Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Call

by P. T. Dilloway

  “She would believe anything that would give her control of the coven.”

  “So you killed her?”

  “It had to end.”

  “Why didn’t you just have someone bring her back for trial?”

  “What good would a trial have done? We could have given her the same punishment as Morgana and then fifteen years later she would be right back at it.” Glenda shakes her head sadly. “This isn’t the first time this has happened.”

  “Let me guess: the last time she roped Agnes and I into her scheme and you punished all three of us.”

  “No. You and Agnes volunteered.” I remember what Mama said before she died, so it’s not much of a shock when Glenda continues, “You and Agnes were as old as Annabelle and I. You were tired of living. You needed a new life. Annabelle thought if she raised the three of you together as sisters, you and Agnes might rub off on Sophie. Of course it didn’t work. That one was rotten to the core.”

  “Who killed her? You? Hisae? Tabitha?”

  “None of us. You were exactly right in there: I gave the villagers the charm so they could try her. The mortals didn’t need much prompting to think she was a witch. They’re such small, paranoid creatures.”

  I suddenly feel a tingle I haven’t felt since I became a witch. My body begins turning white, just as it did back in the forest when Henri and I kissed. I break free from Glenda’s grip and then hurl her across the room with a Static Charge spell. She slams into the wall, leaving an indentation shaped like her body.

  When she stands up, the ancient woman with the white hair is gone, replaced by a young woman with long black hair and skin that’s glowing white like mine. Her eyes glow with equally bright blue light as she glares at me. “You had better stop this now, Sylvia.”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me? Right here, with Agnes in the next room?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Sophie was right about you. You’re more powerful than you let on. You just don’t show it so we think you need us for your stupid coven—”

  I can’t get any more words out as my throat begins to constrict. I hold up a hand to cast another Static Charge spell, but Glenda zips across the distance between us in the blink of an eye. She grabs my right arm, twisting it in the wrong direction until it snaps. I scream with pain and she lets me drop to the floor.

  The glow fades from my body, leaving me broken and writing in agony. Glenda’s body reverts to its elderly form as Aggie comes running into the room. “What’s going on in here? Why are you two fighting?”

  “She…killed…Sophie,” I manage to get out.

  “The mortals killed Sophie,” Glenda says.

  Aggie bends down to examine my broken arm. Glenda could fix it if she used her real power, but she won’t, not in front of her faithful servant Agnes. So I have to lie on the floor, almost blinded by pain while Aggie runs upstairs to fetch a Restoration potion.

  This leaves me alone with Glenda again. The head of the coven kneels down, putting a hand on my back. “I’m sorry it had to be this way, Sylvia. You don’t remember what it was like before the coven. There was chaos. Witches fighting witches, doing terrible damage to the world. Your mother and I started the coven to unite the witches and to safeguard magic. I won’t let anyone destroy that—not Sophie or you or even Agnes.”

  “You can’t kill us all.”

  “Sylvia, please, listen to reason for once. Sophie killed your mother. She set Morgana up to betray us—and nearly kill you. What happened was justice.”

  “It was murder!”

  “Sometimes murder is justice.” She pauses to listen for Aggie’s footsteps. “You still have one sister. Do you want to destroy her too?”

  “Agnes can handle the truth about what you did.”

  “Maybe.” Glenda’s eyes burn with blue light again. “Do you think I’ll let you and her turn on me? Before you can count to five, I’ll have you both in cribs, sucking from some wet nurse’s teat, like Morgana. Is that what you want for her?”

  I think back to the archives, of Morgana flailing her tiny limbs and screaming. Only now I see Aggie’s face in her place. I shake my head. “No.”

  “Then let it go. Stop making these wild accusations.” Glenda takes my other arm, not to break it, but to help me sit up. “Take some time off. Focus on your sister—and that little stable boy.”

  “You know about David?”

  “I saw you two riding up to the stables. He looks a lot like Henri, doesn’t he?” She brushes hair away from my face to look me in the eye. “But he has hair like yours. He’s probably what your child would have looked like, once you left us.”

  I close my eyes and think of Henri and then David. “Did you kill Henri too? Or did Mama?”

  “Neither of us. The mortals don’t need our help to kill each other. You know that.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  Aggie finally returns with the potion. I take it from her and drink from the vial; it tastes like burnt peppermint. She puts an arm under one of my armpits while Glenda takes the other. I can already feel the potion working, my head becoming light. I’m tired. So tired. I fall asleep in their arms.

  ***

  Aggie is sitting beside my bed when I wake up. She smiles at me, but stops me before I can sit up. “Take it easy,” she says.

  I turn to the window—it’s daylight now. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days.”

  “Two days?”

  “You had a lot of healing to do.”

  I hold up my right arm, which is bent the right way now. I flex it, feeling no pain. Aggie’s potion worked as it should. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t need to thank me. That’s what sisters do for each other.”

  “I suppose.” I look around my old bedroom, but we’re alone. “Where’s Glenda?”

  “She left after we got you upstairs.”

  “That figures.”

  “She felt terrible about what happened.”

  “I bet she did.”

  “Sylvia—”

  “Why don’t you wake up and see what’s happening? Glenda isn’t some helpless old woman. She’s lying to you.”

  “Mother trusted Glenda with her life—with our lives. That’s all I need to know.”

  I want to argue with Aggie about this, but then I remember what happened in the dining room. No, Glenda wouldn’t hesitate to turn Aggie and I into babies like Morgana if we get out of line. She’ll do anything to protect her precious coven. That was if she didn’t just arrange for an “accident” to befall us as she did with Sophie.

  I lean back against the bed, my eyes turning to the shelves with my old dolls. There are so many reminders here of Mama and Sophie. It’s a house full of lies and betrayals. I shake my head slowly. “Agnes, I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize—”

  “No, not for that. For what I have to do.”

  “Sylvia, don’t do anything foolish. I don’t want to lose you too.”

  I take her arm and look into her eyes. “You don’t need me. You’re a grown up now.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “I have to go, Agnes. I can’t stay here.”

  “That’s fine. We can find another place—”

  “I want to go alone.” I sigh and turn to the window. David is out there, probably riding his white pony around. I think of his joyful face when he rode the horse home. I would like to stay here, to help make him happy, but that would only be another lie. He’s not Henri. He’s not our son either. In time he’ll grow up and start a family of his own. He’ll grow old and then he’ll die too—he is just a mortal. “I need some time to think.”

  Aggie says nothing for a moment, but then finally nods. “If that’s what you want.”

  It doesn’t take me long to pack since most everything I need is already at the house in Edinburgh. I dress in my hunting outfit, one that Aggie made me years ago. She comes back into the room after I finish getting dressed. Before
I can say anything, she hugs me. “I’m sorry, Agnes. I wish it could be different.”

  “So do I.” Aggie isn’t crying, but I’m sure she is on the inside.

  I pat her back and whisper, “You’re still my big sister.”

  Aggie smiles tiredly at me and then pats the silver braid running down her back. “I don’t know what I’ll do with my hair without you here.”

  We both laugh at this. “I’m sure one of the maids can do it.” I think of my conversation with David’s father. I didn’t get the chance to talk to Aggie about that with everything that happened. I tell her that I want to raise the wages for the Devereaux family and to send the youngest children to school.

  “Of course. It’s only fair after what they’ve done for us.”

  “Good.” I heft my bag on my shoulder. “I guess I should be going.”

  We hug one final time. “Take care of yourself, dear.”

  “You too.”

  I vanish out by the stables. David is inside, brushing down his pony. When he sees me in the doorway, his face lights up with a smile. That is until he sees the bag on my shoulder. “Are you going somewhere?” he asks.

  “Yes. I’m taking a little trip.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure. Could be a while.”

  “Why?” His voice trembles and then he begins to cry. He turns away from me, burying his head against his pony. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have taken the horse.”

  I go over to him, rubbing his back. “No, that’s not it. It has nothing to do with you.” I take him by the shoulders, turning him to face me. I wipe the tears from his eyes. “I care about you very much, David. You’re my friend. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s always what grown ups say. I’m not stupid!”

  I smile slightly at this. “No, you’re not stupid. You’re a very smart little boy. And you’re going to get even smarter. My sister is going to pay for you to go to school. You and your brothers and sisters.”

  “I don’t want to go to school!”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll still get to ride your horse.”

  “But I won’t get to spend time with you anymore, will I?”

  “No, not for a little while. But I promise I’ll come back really soon.”

  Even as I say this, I know it’s a lie. I know I’m not going to see David again. As much as I care about him, there are too many painful memories around this entire estate anymore. The memories of Henri, Mama, and Sophie linger everywhere like a bad smell. I need to get away from here, to clear my head. Only then can I decide what to do about Glenda and the coven.

  Being only a child, David believes my lie. He gives me a hug. “Come back soon,” he says.

  “I will.” I stop in the doorway of the stables to wave to him one last time. Then I go around the corner and vanish myself back to Edinburgh.

  Uncle Bob is sitting on his stool, going over the accounts like usual. I have to tap him on the shoulder before he realizes I’m there. “You’re back,” he says. “Not a moment too soon. Some gentlemen from London have been trying to reach you for days.”

  These gentlemen wisely left a note with their names and the address of their inn. I nod and then write Uncle Bob a note, saying, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Before I worry about that, I go upstairs to rest, still feeling hung over from the Restoration potion and the effort of vanishing myself around. There’s plenty of time to rest now—I have my whole life ahead of me.

  Part 3

  Chapter 16

  Sitting in the café, I start to feel my age. I hate the 18th Century. I hate the dresses that weigh a hundred pounds and make me feel as slow and heavy as a cow. I hate waltzes and that Austrian fuck Mozart. I really hate corsets. At this point I would give anything to go back to the simpler times of the 16th or even 17th Centuries.

  The powdered wigs I’m torn about. On one hand it’s irritating to have a twenty-pound weight on your head. On the other, I enjoy fashioning the elaborate designs, sculpting them out of someone else’s hair. Those are what actually drew me to Paris, where I have a thriving little shop and a stable of loyal, wealthy clientele. Most of these clients are men, but there are some women—like me—who would rather wear a wig than go through all the effort to make it look as if they are wearing one.

  I’m sitting in the café to meet the husband of one of my clients. Not for anything romantic—there’s been no one since Henri all those years ago—but for a more noble cause. Dissent is stirring against the latest King Louis, revolution is in the air, and I want to be a part of it. Bringing down a descendant—however distant—of that other King Louis who doomed Henri to death would make this dismal century worthwhile.

  The good thing and the bad thing about owning a popular wig shop is the busybodies who frequent it. The bad thing is that I have to listen to their yammering and pretend as if I care about who is sleeping with whose gardener or whose son just went to America to become a fur trader or whose daughter is about to marry some rich marquis. Most of the time I want nothing more than to tell them to shut up, buy a wig if they want one, and get the hell out. But sometimes they let slip something useful. Such as when one noblewoman said her husband has been spending a lot of time in his study with the riff-raff from the university.

  It didn’t take me long to make contact with this woman’s husband and to set up a meeting at this café. In my letter, I’m careful not to give my name in case the letter falls into the wrong hands, but mostly because my countrymen are not all that enlightened when it comes to the rights of women. The letter only gives a time and a location—the back corner table of this café along the river.

  The man is fashionably late, which is fine for a soiree, but not for a business deal like this. Damned French, I think to myself, despite that I’ve been French for nearly three hundred years. The English, Germans, Dutch, and Swedes never keep me waiting like this. Only the damned French with their sense of style have to make me wait.

  The man finally shows up, looking every bit like a wealthy dandy. I recognize his flowing wig as one of the first I fashioned after opening my shop. His mouth turns down in a scowl as he sees me sitting at the table in my bulky dress and two-foot-high wig. “Excuse me, madam, but I believe you have the wrong table,” he says. “I am supposed to meet a man here to discuss some business.”

  “I’m afraid I am the man you’re here to meet.”

  “You? But you’re a—”

  “A woman? Very observant.”

  “Such impertinence. If you were my wife—”

  “I know your wife. She’s sleeping with your stable boy.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Sit down, monsieur and let’s get down to business.”

  I can see the man wants to turn on his heel and walk away; I shouldn’t have told him about his wife’s infidelity. He turns halfway, but then with a sigh collapses onto the seat across from me. He signals the waiter to bring him a cup of coffee. The popularity of coffee is one thing about this century I don’t mind.

  “Your letter said that you could help us,” the man says, his voice as bitter as the coffee.

  “And I can.”

  “We don’t need a woman’s help.”

  “I’m not just a woman. I also happen to be in a business that would be very beneficial for you and your friends.”

  “What business is that?”

  “I sell guns.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. I can sell you enough muskets to equip a whole division. And since I believe in your cause, I’m willing to sell them at a substantial discount.”

  The man considers this while taking a sip of his coffee. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

  “How do I know that I can trust you?”

  “You would question my honor? You impudent—”

  The only good thing about these clu
nky dresses is that they make it easy to conceal weapons. I keep a pistol in my right sleeve, the holster designed so with one jerk of my forearm it’s in my hand and pointed at the man’s neck. “I’ve had about enough of that kind of talk. Maybe you’re too dumb to understand, but I want to help you. I’m not going to do it for free. You look around and I think you’ll find my prices are much fairer than anyone else’s.”

  Despite the gun pointed at his neck, the man sneers at me. “Maybe we don’t need to buy guns at all.”

  “I’m sure you’re going to get really far with a bunch of old muskets. I can sell you the newest models, stuff better than what Louis’s troops are using in the field.”

  I want to throttle the man when he shakes his head. “We already have a plan to procure the weapons we need. Good day to you, madam.”

  I watch the man go, sliding my pistol back into its holster. Yes, I definitely hate the 18th Century.

  ***

  It takes a half hour to wrestle out of the dress, corset, and wig. I spend a few minutes scraping off the makeup on my face and then combing out my hair. Looking in the mirror, it feels good to see myself again, not some tarted-up “lady.” This makes me think first of Mama and then of Aggie. She’s still living on the estate; I wonder if she’s succumbed to these trends or if her isolation has made her into an antique.

  It takes far less time to slip into a normal peasant dress. I leave my hair down, letting it breathe. Then I head out from my apartment to the nearest tavern.

  The Frenchmen aren’t much more enlightened about women in taverns either. They assume that you’re either a waitress or a whore. When a slimy little worm tries to buy me a drink, I decline. “Come now, mademoiselle—”

  I jab him in the throat with my left hand. While he gasps for air, I signal the bartender to bring me a drink. “And put it on his tab,” I say.

  I take my drink into the darkest corner of the bar, thinking that I should have vanished back to my favorite watering hole in Edinburgh. I’ve gone there for so many years they have a table reserved for me. The staff turns over enough there that no one ever gets suspicious of how Sylvia Joubert manages to keep coming in after ninety years.