I am feeling far too well to drink it.”

On my next visit, this afternoon, I arrived to find Lady Sylvia presiding over the tea tray as before and Thomas feeling so much more the thing that he had actually gone out.

“Yes,” said Lady Sylvia as she offered me a cucumber sandwich, “he has gone to see about Frederick Hollydean. Evidently the dreadful boy was forever prosing on about the Grand Tour, so dear Thomas has made a booking for him on a ship bound for Piraeus via Alexandria. Very broadening for the lad, but I doubt the horrible Hollydean will appreciate it. Still, I must admit I’m proud of Thomas. When he disposes of people, they stay disposed.”