The Whisper Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  Daphne lifted her chin. “Certainly not. They’ve had every seer and clairvoyant trying to locate Sophie but to no avail. And I have a brother who is going to inherit my father’s title and estates, as well as all of the magical knowledge acquired by a First Legate, simply for being born a boy. Even though he is bacon-brained and wouldn’t know an amulet from a teacake.” She sniffed. “No, I think this is best left to those of us who knew Sophie, or at least knew the world in which she lived. This is still a case best left to debutantes.”

  “Well, blast,” Gretchen muttered. “We agree on something.”

  “I’m going to read something that belonged to Sophie,” Penelope explained, unclenching her fingers from the bedpost. “If there’s anything left, that is. I had no luck with the inkwell.”

  Daphne looked around with a knowing eye, having clearly spent time with Sophie in the room. “She liked that chair by the fire for her morning pot of chocolate.”

  Penelope shook her head. “That chair’s been here long before King George went mad. I’d never be able to sort through that many magical impressions.”

  “There,” Daphne said, pointing to a small red charm bag hanging over the window. It was embroidered with a white witch knot and wound around with a black ribbon. “She’d have added ingredients to that charm bag. They’re in all of the bedrooms and last year we were set the task of augmenting the spell.”

  “Don’t touch it,” Penelope said quickly when Daphne reached for it. “It will overpower anything left behind as I can read the most recent history the easiest.”

  Daphne let her hand drop to her side. Penelope plucked the tiny pouch off the nail. The ribbon slipped free, brushing against the back of her knuckles. She was caught in a kaleidoscope, colors and sounds all bleeding together until they sharpened suddenly and she was no longer sitting on the edge of a gilded chair in the front parlor of the academy. For a moment the colors were too bright, pulsing around the edges and making her feel odd inside. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  She was in a thatched house with diamond-paned windows on the edge of a forest. She was sitting on a cot tucked by the fireplace, holding the hand of a young girl. The girl was pale and clammy, her cheeks burning red.

  “Beth,” she wept. “Don’t die. Please don’t die.” She rubbed her witch knot until it bled. And still there wasn’t enough magic.

  There was no stopping it.

  Penelope’s knees hit the hard floor as she crumpled.

  “Did you see her?” Emma asked, helping her to sit up.

  “Yes, when she was younger. Before she came here.” She shook her head, stopped when it made the room spin. “In a cottage in the woods. Did she have a sister?”

  “She never mentioned it,” Daphne replied. “Though she did have an old doll she refused to part with. She said it belonged to someone she knew once.”

  Gretchen looked suddenly and darkly gleeful. “Do you know how to make a poppet, Daphne?”

  “What does that—oh. Yes,” Daphne said slowly, as the idea germinated. “In fact I do. But the Order burned all of her belongings, in case they were laced with dark magic. It never occurred to them that she might get away.” She opened the drawers of the desk, rifling through abandoned ribbons, pencils, and writing quills left by countless students.

  “What are you two planning?” Emma asked.

  “A poppet like the one that was used against me,” Gretchen replied grimly. “By Sophie, I imagine. Who else would attack me?”

  Daphne snorted. “Anyone who’d met you, and half the girls at this school since Tobias carried you into the parlor in his very manly arms.”

  “Thank you, Daphne,” Gretchen said. “That’s very helpful.”

  She shrugged. “Still, you’re probably right. Sophie would be vexed that you undid a few of her spells this week alone.”

  “Did you say I was right? Can someone write that down so she can sign it?”

  “Never mind that,” Penelope interrupted. “Can’t we use the charm bag? Since we know she handled it?”

  “No, it has to be something personal, not something that she merely touched. It has to have been a part of her.” Daphne moved to the vanity table, pausing over a silver tray holding a silver-backed hairbrush made to look like a braid of foxglove flowers and a crystal bottle of rosewater. “Can you find out which ones belonged to Sophie?”

  Penelope felt limp as old lettuce but she straightened her shoulders with determination. “Yes.” She went to the bed and stretched out. “So I don’t fall on my head,” she explained before she closed her eyes tight, the same way she always did before having to swallow unpleasant medicine or jellied sweetmeats at a formal supper party. Luminescent spiders lowered from her hair in glowing webs. She pulled at one of the hairs clinging to the bristles of the brush. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” she said finally.

  She was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair in even, constant strokes, staring at her reflection. A yawning loneliness nibbled. at her, consuming more and more of her until she was hollow as a pipe reed. The wind could go through her and sing a song. “Soon,” she whispered desperately. “Soon.”

  Penelope opened her eyes. The bed’s embroidered canopy was a pale arch above her as she waited for the dizziness to pass. At least the room wasn’t spinning as quickly as it had before. She sat up on her elbows. “This one,” she said finally, her voice hoarse with exertion.

  Daphne plucked it from her hand. “Good,” she said grimly. “Let’s get started. We need dried lily stalks.”

  Gretchen flinched, pressing a hand to her temple. “Reeds would be better. I’ll fetch some from the apothecary closet.”

  By the time she returned, clutching dead flowers, Emma had taken down one of the curtains. Daphne found scissors in the desk and was cutting out enough of the heavy cream-colored brocade material for two dolls. “There’s only enough here for two poppets,” she said. “One for us and one for the Order.” When Gretchen opened her mouth to protest, she continued haughtily. “My father’s the First Legate.”

  “Not this again,” Gretchen muttered, but she didn’t pursue it.

  “I’ll sew them,” Penelope offered. “It will be faster. Hand me my reticule.” She pulled out a small kit with needle and thread and began to stitch the edges of the poppets together. She left the head open enough for Daphne to stuff it, adding Sophie’s hair to each. She used ink to mark the left hand with a witch knot, and added two eyes.

  They were simple dolls, smelling like flowers.

  “Sophie has the ability to make us suffer all our past injuries, a connection to the Greymalkin Sisters, and she has four murdered girls to her credit. And we have a doll,” Gretchen said drily. “I feel safer already.”

  Penelope decided to stop for ices at Gunter’s in Berkeley Square. The sun was finally out and it felt like a proper summer afternoon. Mayfair even smelled like flowers instead of the hot Thames and horse droppings. They had a poppet to protect them against Sophie, and she’d just bought three novels and Lord Byron’s new collection of poetry. It was as good a reason as any to celebrate.

  And since it was ridiculous to ignore Ian, who was standing outside the shop, trying to look nonchalant, she bought him one too. They stood under the awning and discussed her new books, and he apologized three more times for his part in bringing her in for questioning.

  “Lady Penelope.”

  Penelope recognized Lucius Beauregard’s voice instantly. She widened her eyes at Ian, who, not being Gretchen or Emma, just looked confused. She stifled a sigh. Until he wiped the corner of his mouth pointedly but subtly. She licked the corner of her lips, tasting sticky sugar. Having her own Keeper was proving to be quite useful. Never mind a warlock on the loose, he’d just saved her from the embarrassment of greeting Lucius with food on her face.

  She turned on her heel and bobbed a curtsy. “Lord Beauregard.” He was as handsome as ever, in a green coat and buff trousers.

  He bowed, e
yes twinkling appreciatively. “Might I say you look very fetching in that dress.” She wore a mint-green muslin dress with a striped pelisse with cap sleeves overtop. The shade was almost exactly the same as his coat.

  She blushed. “Thank you.”

  “I wonder if we might talk awhile,” Lucius said, dropping his voice until it was like warm caramel. “I have—”

  “Did you really buy your jailor a lemon ice?” Gretchen interrupted, her shadow falling between them.

  “It’s burnt filbert, actually,” Penelope returned. “Because we like him, remember?” She peered behind her cousin. “Where is Tobias, anyway?”

  Gretchen shrugged. “It was another student from Ironstone following me today,” she said. “I lost him ages ago.”

  Ian just sighed. “It’s embarrassing, really,” he muttered.

  “Shameful,” she agreed. “You lot could do better.”

  Lucius looked surprised. “Surely you’re not saying you defied a Keeper.”

  She rolled her eyes, “Of course I did. He was two years younger than me, and he blushed every time I glanced in his direction. He was like a puppy.”

  “You’d think they’d learn to put a full guard on you,” Penelope teased.

  “You’d think.”

  “Where’s your maidservant?” Ian asked. Gretchen patted his arm with a kind but patronizing smile. He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “Now you’re catching on.” She grinned, stealing a spoonful of Penelope’s ice. “Parmesan.” She grimaced. “You always choose the worst flavors.”

  “Shall I have them bring you out an orange ice?” she suggested. “They were kind enough to deliver one to Cedric over there.” She waved at Cedric, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and expression unreadable. Three sparrows, a cat, and a stray dog had already found him, sitting peacefully on the pavement at his feet. No matter how many times she asked him to join her, he never would. Was it any wonder she was so certain he did not have romantic feelings for her, despite her cousins’ constant suggestions otherwise?

  “No thank you, I—” Gretchen broke off, pinching the bridge of her nose.

  “Headache?” Ian asked, concerned. “I’ll get you a chair.”

  “It’s not that.” She squinted at Penelope’s embroidered reticule. It was a dark earthy brown velvet with birch tree branches forming magical runes. She was quite proud of the effect. “You dropped a stitch.”

  Penelope raised an eyebrow. “As if you even know what a dropped stitch looks like.”

  She grimaced. “Right there. That little line there changes the pattern of the protective spell so it’s not effective.” She rubbed her temples. “Believe me, I know exactly what it looks like.” She wiped a trace of blood off her ear.

  Penelope paled. “Gretchen!”

  Gretchen just waved away her concern with a smug grin. “I’m improving! It’s just a little spot and I wasn’t sick on anyone’s shoes.”

  Lucius surreptitiously moved out of reach. “Might we find someplace … quieter?” he suggested to Penelope with that wicked smile that made her toes curl in her silk slippers.

  “Sorry, mate,” Ian said. “I’m watching Penelope, and he’s watching me.” He gestured at Cedric with his thumb. “This is as quiet as it gets.”

  He looked frustrated. “Why don’t we walk in the garden then? Berkeley Square is lovely this time of year.”

  Penelope took his arm when he offered it gallantly. She ignored Gretchen’s exchanging a pointed look with both Ian and Cedric, who had straightened away from the wall. Penelope was left relatively alone with Lucius, trailed by Ian, who was trailed by Cedric and Penelope’s own maidservant. Lucius glanced over his shoulder, amused. “You’re like a lovely swan with a train of lost ducklings.”

  She laughed. “It is a rather odd situation.” She eyed him askance. “You’re not concerned for your reputation? I feel honor bound to point out that although Ian is a wonderful person, he’s here because the Order doesn’t trust me.”

  “Then the Order is run by fools,” he said much more severely than she might have expected. Something must have shown in her face because he added lightly, “When a beautiful lady such as yourself is hounded, I believe the system is deeply flawed.”

  Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. They crossed into Berkeley Square, which was five acres of paths through grassy lawn, sculptures, and a row of smooth plane trees with wide leaves and their peculiar spiky seed balls.

  “I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness,” Lucius said. “But I have a gift for you.”

  She peered up at him, from under the brim of her bonnet. Society would say that accepting gifts, exchanging letters, and dancing more than two dances were declarations of your intent to marry. Gretchen’s mother would have demanded Penelope refuse the gift. “That’s very kind,” she said instead.

  His smile widened. “When I found it, I thought of you,” he explained, guiding her to a bench under a tree. Dappled sunlight fell through the leaves. He pulled a small paper-wrapped parcel from the pocket of his great coat. “I’ve been carrying it around for days now, hoping I would see you.”

  The package was only slightly larger than her palm and felt like a book. She tore into it eagerly, trying not to notice Cedric watching her from the other path. It shouldn’t have made her feel guilty and uncomfortable. She was enjoying the company of a young man who might return her interest. Surely, that was mature of her? Wouldn’t it be worse to pine hopelessly after someone? It was all fine and well for novels, but it was decidedly unpleasant in real life.

  The tree above her filled with sparrows, watching her. Forgetting her assertion to be mature, she made a face at Cedric, knowing full well that he was using them to spy.

  She undid the red ribbon and pushed aside the torn paper to reveal a small leather-bound book. Shakespeare’s Sonnets was stamped on the cover in elaborate gilded letters. She ran her fingertips over it. “Oh, it’s beautiful.” She flipped through the pages and partly dried rose petals tumbled into her lap.

  “Take off your gloves,” he suggested. “The leather is soft as silk.”

  She knew she shouldn’t do it, but it would be odd to refuse. And to touch something that might have been made during Shakespeare’s own lifetime was too tempting. She tugged off her gloves. Lucius’s fingers were warm as they trailed over her wrist and across her palm, tracing her witch knot. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, could barely swallow. He dipped his head so that his mouth was close to her ear. “Go on, Penelope. Books are meant to be loved, aren’t they?”

  The use of her given name sent a delicious shiver through her. She felt shockingly bare without her glove, something she would have considered absurd not five minutes ago. Licking her lower lip, she stroked the book. It was lamb-soft and smelled of dust, sunlight, and the curious sweet vanilla of old paper.

  “You’re right.” She smiled up at him. “It’s so much bet—”

  The world smeared, like paints on a palette.

  Rain made the cobblestones slick, so she ducked into a nearby bookshop. The air was pleasantly dusty and dry. She smiled at the clerk. No, not her. Lucius smiled at the clerk. She had a moment to feel the tightness of his cravat and an impatience simmering below the surface.

  “Where is your Shakespeare?” he asked. “I’ve a mind to get a gift for a beautiful girl.”

  He was talking about her.

  The vision fell away abruptly. She gave a start.

  “Are you unwell?” Lucius asked, concerned. His eyes searched her face.

  She smiled weakly. It was one thing to know about magic, and another thing to know that the girl you just gave a present to stepped into your head for a moment. He thought she was beautiful.

  “I’m well,” she said, pressing the small worn book to her chest. “Perfectly well.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Gretchen asked dubiously as the rain pattered though the leaves of the oak tree outside her house. “You should let me come with you
.”

  Emma shook her head. “We’d never shake Tobias off our trail. You know it as well as I do.”

  Because she did, Gretchen scowled. “But who knows if that spell I made will even work properly?”

  “I know it will.” Emma tucked the lodestone into her reticule, next to the poppet of Sophie. She stayed hidden inside the unmarked carriage so Tobias wouldn’t see her.

  “Are you sure Virgil won’t follow you?” Gretchen wasn’t convinced.

  “I slipped belladonna tincture in his tea, which I had Olwen bring to him outside the school. She told him she was worried he’d catch cold in all this rain. She’s pretty, so he believed her.”

  “But she’s Cormac’s sister. He hates Cormac.”

  “She’s really pretty.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “Serves him right then.” She handed Emma a rolled piece of parchment. “If the first spell doesn’t work, try this one. They both need your blood.”

  “It will work.”

  “Emma, I’m only just now starting not to bleed out of my ears when I work my magic,” she pointed out. “Your faith in me is touching and all, but it won’t do you much good when you’re alone in Windsor Forest.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll wrap a Fith-Fath glamour around me and no one will see me at all. And I’ll be back in time for breakfast. You’re fussing.”

  “It’s much easier when I’m the one concocting foolish plans,” Gretchen grumbled. “Waiting at home is rubbish.” She stomped back up the lily-bordered path to the front door and disappeared inside. The carriage rolled away, and she had to stop herself from pressing her nose to the window to watch her cousin go. Worry gnawed at her. Or it would have done, if a shriek from the kitchens hadn’t interrupted.