Under Your Spell

by Lois Greiman

  “Aldora.” A scratchy voice came through the doorway from the parlor. “Are you making my guests feel guilty again?” The voice was followed by an old woman in a large-wheeled chair. “Ella.” Her smile urged a hundred new wrinkles into her parchment features. “Welcome.”

  Ella bent, hugged her. She was thin, faded, spring-blossom fragile. “Lady Beauton, you look well.”

  “Ach…” She waved a blue-veined hand. The movement almost seemed more than she could manage, but her eyes were bright. “I look a fright. Gets would barely help me into my chair, I look that hideous. I fear they’ll leave me abed until I die of tedium one of these days.”

  Ella switched her gaze to the servant. Worry skipped through Aldora’s eyes, but she snorted, dismissive. “You’re too much trouble by half when you’re wheeling about. Can barely find you to fetch you your tea.”

  Lady Beauton chuckled, but her face contorted with pain for a second, then calmed, brought under control by sheer force of will. “I suspect I should apologize for the difficulties I cause.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Ella said. “Instead, we shall sit in the parlor and make them serve us crumpets and jam as if we were at court with Princess Caroline.”

  “Do you mind, Aldora?” asked the old woman.

  “I’m only a servant,” she grumbled, but she gave Ella a grateful glance before she hurried away.

  Ella took the handles of the chair and pushed the aging dowager back into the parlor. The sun was bright there, a shaft of gold that lit the old woman’s remaining treasures: a vase from New Delhi, a mirror from Peking. Souvenirs from her days with Les Chausettes. Her dead legs were yet another memento. A keepsake from four years before, during her time in Madrid. She had gone to visit a friend, or so said the official story. The truth was far different. That much Ella knew; Napoleon had been about to march through Spain on his way to Lisbon. Vision’s presence there at the same time had not been a coincidence.

  Leaving her to face the window, Ella rounded the wheelchair and sat on the settee. The old woman took her hand, folding it in her own. The aging skin felt as cool and dry as parchment.

  “I’m well,” Ella said. She was not quite sure if a question had been voiced aloud. But that was the way with Lady Beauton, who had not a drop of nobility, unless one acknowledged the royal blood of the Gypsies that flowed hot and wild through her aging veins.

  “And the rest of the lassies?” Her voice was soft, raspy. “What of them?”

  “Everyone is well. Doing splendidly, in fact.”

  “Shaleena’s not causing too much trouble, I hope.”

  “No. Everyone’s—” Ella began, but the old woman touched a finger to her lips. Still it seemed like a full minute before Aldora reappeared, bearing two cups and a teapot on a silver platter. She set it beside them on a low table.

  “Thank you, Aldora,” said her mistress.

  “I suspect you can manage to pour,” said the other, looking down her nose at Ella.

  “Aldora,” the old woman scolded, but Ella was already lifting the teapot.

  The servant bustled away.

  Tea mist curled above the delicate cup. Ella handed it over, steadying it for a moment as the old woman took it in an uneasy hand and raised it to her lips. She took a sip, lowered the cup, smiled.

  “Shaleena is gifted,” she said. “Indeed…” Her eyes were distant. “She reminds me of another.”

  Ella knew she spoke of Leila. For there was none to match her. Even now, four years after her death, her name was whispered in connection with the rise and fall of nations. She had been Lady Beauton’s Spanish counterpart, an unacknowledged adviser to the king. If rumors were true, she had been found dead before Vision could warn her of Bonaparte’s impending march. “Same shrewd cunning. Same vanity.” She grinned wistfully. “I did not think I would miss her, but had she lived…” She glanced up suddenly, as if just remembering Ella’s presence.

  “One would think me too old to spill state secrets now,” she said.

  Those same secrets had somehow involved Vision. The woman who could see so much could not have foreseen the loss of her legs. Some said she had battled with the very man who had killed Leila. Some said that was nonsense. They had, after all, hated each other.

  “None could argue that you’ve served your country well,” Ella said.

  “None who knows, perhaps.” She smiled. “But what of you, Josette?”

  Ella shook her head. “I fear I have neither your courage nor your gifts.”

  “Pish,” said the old woman. “I’ve never seen another more gifted.”

  Ella didn’t bother to hide her surprise. Vision was not the sort to fawn. “Thank you, my lady, but—”

  “But you’ve not come for compliments.”

  “I never turn one aside if it happens—”

  “What’s wrong?” The old woman’s tone had become very businesslike. Reminiscent of the early days, when she had lived at Lavender House. When she had tutored and protected and scolded.

  “Is it a sin to visit my most respected mentor?” Ella asked, and forced herself to take a drink.

  “Not at all.” Vision took a sip, all the while watching Ella over the faded gold rim of her cup. “But as Gets said, it is a sin to lie.”

  “Since when?” Ella asked, not surprised by the old lady’s knowledge of the conversation. Secret knowledge was her business, after all.

  “If Jasper heard me say so, he’d give me a scolding, wouldn’t he?” Vision asked, and set her cup down, face somber. “You’ve left the coven,” she said.

  “I—” Ella began.

  “You’ve left them,” she said quietly. “And the guilt consumes you.”

  Ella couldn’t quite look up. “You know how disconcerting it is when you look into my mind.”

  The old woman chuckled, touched Ella’s hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. “You could do the same if you liked. Scares folks something terrible.” A bit of Rom dialect had crept into her tone. When she let down her guard, her Gypsy ancestry shone through like the sun in the south window.

  “It’s not leaving that bothers me most,” Ella admitted. “It’s…”

  “Sarah’s death.”

  Regardless of the past, of her knowledge of the old woman’s gifts, she was surprised. Generally, Vision’s powers grew more precise with proximity, but she hadn’t visited for some months. Perhaps shame had, in fact, kept her away. “You knew about her?”

  The aged face contorted, but whether from pain or empathy, it was impossible to say. “Not until this moment.” Her eyelids drifted, almost closing.

  “I shouldn’t bother you with this,” Ella said.

  “Jasper’s right.” The old eyes snapped open suddenly, bright with intensity, wide with worry. “He’s not dead.”

  Silence echoed in the room.

  “Grey?” Ella hissed.

  Vision’s eyes remained immobile, looking past, looking through. “That’s not his name.”

  “What is it then? Where is—”

  But the old woman’s face contorted again, twitching madly.

  “Vision!” Ella grabbed her hand. “Lady Beauton, I’m sorry.”

  The frail body jerked, spasmed. Her eyes rolled back, her lax legs bucked twice, then went limp, slumping her in the chair.

  “Aldora,” Ella called, panic seizing her.

  But Vision came to in a moment, hand tightening as she raised her head with a weary effort. “Don’t make her worry,” she said. Only the left half of her mouth moved. “Everyone worries so.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Well?” She attempted a smile. The right side twitched lethargically. “No, my dear. I am dying.”

  “No. You—”

  “Yes.” Her smile was brighter now, her grip stronger.

  “I’m sorry,” Ella whispered, and the other sighed, nodded.

  “As am I. I wish I could say it was otherwise. That I was happy to go. That I feel I’ve done my part, but…” S
he shrugged, little more than a shift of a bony shoulder. “Tell me more of your world, Josette. Who was this Sarah?”

  Ella wanted to run for help, to see the old woman abed, to pamper her. But it was not Vision’s way to allow such foolishness. “She was a friend,” she said. “A young woman I met just over a year ago.”

  “Gifted?”

  “Yes.”

  The old woman nodded. “We are often drawn together, those of us who are different.”

  “I could feel it in her,” Ella said. “The strangeness. The powers. And I worried. She had no one to speak to of it.”

  “’Tis why Les Chausettes was formed at the outset so long ago. To give us a place to come together.”

  “And to harness our power.”

  Vision’s glance was sharp. “You blame Jasper.”

  “No.” Ella pulled her hand away, reached for the teacup, wanting space, wishing, almost, that she had not come. “No, I just…”

  “You think he should have protected her.”

  She glanced up. “He could have.”

  “How? As he protected you?”

  Ella said nothing, could say nothing, for her mouth felt suddenly dry, her throat constricted.

  “You blame him for that as well,” murmured the old woman.

  Ella glanced toward the window, swallowed.

  “You cannot blame him for doing and for not doing, Josette.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I fear that is not entirely true.”

  Reaching out, Vision cupped Ella’s face with a weathered hand. “You expect too much of others, child, just as you expect too much of yourself.”

  “Did Jasper kill him?” she asked suddenly, surprising even herself.

  For a moment, she thought the other might ask whom she spoke of, but she did not. “Your husband was—”

  “Did he kill him?” she asked again.

  The gazes met. “No.”

  For a moment Ella felt relief sear her, but it was cheap and short-lived. She knew the game better than that. “Did he order his death?” she asked.

  There was an eternity of silence, then: “The man was evil, Josette. Heartless. Soulless. Filled with greed and trickery. You know that better than any. Jasper feared he would find you and—”

  “And tear apart his empire?” she snapped.

  “And return you to the hell he had condemned you—” Vision began, but her face twitched again.

  Ella fell to her knees. “I’m sorry, Lady Beauton. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “No.” She closed her too-old eyes for an instant, patted Ella’s hand. “Love should not, must not, be apologized for, no matter how misguided. No matter how dangerous.”

  “I don’t love him,” Ella rasped. “Not now at least. Not after La Hopital. Not after what he did. How could I?”

  “Some men have a kind of magic, my dear. Not our kind, not the kind that can be honed and controlled. A magic of their own. Inexplicable. Inescapable.”

  “But I have escaped,” she said.

  “For a time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The old woman smiled. “You were meant to love, Josette. To love and be loved.”

  “A nice thought.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “I think, perhaps, this one time you are wrong,” Ella said, but her thoughts were straying. If Grey was yet alive, there were things that could be done, must be done.

  “Never tell an old lady she is wrong.”

  “I apologize.”

  “As well you should,” Vision said, and smiled. “For that and the fact that you need to be off.”

  For a moment Ella almost argued, but there was little point. “I think it quite rude of you to read my mind.”

  “This time I am but reading your body, my dear.”

  Ella scowled.

  “You are fidgeting like a tree squirrel. I thought we taught you better.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Ella tried to relax. “The truth is…”

  “Now I am reading your mind. And I see that you have not gotten that for which you came.”

  Ella held her gaze. “I don’t mean to trouble you.”

  The old woman smiled, an expression reminiscent of times long past. “It is only hair,” she said. “It seems unlikely that I will need it in the afterlife.”

  Chapter 9

  The day was dark. Thunder rumbled over the city. Rain fell in tiny droplets, trickling silently from a slate-gray sky. But Ella’s bedchamber was warm. A blaze danced inside the immense blackened-brick fireplace.

  Three years ago she had moved out of Lavender House and purchased Berryhill, this ancient home in Bloomsbury. It had touched her even then with its peaked roof and climbing ivy. But it was the master bedchamber that had inspired her most. It was large and open, overlooking unruly gardens and rough cobbled streets, granting her a feeling of quiet harmony in this half-forgotten piece of London. Built well before the advent of gas lighting, it blended aged practicality and mellowing grace. In fact, a rod was still imbedded into the stone floor of the fireplace. A rod that held a perpendicular arm that could be swiveled outward. It was that rod that Ella now employed. From it, she hung a cast-iron pot. Darkened by years and countless uses, it was as round and fat as a witch’s cauldron. In fact…

  Ella smiled as she chanted. True, she had vowed to cast no more spells, to mix no more potions, but Grey might yet be alive, and Madeline had not seemed her usual bright-eyed self. She’d looked tired and worried. Why? True, all of Europe was stewing in the fever of war, and Les Chausettes would forever agonize over the troubles of the world, but it seemed almost that Maddy’s worries were not so all-encompassing as the matters of wars and rumors of war. It seemed almost as if it were something personal, something close to her heart. Something like a man that she could not quite get out of her head.

  Ella added three strands of Vision’s silver hair to the cauldron. “Bless her with the wisdom of age.” Ella stirred the concoction with a wooden spoon. The sauce bubbled up to greet her, steaming in the early morning air. Lifting a few leaves from the floor, she tore them to bits. Even dried they would increase the recipient’s knowledge, but fresh they were threefold more potent. “Healing and strength with the power of sage.” A sprig of mugwort was added. “Artemis herb to keep her well.” Of course, it was also known to increase one’s sexual allure, but she would let Madeline worry about that. “All good fortune with the fragrant harebell.”

  Ella stirred the concoction again, then left it to brew. ’Twas a dying art, this ancient alchemy. Dying but not dead, secreted among her kind, given to those they loved…or hated…or feared…depending on the ingredients, the chanted words, the intention. For intention alone was ever-powerful among her own.

  But she had intended to help Sarah, hadn’t she? Had given her a potion, in fact, that was little different from the tonic she prepared now. But it had done little good.

  Why? The mugwort had been dried, but it was pure. She had not used Vision’s hair, but had added the bloom of an iris for wisdom. Nearly a full year ago, she had consecrated the fat, amber bottle by the light of the full moon and solemnly given it to the girl. Ella had believed the other had understood its importance, had believed in its merit. Yes, its scent was pleasing, but its true value lay in its intrinsic, inexplicable powers.

  But they had failed. She had failed. And Sarah had died.

  Rain beat harder against Ella’s window. Shivering despite the warmth of the room, Ella rose to her feet. Leaving the potion to boil, she stripped off her clothes and stood silent and straight in the center of her bedchamber. Sky-clad was the term of the ancients, but naked was what she was, and she preferred to train that way.

  Drawing in a few full breaths, she cleared her thoughts. Magic was an element of the mind, of the soul, an integral part of her most private self, but it was encompassed in the body, ever held in that fragile earthly vessel. So the vessel must be strong, but not inflexible. Hard, but not brittle. Trained, bu
t not exhausted. And so she took a few initial movements, bending her knees, balancing on the balls of her feet, stretching until she was ready. And then, bowing to an invisible enemy, she attacked, twisting, turning, striking. Sinews stretched, muscles contracted, lungs heaved until her breath came hard and her skin gleamed with perspiration. Still, she pushed herself, sometimes a rhythmic dance, sometimes a fierce onslaught, pressing every muscle until she had defeated the demons within.

  By the time Ella was cleansed and dressed, dusk had settled upon the city. Little darker than the preceding day, it lay like a soft blanket over steeple and stoop. Thunder rumbled plaintively in a bumpy sky, but weather was forever Ella’s friend. She gloried in the dark feel of it, the thrill of electricity in the air as she strode, energized and ready toward the humble stable behind her house.

  Winslow had already saddled Silk, but turned grumpily as she entered the barn. The mare stood quietly, one hind leg cocked, its full stocking perfectly matching the other three.

  “Unfit weather.” Winslow’s words were muttered. So soft, in fact, that she was quite sure he could not hear himself. But he was not the type to shout. If one heard him, he heard, if not, it was his loss.

  “All will be well,” she said, looking into his eyes. She would not wound his pride by raising her voice, for he could gather her meaning well enough if he watched her lips. “I am but going to Miss Anglican’s for a bit of whist and conversation. You needn’t worry.”

  Lies had been her constant companion for as long as she could recall. Ever present but oft unwanted. Winslow’s scowl deepened, but she could not concern herself with his worries. Not just now. Sighing silently, she mounted her mare and rode into the night.

  Beneath her, the hot-blooded little barb arched her fine neck and strutted down the boulevard. Her hooves made a staccato rhythm in the quieting city. Gaslight flickered and gleamed in long streaks of gold on the damp cobbles, the mare’s sable coat, the black mane.

  Ella’s riding habit was just as dark, draped elegantly over her cocked leg and single stirrup. The lady’s saddle was a foolish thing, perching her atop her steed’s withers like a praying mantis, hooking one knee high. But fashion dictated, at least in the polite world. The polite world was not her own, however. Not really.