Whereas this boy, with his broad nose and full lips, seemed so comfortable in the fitted black tuxedo, he wore with the precision of a fine painting in a custom frame. A puffy silver tie was pulled tight around his collar. I believed it to be an ascot, but didn’t want to shame myself by asking. Yet there he sat with an air of casual grace that was something akin to boredom; I guessed there were few things left in the world that held excitement or novelty for him.
The boy leaned forward and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, cupping his palm over the end to light it. He leaned back and inhaled slowly, studying me with those strange eyes. When he exhaled, I watched the smoke circles expand and diffuse into darkness until a gauzy haze settled in the air between us.
“These carriages are abominably cold, especially in the dead of winter,” he said. His tongue ran over his lower lip as if it was mopping up a spot of ash.
Had he noticed me shivering in my dress? I did my best not to show it. If only I wasn’t so willow-thin, I wouldn’t chill so easily. That’s what mother was always saying, as she spread more butter, poured more milk, and piled more bread. “Eat, Rose, eat.”
“You don’t care for the cold?” I asked, my voice wavering. They were the first words I’d spoken since the initial greeting, and what a witty choice they were, I groaned. He glanced out the window, where frost crawled across the glass like spider webs.
But he answered sincerely. “I prefer the heat of the summer months.”
I nodded. I did, too, which was odd. Mother always preferred the cold. Most of our family did. But I froze in the winter. Couldn’t wait for the first buds of spring to cut through the frozen dirt and gift me their perfumed wisps of summer hope.
The boy gestured for me to sit across from him. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with my jeweled pocket book clutch that mother had borrowed, so I hung onto it on my lap as I made the awkward jump from the seat to his left to the one across.
But instead of asking me the same question, which would have been the polite thing to do, the boy looked down at his shoes, and I didn’t get to say the line about the spring and the flowers as I’d hoped. I didn’t know what to do next, so I looked at his shoes, too. Like everything, his were polished to perfection, and shone brightly in the moonlight streaming through the window.
Again, the fierce agony of inadequacy coursed through what little vanity I managed to possess.
I felt entirely out of my element.
Yet I did not want to get out of that carriage. I’d always longed to go to a magical ball. They were out of the question for a poor, human girl like me, so when an invitation appeared on my pillow, with golden cursive and my name, Miss Rose Garrett, I ran downstairs to show mother. How thrilled I was! I riddled mother with questions about my escort. But she knew nothing more than I. We just knew he’d be of a magic sort as they were the only ones with permission to go to the ball.
She seemed both excited and nervous and…frightened by the prospect, but in the end, she let me go. She didn’t have another choice; when you were invited, you went.
But now, I thought how odd it was to be so entranced by someone who’d rather look at his own shoe buckles than look into his evening companion’s eyes.
We sat there in chilly silence for what seemed like hours, but could only have been minutes, when, abruptly, the driver, a scruffy looking fellow with strange buggy eyes, peeked through the door and asked if we’d like to take the scenic route. My terse companion replied, “I like the way the fields look at night.” The driver responded swiftly with the snap of his whip across the beasts’ backs. I felt the sting, too, as the horses neighed and bucked into the crisp ink air.
I was jerked back into my seat as the mighty hooves pounded on the frozen dirt road, and the carriage took off once again into the night.
“You alright there, Rose?”
“Yes, thank you. Just a swift rush I hadn’t anticipated.”
The boy watched me from under thick dark lashes as we bounced along. When I could no longer bear looking away, I caught his eye and his amethyst eyes flashed so briefly I thought I might have imagined it. But I knew I hadn’t. He was a warlock after all. He was capable of much more than that. Why had he chosen this scenic route? Why would he spend more time alone with me when he seemed to care not a bit about getting to know me? Or, shivers ran down my spine, was he planning something dangerous? I’d heard rumors that warlocks weren’t as kind and righteous as they appeared; that they manipulated the witches who loved them with their charms.
I’d hoped the rumors weren’t true, but this boy had a darkness about him that was both seductive and frightening.
I smiled agreeably, trying to even out the energy. His brow furrowed as his curious eyes tried to sum me up, too.
Everyone knew warlocks were only to court witches, and I, though I practiced small oddities, was certainly no witch.
I imagined he was as curious as I was about the meaning of tonight’s arrangement.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning from the window, “I do not know your name.”
I flushed, ashamed. “But you wrote it on my invitation?”
“Ah, yes.” He lied. “Right, it’s…”
“Rose,” I said. This strange creature possessed an air of authority that I’d never observed in a boy his age, a boy who couldn’t be much older than I was, much more than sixteen.
The carriage rambled on through a dark and barren wood. We rode in silence. He stared at me for a moment, before looking back out the window. I suspected these were the fields he wanted to see. The corn reflecting in the moonlight did create a pretty picture.
“And you are William Gavin Jefferson the Third.”
“Ah, you did your homework.”
“It, too, was on the invitation,” I smiled shyly. “And besides, my mother wouldn’t let me out of the house with a nameless boy in a strange carriage now would she?”
“Wouldn’t she?” He looked me straight on.
He knew as well as I did. She didn’t have a choice.
“Though knowing my name isn’t exactly to know me.”
“Well, the Jeffersons are well known and proper and I suppose she felt that was enough.”
“I suppose,” he repeated, as if he didn’t agree. “It’s nice to meet you, Rose.” He took my hand in his left and shook it gently, the proper meeting of a gentlemen. My stomach burst into a fit of butterflies as he lifted it to his lips, but then lurched when, instead of pressing his red mouth to my hand, he froze. His handsome face twisted into disgust. “These gloves won’t do” He frowned.
Shame blushed my cheeks. “Why?”
“This mark here?” he said, turning my hand over in his palm. “It is stained. A lady should never wear stained gloves.”
I wrinkled my nose and brought my hand closer to my eyes. I saw nothing but pure white, and I had excellent vision. The eyes of a hawk, mother was always saying. “Have Rose find the thimble, she has the eyes of a hawk.” If nothing else, I was secure about my eyesight. Besides, Mother spent so much time bleaching and preparing my gloves. Everything I wore might be hideously uncomfortable, but it was perfectly clean right down to my shoes. My gloves were snow white.
“They are lily white,” I said. “You are blind as a bat.”
He laughed suddenly, and then stifled it, not wanting me to feel I’d made an impression.
“Look closer,” he insisted, “there’s a yellowish tint on the index finger.”
“Pardon me!” I said. “There most certainly is not!”
His dark eyebrow rose along with my voice as if I amused him. “There is, if you look closer.”
“But it is so dark in here!” I protested.
“I have a feeling you can See if you try, sweet Rose.”
Sweet Rose.
I detected a note of what my mother calls sarcasm in his tone.
I was not amused.
I focused my eyes on the glove.
Sure enough. White blurred into…gold.
<
br /> Gold dust glittered across the fabric.
He was right!
Mother. This had to have been her work. What was this all about?
“You see it now. The dust,” he said.
“Perhaps it’s gold powder is all,” I said. “Mother had a wonderful time fussing over me this evening,” I said, and then let my voice trail off, embarrassed at my girly confession.
I frowned and tried to get rid of the bothersome stain. Blowing on it didn’t help. Rubbing it didn’t either. In fact, it only made it worse. Smeared gold across my princess-white gloves!
“Do you wish to turn the carriage around and take me home,” I said, disappointment haunting my voice, “if I’m not dressed properly?”
I held my breath. I didn’t want him to take that bait.
This boy was a bit of a snob, but I wasn’t having a terrible time. In fact, compared to my normal evenings of helping mother with her mending, it felt like a dream. A bit of a frosty spider-webbed dream, but a dream nonetheless.
“Now that would be a shame wouldn’t it?” William responded. “To waste that pretty dress on a dull evening at home?”
At the compliment my lip raised at the edges.
His lips almost did the same, but then his eyes iced over again. He held his palm out. “Please.”
He took my small hand in his palm, cradling it almost. My heart stood still, and I didn’t dare breathe as he slowly peeled the silky fabric from each of my fingers, gingerly, as if he were unwrapping a bandage.
Heat rushed like a volcanic river from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.
I was frozen to my seat. I thought of a million things to say, yet could say nothing.
Time stopped.
When he was finally finished with the artful untangling, he dangled the limp glove from his two fingertips as if it was a rotten fish, then he balled it up and stuffed it into his pocket.
Aware of the distaste on his etched face, I sat quietly for the remainder of the journey.
I had never seen so much beauty in all my life.
As our wheels crunched up the long, graveled drive, I watched stunning couples escape their carriages and stroll up candle lit paths that intertwined like a labyrinth before disappearing through wide open doors into the ballroom of a majestic mansion. The gowns sparkled and glittered as they swirled around the ankles of angel-lovely creatures, eyes hidden behind masks attached to little wands over their eyes. I turned to my escort with a question in my own eyes.
“It’s a Masquerade ball,” William said in a cloying tone. “Let me guess, you are not prepared for Bal masque?”
“Masquerade?”
The boy sighed, but I could see amusement in his eyes. “Where did Father dig you up?” he drawled with his almost Southern lilt. I wondered if his family had moved north recently. I made a note to ask him later should he be willing to talk. “A Masquerade. Disguise your eyes?”
I shook my head. I knew not of the term, and I hated how his tone made me feel inferior.
“Worry not, pretty girl. I’m nearly positive they will have extras once we are inside,” he said with a smile.
I let out a slow, cool breath.
“You’ll have to stop doing that,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. “You are giving me the chills.”
He stared at me knowingly, and then licked his lip quickly. My heart raced, and electricity coursed through my body.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “My blood runs cold.”
“Yes, in the cab you mentioned that you prefer summer months. Perhaps dancing will warm you up,” he said thoughtfully as if thinking about something else.
Had I thought that out loud?. I met his eyes then. “Perhaps,” I said with a confused blush.
Nothing but the direct heat of the sun ever seemed to warm me, but perhaps dancing with this boy would. We sat in thick silence until the door was opened for us. The boy gestured for me to exit the carriage first. I bit my lip and half stood, not wanting to trip over my long gown, and lifted the bottom of it up into the air as I started clambering out of the carriage, none too gracefully.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the boy, still leaning back with that same mocking grin on his face, as if he couldn’t believe where he was.
I was starting to think he was not a nice boy.
Or at the very least a spoiled one.
But when I faced forward again, bracing myself to land on the gravel, his outstretched hand caught mine, and he was helping me out of the carriage.
“How did you do that?”
“You aren’t the only one with secrets, Rose.”
Before I had a chance to respond, he tucked my arms properly through his, and I felt, at once, safe and thrilled, tucked by his side.
I was aware of the many stares as we walked up the center, mutters and sighs and brilliant colored eyes peered over their masks.
It was clear to me from the looks and stares that my escort wasn’t just any warlock. But I couldn’t determine whether he was popular or hated.
I gasped as we entered the room.
Inside, festive music of violins and horns filled the air. Smiling boys so handsome in their top hats, ascots, and long coats bowed to girls, positively effervescent in their ball gowns, dipping under their gold and silver masks, with the most alluring and confident of expressions. Princesses all of them, fairy creatures of storybooks, dressed in creams and apricots, lavenders and pinks.
I embraced the perfume of flowers, the harmony of music, the composition of song.
Like tumbling into a symphony; a garden of petunias and roses and irises and lilies, the Bal masque smelled like mom and auntie and grandmother, like me. Except we were like a small bouquet in a glass vase and this was a jungle of flowers, an enchanted forest, a chorus of music. A kingdom of magic.
“Subtle,” my handsome escort said, as if he read my mind. “The smell of a witch.”
The smell of flowers? The smell of flowers is the smell of a witch?
“How dare you!”
“It’s daring to speak the truth? You are a strange one, Miss Rose.” Infuriating boy. We were a lot of things, but we were not a family of witches. Witches were upper class, wealthy, privileged. To insinuate that I, a poor girl, could be one of them was an insult to the magic class in general, and insulting to me. To get my hopes up like that. To make me think I could be one of them.
“You should stop speaking like this, I am an outsider, and while I’m proud to be here on your arm, I wish not to cause a scene.”
“I apologize. You just…continue to surprise me. I thought you knew.”
“Knew?”
Suddenly the crowd of eyes enveloped us. Soon we’d be dancing, too. I was pushed from him, and he easily reached a hand out, weaving my arm back through his own. It was a kind gesture, and I felt a rush of gratitude.
That was the moment reality ceased to exist and in its stead Magic took over the room.
Like nothing I’d ever seen before, the room itself and everything in it, was bewitched. Flower petals floated through the air, sparkling candelabras hovered above every surface, as if dangling from invisible strings, and the dancers? They floated two inches above the floor as they spun.
“I’m guessing you’ve never been to a ball?”
“Not one like this.”
“Ah, you are in for a treat, then! I’ve been to dozens, and they never get old. It’s the one time we’re allowed to display our magic in public.”
“How does that work?”
The warlock shrugged slightly. “There are just too many of us to stop,” he said with a confident grin. “Honestly, from the human point of view, it’s only a ball. All you see is people dancing, correct?”
Was I not to notice the floating candles? The rose petals traipsing through the air?
“Dancing, yes.”
At that his eyes narrowed. Did he know what I saw? “There’s a great deal you don’t know about the power of magic,” he said. “Then again, why
would you, being an average human girl and all?" His words felt weighted with unspoken meaning.
I felt exposed, and not a little bit concerned. Magic was a quiet word in my house, something whispered behind closed doors— not a word used in polite conversation. Though Mother didn’t discuss it with me, I knew magic somehow played a part in her life, and maybe even in mine. From the time I was a little girl, I’d known I was different, but nothing was ever explained to me. I knew magic was practiced openly in some circles, but it was for others, not for ordinary girls like me. Magic was something taught in elite, secluded schools, whereas Mother taught me ordinary lessons at home with a little chalkboard. I learned my letters and basic sums. Nothing was special about me.
Except…when it was.
Like the fact that I could cool my too-hot bathwater with the wind of my breath. The fact that I could warm my ice-cold room with the flick of my fingers.
I knew nothing about how to control it, but I did have some sort of strange power, and I knew Mother found it dangerous, frightening. I asked her about it once when I was young, maybe six or seven. We were walking home in a snowstorm. Bitter cold, the snow crunched under our feet. I rubbed my arms to stay warm, my coat so worn it did little to fight the chills. “Stay close, Rose,” Mother warned.
Not wanting to lose her in the blizzard, I obeyed, tugging on the back of her own worn coat, trying to keep up. But then my eye caught something in the snow. I let go of Mother’s cloak, only for a second, and reached down for the round, glassy object. It was a watch, with a black leather band. The most beautiful object I’d ever seen, and it worked. Even though I knew stealing was wrong, I slipped it into my pocket. I would give it to my father when he returned from the war.
When I looked back up for Mother, I was greeted by a fierce blast of snow. Biting my nose, stinging my cheeks and eyes. I feared icicles might grow on my eyelashes and blind me.
“Mother!” I cried. “Mother!”
Nothing but howling storm.
I searched in every direction. My young stomach burned with panic, like lava preparing to burst from a volcano. “Mother!”
I closed my eyes, focusing on the heat, focusing on my voice.
“I’m here!”
The Gleaning, Spellspinners Series #2 (The Spellspinners of Melas County) Page 9
