“Welcome, Lord and Lady Thornewood,” Lady Whitmore calls as we enter the drawing room. She holds her arms out wide, her tall, willowy body clothed in a Japanese kimono blooming with pink cherry blossoms. She presses a kiss to each of Wren’s cheeks, and I blink rapidly as she does the same to me. “This vision must be your sister,” she says.
“She is indeed,” Wren says, her voice strained as though holding in a laugh. “Lady Whitmore, allow me to introduce the Honorable Lucy Sinclair.”
Instead of the usual curtsy, she bows before me in the traditional Asian style. With her strawberry-blonde hair, freckled skin, and green eyes, her mannerisms seem wildly out of place. I widen my eyes at Wren over Lady Whitmore’s head, and Wren quickly looks away, her shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Oh,” Lady Whitmore says, when Colin and Robert join us. “I see you brought the whole family. Well, but not quite—it seems Lord Sinclair is missing.”
“Papa rather enjoys his peace and quiet most evenings,” Wren says.
Lady Whitmore nods somberly. “Yes, how well I understand. Oh, but how handsome these three are.” She waves a lacquered black fan in front of her face. “Surely you will blind all the ladies here.”
Robert snorts. “If they are blinded, it is only because of Lord Thornewood’s terrible glower.”
James snickers beside me.
“We thank you for your invitation,” Colin says, offering his arm to Wren and obviously ignoring both Robert and Lady Whitmore’s commentary.
“Oh, but he is famous for his glower,” Lady Whitmore says, a wry smile on her face. “It is one of the reasons I invited him here. What better way to keep the other guests from becoming too haughty?”
Robert laughs, but I continue to stare, quite at a loss as to how to receive our hostess. She seems to be teasing, but she delivers her observations with such a serious tone that it’s impossible to tell.
“Always glad to be of service, my lady,” Colin says, and Wren shoots him an amused glance before they move toward a quieter area of the room.
“I hope you will enjoy yourselves,” Lady Whitmore says to us. “I have the best cook in the world, I must say. Her pudding is euphoric. Perhaps it’s laced with opium—it’s simply that delicious.”
“Ah, then we will certainly enjoy two or three helpings,” Robert says with a wink.
Her eyes, thickly accented with kohl, narrow appraisingly. “I find I’m rather enjoying your company, Mr. Sinclair. Be sure to seek me out later for a dance. I’m a widow, you know, so we can completely enjoy ourselves without worrying what Society may say later.”
My cheeks flame, and I give James a little tug on his arm to escape. Even more embarrassing than Lady Whitmore’s proposal is Robert’s response: “Oh, you can be sure of it, my lady.”
She fans her face furiously and laughs. “Delightful.” She turns her attention to me. “Your maiden sister is regretfully embarrassed by our bold flirtations. Ah, but your beau is just as handsome as your brother, my dear. It’s a pity I can’t have them both for myself, but of course that’d make me a terrible hostess. Perhaps you should both take a turn about the room? Go and enjoy each other while the bloom of youth favors you still.”
“Yes … of course … thank you,” I say, shock robbing me of the ability to make an eloquent response.
Her lips curve in an answering smile before turning her attention to another late arrival.
After Rob whispers God-knows-what into her ear, he turns to follow us.
“I cannot believe you behaved in such a manner,” I say to Rob the moment the three of us are out of ear-shot. “I truly thought I would die of the shame.”
“Come now, it wasn’t that embarrassing.” He shakes his head. “What did I do to deserve such overly dramatic sisters?”
“You’re the one who flirted unabashedly in front of his own sister,” I say, my blush finally receding.
Rob catches James’s eyes, but James holds up his hand. “Don’t look to me for solidarity. I suspect saying anything would be damning, so I won’t say anything at all.”
“A good strategy,” I mutter.
Rob only grins in answer as we reach the sofa Wren has claimed for herself while Colin stands beside her, bored look in place.
“That is a perfectly mischievous smile you wear, Rob,” Wren says. “You aren’t teasing Lucy, are you?”
“No, indeed,” he says with a little sideways glance my way. “She is the one who was teasing me.”
I let out a little sigh of exasperation. Robert has clearly made his mission of the night to torment me. This situation requires an abrupt subject change, else he will carry on this way for the rest of the evening. “James, would you like to look at some of Lady Whimore’s paintings with me? Her taste is rather … unusual.”
“Diplomatic of you,” James says with a nod as he eyes a nearby painting—one of a beautiful maiden floating fully dressed in a river.
As we walk closer to the painting, I see that it is Ophelia by John Everett Millais. It’s a lovely painting, but morbid—Ophelia, the maiden in the water and a character from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, later drowns in the river. “Goodness, I thought this painting was on display at Tate Gallery. However did Lady Whitmore get hold of it?”
“I can think of several ways,” James says with a sly rise of his eyebrows.
“Don’t be vulgar,” I say, and he laughs.
“Well, it’s a strange painting, but no one can say the landscape isn’t stunning,” a voice says behind us, and I turn.
“Rose!” I say, a delighted smile splitting my face. “You never said a word about coming.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” We share a brief embrace.
“You’ve succeeded.” I hold out my hand toward James. “Allow me to introduce you to the Honorable James Wyndam. James, this is Rose Thornby. James has been kind enough to escort me to the ball this evening.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” I rush to assure her.
“No, indeed,” James says. “I’m sure you have much more to say on these paintings than I could ever dream up. You’re a welcome addition to our art critiquing.”
She laughs, the sound much less wheezy than the last time I’d seen her.
“However did you manage to come? Did you get my note about Bath?”
“I have my good days every once in a blue moon. I did get it, which is partly why I willed myself better—I want to be able to enjoy a trip to such a relaxing locale.” She turns to James. “Will you be accompanying us as well?”
He nods. “You’ll find I’m rather difficult to be rid of, I’m afraid. Lucy travels with a small army as it is—I do believe the whole family will be in attendance.”
“Even better,” Rose says. “I rather like the idea of a large group of people surrounding me at all times—it’ll make everything we do feel like a party.”
“A party, or an insane asylum, depending on the day,” James deadpans.
I shoot him a look. “Try not to listen to anything he says.”
Lady Whitmore’s melodic voice interrupts us. “If you’ll follow me to the dining room, I have quite the treat for you tonight.”
We process in with shared looks and raised eyebrows, since only a brief introduction to Lady Whitmore assures that anything she feels is “quite the treat” is guaranteed to be intriguing.
The table itself is elegantly set with silver urns and, unusually, cherry blossoms. We find our place cards, and I find myself seated in between James and Rose. She may be eccentric, but no one could doubt that Lady Whitmore is a superior hostess.
Lady Whitmore takes her seat, and the rest of us follow. Instantly, footmen appear with steaming bowls of soup.
“Tonight you will all be enjoying a traditional Japanese meal,” Lady Whitmore says, and the bowls are placed before us. “Here we have miso soup.”
“Oh, it’s Japanese—you should love it then, sensei,” I say to James, who promptl
y snorts into his spoon.
“This is delicious,” one of the elegantly dressed ladies at the head of the table says. She must be someone with quite a bit of clout, for everyone else eagerly dives in and pronounces it divine.
“What do you suppose is her obsession with Japan?” Rose asks quietly as she takes small sips of the flavorful broth.
“I would hope that she’s spent time there and fallen in love with the culture.” I take a closer look at my bowl—a lovely Japanese scene is hand-painted in blue.
“What if she’s never been and merely read a book or two on the subject?” Rose grins.
I stifle a laugh to avoid drawing attention to our conversation. “How awful it would be if that were true!”
“Lady Whitmore, what do you know of this new earl from India we have circulating about in London?” a rather rotund gentleman asks, his baritone voice easily carrying to my end of the table. Of course I perk up like a hound.
“Ah, you must be referring to the new Lord Devonshire,” she says, a catty grin upon her face.
“I must say, he doesn’t have an English complexion,” one of the gentlemen says. “In fact, I suspect he may actually be a chee chee.” The table erupts in laughter. I return my spoon to its bowl, a frown taking over my face. My military brother taught me lots of things over the years, and certain slang terms were part of that dubious lesson. I’d only heard the term chee chee one other time: when Rob explained that it was slang for half-British and half-Indian. I doubt that this round little man meant it as anything other than a slight.
“I should think he wouldn’t be lily pale,” Lady Whitmore says. “His mother was Indian, after all.”
“Goodness, you say it so matter-of-factly,” one of the ladies says.
“How else should I say it? It’s all very legitimate. Lord Devonshire married her while living there—against his family’s wishes, of course. Indeed, I doubt they even knew. But when he had to return to England, she refused to accompany him—or so the story goes. She’s dead now, poor darling.”
“Who raised him when she died?” I find myself asking—aloud—to my horror. I can feel James staring at me. Colin, too, seems excessively interested in the conversation.
Lady Whitmore shrugs one dainty shoulder. “I couldn’t say. His mother’s family, perhaps? Though I’d heard rumors that she came from nothing—she must have been divinely beautiful to snatch up an earl.” Alexander’s story becomes more and more tragic the more I hear of it, and I feel a shadow settle upon me at the thought of his trials. “My, you are a kind-hearted thing,” Lady Whitmore adds when I fall silent. “You look truly concerned.”
“It’s a melancholy story.” I lean back a bit to allow the footman to take away my half-finished soup. It’s quickly replaced with a thin piece of bright pink fish atop a mound of rice.
“Nigiri,” Lady Whitmore announces, and I’m glad for the interruption.
“Is this raw fish?” a slim lady beside Rob asks.
Lady Whitmore smiles. “It is. And before you turn your nose up at it, you should all know that it’s considered an aphrodisiac.”
On the other side of the table, I hear Wren’s unmistakable snort. Beside her, Colin affects an innocent look. I can only surmise he has said something vulgar—their favorite type of private joke.
“I don’t think that’s even true,” Rose mutters beside me. “I think she has the wrong seafood in mind.”
I laugh, but as I’ve never minded trying new and even exotic foods, I take a healthy bite. It’s delicious, if a bit fishy. The sweetness of the rice balances it perfectly.
“Well, this new earl of Devonshire seems rather odd to me,” the same gentleman who brought him up in the first place says. “I’ve seen him about town—walking everywhere he goes. Perhaps that’s what browned his skin as dark as a farmer’s.”
Loud guffaws reward the man’s extremely rude musings, and my hands curl into fists in my lap.
“If those are his only offenses—walking and being tan—then I’d have to say this conversation is the height of ridiculousness,” Colin says amidst the laughter.
The room quiets.
Bless Colin for being able to say exactly what those of us who are decent are thinking. Wren smiles adoringly at him.
The rude gentleman puffs himself up. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying ‘cease and desist,’” Colin says, enunciating each word like the man is a child.
The rude man’s face turns ruddy, but he’s smart enough to keep silent.
“Although, I must say,” Colin adds, swirling his wine nonchalantly in his glass, “your words have enlightened me. Lord Devonshire asked to come call on Lucy, and I believe I will allow it—if only to spite you all.” With a wolfish grin, he drains his glass.
I glance down at my plate so no one will see my blinding smile, though beside me, I can feel disapproval coming off James in waves.
TEN
MUCH later that night, I sit on the floor with my drawing of the portal before me. I’ve drawn the rune; all I need do is touch it. But I must gather my errant thoughts first, and all I can think about at the moment is my deliciously fun evening. My mind has that silly golden haze it always does when I think of something delightful, and in spite of James’s rather sulky mood after dinner, everything about the ball was a joy. The mention of Lord Devonshire seems to bother him, but I refuse to accept that he might be jealous, and there’s a small, mean part of me that thinks it’s good for him. I spent all those years pining for him, why shouldn’t he do the same?
Oh, but I know such thoughts are terribly unkind. James is my friend, however else I may feel about him, and we usually have a lovely time in each other’s company. Rose, too, danced as many dances as her lungs would allow. She only stopped to rest because I begged her to—her breaths were coming so shallowly I thought for sure she’d faint. Asthma and corseted dresses were never meant to go together but Rose is rail-thin and can get away with loose stays.
Aside from the dancing, the loveliest part of the ball was that Lady Whitmore had arranged for a beautiful Japanese lady—dressed in a full kimono—to play the Japanese violin for us. I want to pull the haunting sound straight out of my mind and onto a painting, but I haven’t the time.
In truth, I’m procrastinating. I’m afraid to meet my Sylvan grandmother. I’m afraid she won’t live up to my memories of Mama—that she will be nothing like her. But I’m even more afraid that I will love her, and then where will I be? I already feel the longing for the other realm. How much stronger might it be if I were to have someone there to visit?
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, steadying myself. Tentatively, I touch my finger to the rune, letting my arcana unfurl as my fingertip connects with the ink.
My room fades, and I stand before the portal my sister first discovered. A shiver races through me as the air around the portal blurs. No more glimpses and flashes of things barely seen—I will finally get to see what is beyond this pile of stone.
The moment I think it—think, I want to see Sylvania—the stones disappear, and behind them, I find a forest of such unimaginable beauty that I can do nothing but gawk as though struck dumb. The colors! I’ve never seen such color—more vivid than I’m used to, but also in unusual combinations. The leaves of the trees are the color of wisteria, and indeed, they remind me of it, only they tower above me. Some trunks are so pale they’re almost white, and others are silver. I walk over to one and press the palm of my hand to the smooth bark.
My hand is ethereal, almost transparent, and the sensation of touch is not as strong as it is in my own world—presumably because I have only transported my spirit rather than my body. Still, I gaze up at the tree in wonder, purple leaves and silvery moss beneath my feet.
You must be positively ancient, I think to the tree, as wide as its trunk is.
Nearly as old as the sky, an old, deep voice responds in my mind, and I laugh in surprised delight.
I want to say more, but t
he fox appears. Your grandmother awaits you.
Excitement and more than a little apprehension races through me. My grandmother.
The fox leads me to a path of white stone, and we climb higher and higher, twisting our way amongst trees whose leaves make music like windchimes. Soon, the rush of water adds its own music, faint at first, and then slowly increasing in volume until it’s an impressive roar. We reach the top of the path, and I suck in a breath and smile in wonder.
We stand upon a precipice. Spread before us in a valley are buildings made of stone, built into the cliff itself. The source of the roar becomes clear now: waterfalls pour from the foundations of the buildings. It’s almost difficult to see them as separate from the mountain. Here, the sun is just setting, illuminating the white stone like gold. The cascading water sparkles, and the purple leaves of the trees turn such a vibrant shade of purple, I know I could never imitate it with paint.
“Will I be able to go there? To see the Great Hall as my sister did?” I ask, my voice hushed as though I’m in church.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for this view instead,” a strong, melodic voice says behind me.
Goosebumps rise across my skin as I turn and lay eyes on my grandmother for the first time. “It was you I saw through the portal, not Mama,” I say and then blush. What a thing to say for the first time! “Forgive me, it’s just that you …” I trail off as she smiles kindly back at me, and my eyes immediately tear. It’s like looking at Mama again, only the elegant woman before me has hair the color of a sunset. She is as ageless as a goddess, with skin as smooth as mine; the only sign of her age are her eyes. The moment I meet them—a clear, piercing emerald—I’m forced to look away again. There is so much ancient wisdom in those depths, it’s like looking into a well one thought was shallow only to discover it goes so deep not even a rock thrown in has hope of reaching the bottom.
“The resemblance is uncanny, I know,” she says, her smile turning melancholy. “Isidora always favored me. But looking at you, I feel my heart soothed—it’s truly like seeing my daughter again.”
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 9
