by C. L. Polk
“Gown? But your father—”
“What in Heaven are you ladies chattering about so loudly?” Father stood in the doorway of his library, where he spent his days poring over correspondence, half a dozen broadsheets, and his favorite pipe. Sweetly flavored smoke wafted into the foyer, and Beatrice suppressed a cough as it tickled her throat.
“Father, the most wonderful thing! Beatrice so impressed at the card party that she has an invitation to Julia Robicheaux’s birthday ball tonight, and the whole family is invited! Julia’s just my age, and befriending her would make an excellent connection—”
“Tonight!” Father said. “Impossible. We have a guest.”
“A guest?” Beatrice replied.
“The inventor Udo Maasten has consented to have dinner with us tonight.”
Tonight! What dreadful timing! Beatrice cast a look at her younger sister, who caught her eye before turning a pretty smile on Father. “But to turn down an invitation from Sir Gregory Robicheaux would be seen as a snub! Beatrice must attend this party.”
“I invited Ser Maasten already,” Father said. “Beatrice must attend this dinner. He’s a little older than the fickle young men of your circle, my dear. He could be a grounding influence.”
A little older, Father said. What did that mean? Was he thirty? Forty? One of the older gentlemen of wealth who brought their purses to Chasland for bargaining season, certainly. Beatrice tried to imagine marriage to a man around Father’s age, and she swallowed before reaching for careful words. “The party doesn’t begin until ten, so I can make time for both.”
“Beatrice would have been invited earlier if she’d made a proper showing at the Assembly Dance,” Harriet argued. “But she can’t turn down her first invitation to a private ball! She’ll be seen as too glum and shy to be a proper hostess for her husband if she doesn’t go.”
“She couldn’t turn down the invitation to the card party, either,” Father said.
“Speaking of that,” Beatrice said, “here are my winnings from last night.”
Father cocked his head, a frown creased deeply between his eyes. “Winnings?”
She produced the pouch with her original fifty-crown stake, and a net bag containing the chits that tallied up her profit.
“What is this?” he asked, and outside the door, carriage bells rang. “Who is that?”
“That’s my carriage. I’m on my way to visit Ysbeta Lavan, Father,” Beatrice said. “And Ianthe will join us to play hazards when he returns from his business in Meryton.”
“I have not yet met Ianthe Lavan,” Father said, eyeing the bag of chits. “And thus far, he has not called on you, or extended any kind of invitation to you that would indicate his interest.”
“He has asked me to join him and Ysbeta on a trip to Pigment Street tomorrow,” Beatrice said. She stepped backward, once, twice. “I have to rush. They’re waiting for me, I should—”
Father’s gaze froze her in place. “How much did you win?”
She sighed and got it over with. “Three hundred and eighty crowns.”
Father’s reading lenses fell from his nose. “How?”
“The stakes were ten crowns a point.”
“But you must have won almost every hand you played,” Father said. “How did that happen?”
“Luck.” A jagged little giggle spilled out of her mouth. It was true, after all.
“The Lavans and the Sheldons owe me half the money to finance our lease on the townhouse, due to luck? Beatrice.”
“Chance put those cards in my hands, Father, nothing more.” Beatrice said. “I really have to go, they’re waiting—”
Father rubbed his face, smearing ink along his cheek. “And you’re on a visit with Ianthe Lavan’s sister.”
“Yes. And I have to go—”
“But what about the party?” Harriet asked. “You haven’t said if we may attend, and there will be a number of girls my age in attendance. I should take the opportunity to expand on my connections.”
Father stood unmoved by this reasoning. “I can’t uninvite Ser Maasten.”
“I will go with the girls,” Mother said. “And then you can stay with Ser Maasten. Her popularity should be understandable, in a season with only fourteen ingenues.”
“That’s right,” Harriet agreed. “Why, if you tell him she couldn’t refuse this other engagement, it will only help increase her appeal.”
“And she is standing right here,” Beatrice said.
“You may go to the ball tonight, after dinner with Ser Maasten,” Father said with a sigh. He shook the bag of chits at her, still frowning. “We’ll speak of this later.”
Which could mean he would call her to the carpet, or that they would manage never to speak of it again. Beatrice bobbed her knees and fled across the foyer, scarcely pausing to allow the footman to open the door for her.
Ysbeta waited in a shade-filled nook with her self-waving fan and another wide shallow bowl heaped with colorful chilled fruit. She was dressed in a bright pink gown, her hair captured in a crystal-beaded net that glinted in the sunshine. The book lay on the table for anyone to see, but it was not the volume Beatrice wanted most. The maid who brought Beatrice out to join her left them alone before she could serve Beatrice some punch.
Beatrice could pour her own punch. But Ysbeta spoke as soon as she touched the handle.
“Why is summoning a greater spirit so important to you?”
Beatrice poured before she answered. “Because it’s such a waste. You said it yourself. My strength in the power is notable. Why should I have that power locked away? Why can’t I use it?”
“One may argue that you’re acting out of a selfish pursuit of pleasure,” Ysbera commented. “I seek to bring the knowledge of magic outside the chapterhouse’s methods to the world, so that valuable techniques are not lost—a cause outside myself. But you have made no mention of similar aims.”
“I enjoy using the power. I won’t deny that. But it’s a tool I can use to repair the fortunes of my family. I can give Harriet the opportunities I didn’t have. Father can enjoy the comfort and the prominence he yearns for.”
“And you will be the tragic thornback daughter,” Ysbeta said. “You will never be recognized for your efforts.”
Beatrice set down her glass of punch. “But I will be compensated by the freedom to make those efforts.”
“Use of the power is reward enough for you. Are the higher magics really so exhilarating?”
“That and more,” Beatrice said. “You’ll see, when you’re able to hold the four states of casting simultaneously.”
“I want to do it now,” Ysbeta declared. “Teach me something real. Not baby rhymes. A conjuration.”
“Magic circle first. And we need somewhere to hide,” Beatrice said.
“I know exactly where,” Ysbeta said. “What do I need, besides the book?”
“Light,” Beatrice said. “Chalk. Food from the kitchens. Spirits like sweet things, but anything will do.”
“For the offering,” Ysbeta said. She nudged a small valise with her toe. “I supposed we’d need a few things. This will do for the offering.” She twisted a mound of fruit into a fine cotton napkin and stood up. “We’re supposedly playing up to the house. That will give us an hour. Quintanis!”
Her voice carried across the lawn. A man looked up from instructing a younger man on trimming a perfectly spherical hedge. “Yes, miss?”
“Miss Clayborn and I are playing hazards this afternoon and we do not wish to be disturbed. Please keep the staff from the back half of the grounds.”
The man, wearing the green neckerchief of a head gardener, nodded. “As you wish, miss.”
“That’s our privacy assured.” Ysbeta pushed her chair back with a loud metallic scrape. “Come on.”
Beatrice followed Ysbeta as she strode past the perfectly trimmed hedges and blooming spring tulips. She passed a freshly mowed ball court, the net between the sides swaying on its line, and the excell
ent hazards course where they had played just yesterday.
Beatrice sped her pace, finally coming abreast of Ysbeta. “Where are we going?”
“There was an older home here,” Ysbeta said. “Father had Trenton Waterstone design the new house but left the outbuildings alone. This is the old path to the sanctum.”
The path sloped gently downward, but Beatrice could see part of a domed roof nestled among the trees. Ysbeta picked up her feet and ran the last part of the path, and Beatrice panted, trying to get a good breath in her stays.
They looked upon the sanctum. The private little tower, probably five hundred years old, was formed of hand-cut stone laid by master stoneworkers. Moss and lichen flourished in the seams; creeping trumpeter vine snaked up the round walls. Ysbeta led them inside the space, with moss growing between the stone tiles on the floor, lit by shafts of light from the empty spaces that once held window glass. Beatrice caught her breath as Ysbeta set her packing case on the flagstones.
“We have no priest, and we walk the twisting path when seeking spiritual guidance rather than silent meditation in the darkness.” Ysbeta said. “Our reverence for the Skyborn is different in Llanandras than it is here.”
“But you kept the sanctum in place.”
Ysbeta shrugged. “All praise to the Skyborn is valid. Everyone does it differently. Women are priests in Sanchi. Did you know that?”
“No.”
Ysbeta picked up the case with a grunt. “They retreat to the mountains to live a life of spiritual contemplation from the age of twelve. When they descend from the mountain some decades later, they are fully trained mages, respected spiritual leaders, and childless.”
“It sounds unreal. Why haven’t I heard of them?”
Ysbeta shrugged. “What if Chaslander women decided they wanted to do that too? Haring up your mountains to cloister themselves. Do you think society would allow it?”
“You have a point.”
“I wish I could go back and talk to them. It’s a year’s sailing, including the usual stops. If I could take my ship—”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Beatrice said. “You have a ship. You own it. You’re the captain of record. Doesn’t that mean that you command it?”
“Yes. But it’s only mine on paper,” Ysbeta said. “I’ve never set foot on the Pelican.”
“Why?”
Ysbeta tilted her head, her lips stretched in a bitter smile. “Because I own it. Because I am the captain of record. By maritime law, if I’m standing on the deck of a ship I own and captain, my rule of the Pelican is absolute—but it’s not really supposed to give me any power.”
“But you could,” Beatrice said. “Your ship is in harbor in Meryton right now. Why not just collect your crew and go?”
“I’d never see my family again,” Ysbeta said. “Mother would never forgive me. Father would abide by Mother.”
“He would abide by her?”
“She’s the oldest child of three,” Ysbeta said. “She rules her siblings absolutely. No one ever tried to stop her from taking charge. She had already made huge profits from the wealth she was allowed to control at sixteen. She used her money to buy her own treasure ship for the company. Mother is the heart of Lavan International Ventures, and everyone in Llanandras knows it.”
Beatrice stared at Ysbeta. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Running a business?”
“Getting the recognition for it,” Beatrice said. “I could probably help Father, if he’d let me. He has taught me enough that I can account for a business. That’s not Father’s problem, though.”
“What is?”
“Father sees other people’s success and it makes him jealous,” Beatrice said. “He’s knows it’s because they already had more to stand on—but Riverstone, the farm where we live, that’s Mother’s bride-gift. Father was an account clerk, the son of the farmer who lived next door. They were in love, and Mother could have married a wealthy mage, but she had her heart set on him.”
“Did her family object?”
“A little,” Beatrice confessed. “They would probably help us now, but Father would die before he admitted he failed to grow a fortune. Mother won’t tell her family—she’s too loyal.”
Ysbeta pressed her lips together, but she nodded, her eyes soft with sympathy. “Father would give Mother the moon, if he could build a tall enough ladder to take it out of the sky. Mother is used to ruling, and she’s reaped incredible fortunes with Father’s wealth. She’s been in every fashionable home in Bendleton with Father, talking with the wives, and then talking to Father about what he should do or who they should visit with next. She’s building a tapestry of connections, of opportunities, of future markets, all of it intended for Ianthe . . . and it all depends on me.”
“On you marrying Bard Sheldon.”
Ysbeta nodded, her arms clasped around her middle. “Yes. And with that thread couched into place, the rest will stitch itself.”
“But if your family forces you into marrying someone you don’t want—and worse, a man from a country who will lock you in a warding collar until you’ve exhausted yourself with birth after birth—”
Ysbeta held up one hand, quelling Beatrice’s words. “Stop. I can’t even think about it. The idea makes me ill.”
“But if they do that to you,” Beatrice persisted, “how could you forgive them? How can you forgive Ianthe, who will reap all the benefits of your sacrifice?”
“I know Ianthe doesn’t want me to marry his friend. But he’s only trying to smooth it over. He doesn’t really understand why it’s so awful.” Ysbeta looked out the doorway, her jaw tight. “This is the only way. I must command a greater spirit. You must teach me how to win its service.”
And then what? She didn’t need a spirit’s help to aid her family’s fortunes the way Beatrice did. Would her mother forgive her for defying her plans? That skated too close to Beatrice’s own worry. But Father wouldn’t be able to resist a spirit’s assistance in his ventures. He would allow Beatrice to quietly retire from social life and pursue the magic that would help the Clayborns grow rich. Wandinatilus, greater spirit of Fortune. She remembered the name. All she needed was to help Ysbeta gain her own independence. “What will you do with a spirit’s service? What do you want?”
“I want to write books,” Ysbeta said. “Books detailing all the common magic that women and working men use outside of the chapterhouse. Every country has its own traditions and techniques. They could be shared—I think they must be shared. So much has already been lost because it doesn’t serve the men of the chapterhouse.”
“So you want to travel the world and collect knowledge for the common magician.”
“And share it with them. Vocational magicians do the real work. They make the discoveries. They drive the innovations. If they have more knowledge, we will make a better world for them—and that prosperity will raise us all,” Ysbeta added.
“Who knew you were a radical?”
Ysbeta shrugged. “I’ve spent plenty of time in factories and laboratories. I know where our latest inventions have come from. We pay our inventors bonuses to keep them happy and encourage them to settle for the security of working for us rather than the risk of starting business for themselves.”
“That sounds like a fair trade to me.”
Ysbeta shrugged. “You’d change your tune if you saw the books.”
“But think how many more inventions there could be, if we freed women from the marriage collar,” Beatrice said. “Imagine how many great minds, how many creative spirits are lost to us because we found a cruel solution to the problem of possession and settled for it.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Ysbeta said. “I intend to be free. And when I have a greater spirit to aid me, I will find libraries lost to legend. Imagine hunting down the most ancient wisdom, lost secrets . . . Couldn’t you spend your life doing that?”
It was something out of a penny story. Dangerous, and exciting, featuring Ysb
eta as a true treasure hunter and scholar of the past? Beatrice nearly wanted to cast her own ambitions aside and join her. “I can see it. What an adventure it would be.”
“If I don’t do this, who will?” Ysbeta asked. “Every day, someone who knows a spell or a charm no one else knows passes on to Heaven, and their knowledge is lost. I can’t save everything, but someone has to try. If I had a greater spirit—I must make the great bargain, Beatrice. You have to help me.”
Beatrice heard Ianthe’s warnings from last night: if catastrophe strikes, a mentor must contain the damage, whatever the cost. If this went wrong . . . if Ysbeta lost command of her body, she would kill Beatrice. She would go on a rampage that would only end in her death. And when the Lavans pieced together what she and Ysbeta had been doing, nothing would stop them from suing Father into oblivion.
“We don’t have time to stand around thinking,” Ysbeta complained. “Teach me how to cast the circle.”
“We are going to cast a circle, and then we will take it down. You must master this casting before we can move on to the next step. You may practice casting and banishing circles on your own, but I will not teach you conjuration until you have mastered it.”
“Beatrice,” Ysbeta said, her voice careful and even. “I am not a child. This is dangerous. I understand the risks. Please begin.”
“Right.” Beatrice made a cradle of her hands, gathered just at her abdomen. “This is the sign of gathering.”
Ysbeta copied her gesture exactly.
“You begin like this. Use your breath to fill your belly and hands with light.”
She breathed, but the stays laced firmly around her waist stopped the breath from its fullest bloom. Ysbeta tried it and grimaced as fashion resisted her effort.
“We’ll have to unlace,” Ysbeta muttered.
More minutes wasted as they unpinned mantuas and unlaced stays—Ysbeta’s were exquisite, the stay bones hand-embroidered in place, and she grumbled the whole time. “Even our fashion stands in the way of our potential.”
“I’ve always done magic in my shift,” Beatrice confessed. “I never thought of this.”
