by Emma Newman
“I have a robe you can borrow,” Lucy said. “You can change in the guest bedroom and bathe in my bedchamber. The fire is lit already. Had I known you were coming here first I’d have made other arrangements.”
Cathy had forgotten about how they lived. How would she forget the convenience of hot running water? Showers? Flushing toilets? The Great Families called the mundanes “savages” but there was better sanitation in Mundanus.
Before they’d even reached the bedroom a small army of servants had been put to work and Cathy realised that she’d tuned out of the conversation.
“Perhaps they’ll find them,” Lucy was saying as she opened a door.
“Find what?”
“Your bags. Were they misplaced at the port? I remember the delays I had when I moved here. It seemed to take just as long to get out of the port as it did to cross the Atlantic.”
“Umm…” Cathy couldn’t settle on a reply. She’d got used to big lies, ones that explained away her entire childhood, not stupid things like turning up waif-like in the most inappropriate clothes ever seen in Aquae Sulis.
“I’ll send for tea,” Lucy said, letting go of Cathy’s hand at last to go over to the bell-pull.
“I don’t want tea,” Cathy blurted. She wanted a Leffe blonde beer in a tall, sweating pint glass. She wanted a kebab. And a cuddle with Josh.
“Look, something is obviously wrong here.” Lucy moved away from the bell-pull. “You don’t seem like a girl coming home. You seem like someone dragged off the street and wondering where the hell she is.” Lucy was sounding very American all of a sudden.
“It’s that obvious?”
“Honey, you’re no actress.”
Her new sister-in-law sounded more like a mundane than a daughter of a wealthy Society family but Cathy didn’t have the mental space to fathom that puzzle. She sat on the bed and put her head in her hands. It was as heavy as a bowling ball and felt just as thick. “What has Tom told you?”
“That you’ve been away in Switzerland and that your travel arrangements were disrupted.” Lucy sat next to her, strangely close. Perhaps it was an American thing. “He’s been so tense. All he said was that he was waiting for a message to come and pick you up. He raced out of the house first thing this morning before we’d even had breakfast.”
“Oh.”
“He lied to me, didn’t he?”
Cathy reddened. “Well…”
“It’s OK, I knew something was up.”
Cathy twisted to face her. “I didn’t mean to dump him in it.”
“I know he doesn’t trust me yet. It’s OK, really.”
“How long have you been married?”
Lucy frowned. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, bollocks to all of this,” Cathy said, throwing her hands up in the air. “I wasn’t in Switzerland, I was in Mundanus. I was at Cambridge for a year and then I ran away about eighteen months ago. I look like I’ve been dragged off the street because I practically was. I didn’t want to come back.”
Lucy’s eyes were as round as chocolate buttons. “You ran away and hid in Mundanus?”
“Yeah.”
“And lived there, all that time, without any help?”
Cathy regretted her honesty. “Yeah.”
“Awesome!”
She twitched. “You don’t think I’m some horrible, selfish cow?”
“No,” Lucy said with a laugh. “I figure you’ve got guts to live in Mundanus. It’s not an easy place to go if you’re brought up in Nether Society. And I’ve met your parents. I’m impressed you stood up for what you wanted, they’re pretty intimidating. So I think you’re awesome.”
Cathy scratched her head. “I didn’t stand up for myself, I ran away like a bloody coward. I avoided all of the messy stuff back then, so it’s even worse now. I don’t know what I’m going to say to them. It’s all got a bit complicated.”
Lucy grinned. “You Brits, you worry too much about what other people think.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said, the vowel sounding closer to the Queen’s English. “Listen, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through with Tom but I can see you’re upset and I can see you’re exhausted. Take a bath, have something to eat – when Tom gets back I’ll ask him how things are at your place and, if your parents are angry, well, maybe it’d be better for you to stay here and see them in the morning after you've rested.”
Cathy felt herself welling up. “Sorry,” she said, sniffing, horribly embarrassed. “My eyes are scratchy, you know, because I’m tired.”
“I know.” Lucy smiled. “I’ll get you that robe.”
Cathy looked down at her battered trainers and grubby jeans. This was potentially the last time she’d wear trousers and comfortable footwear. “What is wrong with you?” she muttered to herself as the sniffing threatened to become snivelling. “You’re thinking about that now? Focus!”
But she couldn’t. Somewhere deep down, beneath the extraordinary fatigue, the hollow hunger, the anxiety, impotent rage and hatred of her return to the Nether, there was the knowledge that she’d have to think up a fantastic third wish and faster than she could bleat “But it’s all so unfair.”
The room was decorated like an Edwardian hotel; impersonally luxurious, floral and full of chintz. She lay back on the bed and looked up at the glass bowl of the light fitting, thinking about the tiny sprite trapped inside. Her whole life before she’d ran away she’d never even thought of them, now she found herself relating. Apart from the shining part. She’d never do that, literally or figuratively.
The robe was brought in by a silent maid who curtsied without making eye-contact. It was thick cotton, dark blue and long enough to make Cathy suspect it belonged to Tom rather than Lucy. She could hear the patter of feet up and down the stairs as the servants carried buckets of hot water to the neighbouring room to fill the bath.
Reluctantly, she took off her clothes and shrugged on the robe, waiting for the invitation to bathe. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cheval mirror and saw how wrecked she looked. Her hair was just a tangled lump held in place by an elastic band she’d found when packing. It looked like someone had stapled a dead hamster to the back of her head. Stray wisps and her reddened eyes made her look slightly crazy. She was so pale and the skin around her eyes was so black she looked unwell. She certainly felt it.
She flopped back onto the bed, feet dangling over the edge and closed her eyes, knowing the maid would collect her when the bath was ready, and drifted towards a restless sleep.
“Miss Plain? Miss Mundane? Wake up!”
Waking was like climbing out of a well. A sharp pinprick on the tip of her nose made her eyes half open but, when she saw the faerie hovering just a few centimetres above her face, she was wide awake and scrabbling up the bed away from it.
“Time’s up!” the faerie chimed with delight.
“It’s not – there’s still nearly twenty-four hours till the ball!”
The faerie sighed. “Lord Poppy has been so patient, considering how dreadfully boring you’ve been.” It flew over to the mirror. “He doesn’t want to wait a moment longer.” It tapped the glass and it rippled like the surface of a lake. When it settled again, the room was no longer reflected. Instead Cathy could see a beautiful meadow under a blue sky.
Exilium.
“He’s waiting,” the faerie said with a clap of her hands. “Come on!”
“But I’m not even dressed, I can’t go there in a bath robe!”
The faerie blew a raspberry. “Wearing clothes won’t make any difference to how ugly you are or make you more interesting. Stop wasting time.”
Cathy got off the bed, tightened and double-knotted the robe’s belt and approached the mirror. Of course he wanted the final wish to be made in Exilium, it would make it so much easier to enslave her, or reduce her to an automaton as he’d threatened. She’d never been in the other world, but she’d had countless lessons about how dangerous it was. On the other side of the mirror a ca
reless word or even just a simple lapse in etiquette could lead a mortal into slavery as quickly as an insect dropped in a specimen jar.
Her family’s patron was waiting, and there was nothing to be done. Cathy held her breath and stepped through.
16
“If Elizabeth Papaver is wearing blue I swear I shall die.”
Will raised an eyebrow at Imogen, wondering if there would ever be a year when his sister wouldn’t make such a fuss on the way to the opening ball. It always peaked when they were in the carriage, and always focused on what everyone else would be wearing.
“I thought you bribed someone to look at the delivery before it left the tailors,” Nathaniel said, not bothering to hide his boredom.
“Elizabeth might have paid them more to tell me the wrong colour,” Imogen said. “It does happen. And ladies have seamstresses, not tailors.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Imogen,” Will said. “Even if she does wear the same colour as you, it won’t exactly be the scandal of the season.”
It silenced her long enough for them to leave the Crescent. Will knew why their parents always rode in a separate carriage ahead of them; so they didn’t have to listen to her nervous prattling.
“I wonder what Catherine Papaver will be wearing,” she said. “I do hope it isn’t yellow. That would make her look positively horrendous.”
“It doesn’t take much,” Nathaniel said and they sniggered.
Will decided to remain aloof from it all. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Catherine either, but he’d made his plans and all was prepared. Being sucked into cruel speculation wasn’t going to achieve anything.
“You have to accept it, William,” his mother had said to him that morning. He’d sought her out after a sleepless night of endless imaginary arguments with his father. “Marriage happens to us all.”
“But why her? Why not Elizabeth?”
“Do you really want to marry that empty-headed child?”
“No,” he’d admitted. “But at least she wouldn’t embarrass us. What did I do to insult Father so? I’ve never given him cause for anger or disappointment. Why punish me like this?”
“Oh, Will.” His mother sat next to him. “It isn’t like that at all. Don’t you see how this proves how much trust he has in you? He knows he can depend upon you to make this a success.”
Will struggled to bring his thoughts back to the carriage when his brother cleared his throat.
“Father says the Master of Ceremonies wasn’t back this afternoon,” Nathaniel said, having realised Will wasn’t going to be baited.
“How strange,” Imogen said. “Cecilia hasn’t heard a thing either.”
“Cecilia Peonia is an empty-headed fool,” Nathaniel said. “Of course she hasn’t.”
“She happens to have one of the best ears in town for the latest news.”
“Only one?” Will asked.
“And an excellent nose for gossip,” Imogen continued, ignoring him. “For her not to know a thing about all of this is most unusual. I feel sorry for the Censor, it must have been a terrible week.”
Will tried to imagine what it would be like to have an elder brother disappear without a trace.
“What?” Nathaniel asked as the broad smile bloomed across Will’s lips.
“Nothing. Ah, we’re here.”
Nathaniel was first out of the carriage after the footman had lowered the steps, then Will, who helped Imogen. His parents were straightening their attire nearby, closer to the entrance of the Assembly Rooms, and the streets of Aquae Sulis were filled with the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriages delivering attendees.
Imogen was keen to get inside as quickly as possible. She’d made that clear as they’d left the house; the silver embroidery of her bodice against the indigo of her dress was designed to look its best beneath sprite light inside the ballroom, not the diffuse grey light of the Nether. Nathaniel in contrast was happy to pose on the pavement, watching the other guests arriving, making sure he cut the finest silhouette with his formal attire and rapier.
Will scanned the carriages. None were emblazoned with the Papaver coat of arms, so he extended his arm to Imogen, thinking that, if he could keep her sweet for even just the first hour of the ball, it would be to his advantage as well as a first.
They made their way into a long, wide corridor filled with people meandering towards the ballroom. They were a little early; his father didn’t believe in being fashionably late, which always irritated Imogen as it deprived her of a large audience for her entrance. Will was indifferent, used to being the one overlooked. He wasn’t as famed as his brother, nor in line to inherit the family’s power, and Imogen was good at stealing away any other surplus attention.
“I’ve heard a rumour,” she said, in her best conspiratorial whisper, “there’s to be a surprise special guest this evening.”
“Perhaps it will be the Master of Ceremonies,” Will replied, uninterested. Normally he would have been happy to be entertained by such intrigues – they passed the time, after all – but tonight he had an agenda that took the shine off it all.
As they walked between the marble columns, he was greeted by people he hadn’t seen for years and certainly hadn’t missed. He made promises to play cards, to delight them with tales of adventure and to pass on the gossip from the colonies. He could hear murmurings about the absence of Mr Lavandula and wondered if the Papavers would want to delay the announcement because of the absence of Catherine’s uncle.
They entered the ballroom and it was as Will expected: unchanged, lavishly lit, beautifully decorated with its plain blue walls and elegant white stucco borders. The musicians were already in place up on the first-floor gallery overlooking the expansive space. Will could see the parents and chaperones of young ladies being approached by his peers, all eager to make arrangements for the minuet dancing that would begin the ball.
“And who, pray tell, is that?” Imogen whispered to him, skilfully indicating the direction with her new fan. It was still folded and now strung on a silver chain attached to her bracelet to hang free as she danced.
Will noticed the young man talking to Oliver Peonia. His friend usually had a constant half-smile on his face and cheeks like apples, round, red and shiny, but as he spoke in close conference with the stranger, Oliver was stern and rather pale.
He noticed Will and the spontaneous flash of his eyebrows in silent greeting was enough to make the stranger turn and look in their direction. Will spotted the deep red rose before any other feature, and from Imogen’s surprised gasp he assumed she had also.
“That can’t be the surprise guest!” she said behind her fan. “Not a Rose! Cecilia would have told me.”
“Looks as if he’s already making an impression,” Will remarked, studying his best friend’s demeanour.
“They’re coming over,” Imogen said. Will felt her grip on his arm tighten. “He’s rather handsome. I’ve never met a Rose before, but I’ve heard they’re ruthless. How exciting.”
“Good evening,” Oliver said with a bow. “Imogen, what a pleasure to see you again.”
He kissed her hand and Imogen waited patiently until it was over.
“Good evening,” Will replied, adding his own bow.
“Will you permit me to introduce my guest?” Oliver was trying his best, but Will could see that he was distinctly uncomfortable. “Imogen and William Reticulata-Iris, this is Horatio Gallica-Rosa of the city of Londinium.”
Horatio bowed and Imogen extended a gloved hand as he reached for it. He kissed it lightly. “A pleasure. You are indeed as lovely as I have been told.”
Imogen blushed the appropriate amount. “Are you in Aquae Sulis for the season?”
“Indeed. I’ve heard so much about it. Would you do me the honour of partnering you for the first minuet?”
“I would be delighted. William, I believe Father wants to speak with you.” She was using their code to indicate she wanted to be left alone to speak with the Rosa.
“Do you play cards, Mr Rosa?” William asked.
“I have been known to play a hand of poker now and then,” Horatio replied with a dangerous look in his eye.
“Then perhaps I will see you in the card room later,” Will concluded and took his leave of them.
Oliver also made an excuse once he realised what Imogen wanted and fell into step with Will. “You may need to warn your brother about him, my friend,” he whispered.
“Oh?”
“Horatio is the finest duellist in Albion, or so he is wont to believe.” Oliver leaned in closer. “And he’s heard of Nathaniel’s reputation as a fine swordsman. A cautionary word in your brother’s ear may be wise.”
“Regardless of wisdom, my brother has never taken any of my advice, and does not respond well to warnings,” said Will dismissively. “If he insists on getting into a duel, that’s his affair. Now, tell me, why are you sponsoring a Rosa for the season?”
“Father insisted.” Oliver’s glance at his parents as they passed was rather cool. “And don’t ask me why, I have no idea. That Rosa is an oily wretch and I fear he will do nothing but cause trouble, as they always do. Have you heard the rumours about his family?”
“I’ve heard enough to infer they take the most direct path to their goals, even if it takes them through unsavoury places.”
“I’ve heard their wealth is drawn from a network of criminal activity in Mundanus.” Oliver glanced back at Horatio. “He’s greasing up your sister, Will, shouldn’t you go back?”
“What a vulgar turn of phrase,” Will said with a smirk. “An excellent souvenir of the Grand Tour, I shall do my best to make it popular this season. Imogen can take care of herself. If there’s anyone who should be worried it’s Cecilia for not informing her that a dashing swordsman is in town.”
