Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (28 page)

“What do you intend?” I inquired. “Will you turn me into a chocolate pot and break me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” said Miranda. “No, I see no reason why you shouldn’t provide me with your youth. You’ll have no further use for it, after all. It is a delicate procedure, but worth the fuss.”

From somewhere on her person she produced a stick of blue chalk. Stepping delicately in a circle around me, she drew a ring of glyphs on the floor. As she worked, I was able to look away and see the reflection in the glass of the conservatory wall opposite me. The night beyond the glass threw back the candlelight in the conservatory to produce a reflection of me, sitting as stiff and stupid as a tailor’s dummy on a little bamboo chair, and Miranda working intently. In the reflection I could see her as she really was, a little woman with fair hair.

“I will be as old as you are,” she said, chalking symbols rapidly. “You will be seventy-five. As I recall, I enjoyed being your age very much. You won’t enjoy being seventy-five, and I’m quite sure Thomas won’t enjoy seeing you that way, either.”

She put the chalk away and surveyed the effect of the ring, dusting her palms with a fastidious little gesture. “A little off center, but nothing to signify,” she said. “I shall enjoy being young again. Disguising myself as Dorothea has given me a taste for youth. Pity it didn’t work out between her and Thomas. I would have taken her place soon after the wedding, of course. If he noticed, he could have done nothing. Now, of course, the chit’s worthless to me. Not even a virgin by this time, I suspect.”

“What!” I knew it was absurd to be in my predicament and still find myself shocked by a remark from Miranda, but shocked I was.

Miranda laughed merrily at the expression on my face. From what I could judge of it from my reflection in the glass wall opposite, she was entitled to her amusement.

“Yes, Dorothea’s gone off with some bumpkin she met in Essex,” Miranda said. “They had Griscomb’s consent to marry; they could never have arranged for a special license without it. I shall have his liver for it, of course, just as soon as I’ve taught Thomas what it means to interfere with me. Men—they think marriage solves all a woman’s problems.”

I thought of Robert Penwood’s little scrap of paper dropped in Dorothea’s lap at tea. “It solved Dorothea’s,” I said. “And it is the outside of enough to hear you complain of men. What do you know about men, anyway, you nasty little fright? What do you know about anything except how to hurt people?”

Miranda drew herself up and glared at me. “I know enough about that to deal with you, at least,” she informed me.

“What will that accomplish?” I demanded. “Thomas stood up pretty well to the worst that Sir Hilary could contrive. He’s sure to deal with him eventually. No matter what becomes of me, he has enough scores to settle with you to keep you busy for seventy-five more years.”

Miranda was still glaring at me. In the reflection in the glass wall opposite I could see her back, my front, and behind me, Lady Sylvia moving slowly to stand in back of my chair, her ivory walking stick held across her path as a shield. Miranda did not appear to have noticed Lady Sylvia as yet, and I determined to delay that moment as long as I could. More interested in making noise than sense, I went on talking.

“You’ve been buzzing around like a fly,” I said, “and all this time Thomas has had more important matters to deal with. But sooner or later you are certain to be swatted. And I must say I think the swatting is already sadly overdue.”

“If this accomplishes nothing else,” said Miranda, lifting her arms, “at least the spell will silence you.”

As she spoke in a high, exultant voice, I heard Lady Sylvia speak in my ear, as close as the moment she told my hair to stay up, saying, “All the years in this ring to you, and all your own years, too.”

In the reflection of the glass conservatory wall, I saw Lady Sylvia’s black figure behind my chair, ivory walking stick lifted over my head. There was a double flash of light—one from the real scene before me, a brighter one from the reflection—and Miranda screamed.

The numbness withdrew from my arms and legs and I found I could move again. I felt Lady Sylvia’s hand on my shoulder, a gentle pressure keeping me in my chair. I turned my head and saw nothing, though in the reflection I could see her quite plainly. But looking in the reflection revealed all too clearly what was becoming of Miranda. It was easier to watch her real body than the reflected one, even as the years she had lived and wished away came flooding back to leave her an empty husk, brittle with age, in the center of the conservatory floor.

“I came in as you were discussing flies,” murmured Lady Sylvia. “Had she cared to concentrate on her work, she would certainly have detected me as I crossed the circle. Thank you for your excellent work in distracting her.” As she spoke, Lady Sylvia grew visible to me in person as well as in the reflection. She leaned upon her ivory walking stick and said, “Miranda and I were at school together long ago.
Long
ago. When she received her own age back, the very slight addition of my age and yours, even briefly, upset the balance of her youth spell. Distressing to witness, but I doubt the demise of such an unscrupulous wizard will cause much recrimination.”

At the moment she finished her sentence, the glass wall opposite me shattered to fragments. Shards of glass were still ringing on the marble floor as Thomas leapt over the wreckage and into the conservatory. He crossed the room in two great strides and pulled me up out of my chair. With an embarrassed glance at Lady Sylvia, I realized she was fading tactfully away again, leaving the two of us in the conservatory with Miranda’s corpse.

“Kate!” exclaimed Thomas harshly. “—You’re not hurt? The ring—” He held me too close for me to get a clear look at him, but I could tell he had undergone some adventure, for his hair was disordered, his dark eyes were wide, and his evening clothes were ruined. His neckcloth was undone, the sleeve of his coat ripped from wrist to elbow, and there was blood on his knuckles. Before I could reply, Thomas stiffened, staring over my shoulder.

“Miranda is dead,” I informed him. “She was waiting for you, but grew impatient.”

Thomas went on looking past me. I turned to follow his stricken gaze—and found myself facing the Prince of Wales and a phalanx of his companions.

“Good gad, sir,” said the Prince to Thomas, “what do you mean by all this?”

I looked from the Prince’s scarlet face to Thomas’s pale one and freed myself from Thomas’s embrace to sink into my deepest curtsey.

The details of my story, told in my very best truthful voice, evolved and expanded during the next half hour. I explained Miranda’s treasonous use of magic within the confines of Carlton House, Thomas’s heroic intervention, the unfortunate but trifling loss of the glass wall in the conservatory (broken when Miranda tried to halt Thomas), and Miranda’s ultimate defeat. The highly unpleasant condition of Miranda’s remains proved a convincing piece of evidence. The Prince accepted the entire tale eventually and ordered the mess cleared up. Despite the heroic character I gave him, Thomas received many horrified glances, as much for his appearance as his alleged behavior. When the Prince pronounced himself satisfied, Thomas withdrew, taking me with him.

As we made our way out, Lady Sylvia stopped us, just long enough to return the second charm-bag to me. “You’ll have to decide between the two of you what should be done with this,” she said, “but without it, I’d never have been able to throw Miranda’s spell back upon her without ill effects for you, Kate.” I accepted the charm-bag, slipping it into my reticule as we left Carlton House.

Thomas said nothing as we left. In fact, beyond civilities to the Prince, he had said nothing since his arrival in the conservatory. A little concerned by his uncharacteristic reserve, I said, “I hope I didn’t offend you when I explained matters to the Prince.”

Thomas lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, is that what you call it? Explaining matters?”

“I did offend you.”

“Don’t be silly. You saved me from the consequences of my own folly. And you, er, explained matters beautifully. If you’d been less plausible or the Prince less persuadable,
then
you might have seen me take offense.”

We descended the stairs outside Carlton House. Thomas paused on the steps to gaze into the darkness. “I forgot,” he said. “I didn’t bring a carriage.”

“How
did
you end up outside the conservatory windows?” I asked.

“Walked. Or, rather, ran,” Thomas answered. “I was at Miranda’s house, where I had just forced the news of Dorothea’s elopement out of Mr. Strangle. It seemed to me that if Dorothea had gone off to marry Robert Penwood, then the ‘Dorothea’ attending the ball had to be Miranda. I could sense where the ring had been when it was destroyed—but I had to take the most direct path to that point or I would have lost my bearing on it. My route to Carlton House led me through half the kitchen gardens in Mayfair, and brought me into the Carlton House grounds behind the conservatory. I thought my heart would burst before I got to you.”

“She destroyed the ring to fetch you,” I said. “She wanted to let you watch while she took my youth and aged me to seventy-five.”

A little pause fell in which we fidgeted on the steps of Carlton House. I broke the silence to ask, “Did you say you forced the news out of Mr. Strangle? Does that mean you hit him?”

“It certainly does,” said Thomas.

“Oh, I’m so glad. Do you think you could hit any footpads who might set upon us if we walked home from here?” I asked.

“Tonight I would hit Cribb himself,” Thomas replied.

We set off into the darkness with a great and delicious sense of wrongdoing. After we had gone a good way, Thomas asked, “What was that my mother gave you as we left?”

I explained, including the fact that his mother knew our betrothal was a sham and her warning that a magical link between us might prove painful and distressing.

“Gammon,” said Thomas. “What do you think spared me from Dorothea’s enchantment? You keep that charm-bag safe. And as for our betrothal, you may cry off if you insist, but I wish you won’t. I like the idea of marrying you.”

I came to a halt in the street. “Oh, do you?” I asked.

“Yes, I do. I think we shall deal extremely.” Something in my manner penetrated his notice even in the dark. “Why? Do you have some objection?” he inquired uneasily.

“Only a very trifling one. You have never proposed to me,” I answered.

“Oh, well—if that is all,” said Thomas with relief. “I recollect making you the offer quite distinctly—”

I cut him off. “That was a matter of your convenience, conditional on my willingness to jilt you. I should like some indication that your desire to marry me extends beyond this evening’s whim.”

“Oh, you are being a perfect pig about this, Kate. What do you want me to say to you?”

“ ‘I love you,’ ” I informed him. He misconstrued me.

Fortunately, by the time we were quite finished kissing in a public thoroughfare, he had said it himself, with considerable feeling. I admit I, too, repeated the words several times. And we agreed that we should, indeed, deal extremely.

What with one thing and another, it took us quite a long while to walk back to Berkeley Square. When we were at the spot where the street opened out into the square, I stopped Thomas and held him for a moment with my hands on his shoulders.

“What is it, Kate?” he asked. I didn’t have to see him to know he was smiling; I could hear it in the dark.

“Miranda is dead,” I said, “but Sir Hilary is not.”

I felt the laughter leave him.

“Miranda is dead,” he said. “I’ll find a way to deal with Sir Hilary.”

“Thomas,” I said, exasperated, “you don’t by any chance
believe
all that rubbish I told the Prince about what a marvelous wizard you are, do you?”

Thomas laughed, and despite my irritation my heart lifted a little at the sound. “Very well,” said Thomas, “you and I will find a way to deal with Sir Hilary.”

He took my right hand in his left and put his other hand on my waist. With a monotone but rhythmic buzz, which I took to be his attempt to hum a waltz, he led me into a dance in the middle of the dark street.

“You and I and Lady Sylvia,” I said, obeying his lead.

Thomas stopped humming to say, “And James.”

“And Cecy,” I added.

“But not Aunt Charlotte,” said Thomas, as he changed direction.

“Definitely
not
, ” I said, following him through a sophisticated turn.

So, in the dark, to music only Thomas could hear, we waltzed the rest of the way up Berkeley Square. And when I was alone before the mirror in my bedroom I realized that Lady Sylvia was right. Despite the exertions of the night (and despite Thomas’s affectionate nature), my hair stayed up
all evening.

Love,

Kate

14 July 1817

Rushton Manor, Essex

Dearest Kate,

Your letter arrived this morning, and I was so delighted by your news I could scarcely contain myself. (Your news about marrying Thomas, I mean; your description of Miranda’s fate was, I admit, welcome, but I hope I am not so lost to propriety as to rejoice over it with such glee.) It was rather difficult to explain my emotion to Aunt Elizabeth, as she was, of course, unaware of the circumstances behind your betrothal. I must own that I have wondered for some time whether you were quite so indifferent to the odious Marquis as you claimed. I have told James everything, and he was relieved to know that Miranda will create no further difficulties; Sir Hilary alone has caused quite enough trouble, to his way of thinking. James also said that if you were anything at all like me he did not know whether to send Thomas his felicitations or condolences. I believe he intends to send both (though I assured him you were far more sensible than I and would suit Thomas admirably), so I thought I ought to warn you in case Thomas makes one of his sharp remarks.

Things have been very lively here as well. Saturday was completely taken up with all manner of last-minute preparations for Sir Hilary’s party—procuring a fan that would look well with the amber taffeta, helping Aunt Elizabeth with her hair, etc. I took a great deal of trouble over my appearance, for if I was going to have to face Sir Hilary, I wished to do so looking as well as I possibly could. There is nothing that is quite so reassuring in an awkward situation as knowing that one is well turned-out, and while I hope I am not so fainthearted as to
require
such stratagems, I am not so foolish as to overlook their value. The dress suited me to perfection—Mrs. Hobart trimmed it with a brown velvet ribbon that is very nearly the same shade as my hair, and I wore brown satin slippers and Mama’s locket.