"There you are," he said. "Our luck is in. The mail has come."
From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.
While Thomas brought James current on his disappointing adventure at Eve-Marie's hostelry, Kate and I fell upon the mail. There was an assortment of rather late congratulatory notes on our weddings that had been sent on from London, a brace of letters each for Thomas and James from various acquaintances, a small package from Paris for Kate, and letters for me from Papa, both my aunts, and Oliver.
Having distributed the bounty, we each took a comfortable chair and settled in to read. I turned to Papa's letter first, as I felt it was most likely to be of interest. I must confess that I also considered it likely to consume the greatest amount of time in deciphering, for in addition to the difficulties normally posed by his handwriting, the letter was unusually fat.
Upon unsealing the letter, I was slightly disappointed to discover that although it was indeed three pages, the second sheet comprised a list of names and directions, and the third was a general letter of introduction. I glanced quickly at the list, then proceeded to the first sheet in hopes of discovering what Papa meant by this unexpected response.
"Cecy?" James said a few moments later. "What do you find so compelling?"
"It's a letter from Papa," I replied. "Why?"
"Nothing much—only that I'd twice asked whether you would care to visit the Basilica San Marco without getting a response."
"It can't possibly live up to the Duomo in Milan," I said, "but at least it will be finished. I suppose that we ought not to slight it. When did you have in mind? Tomorrow morning?"
"I'll have to do some checking," James replied. "I believe the tides are such that the piazza is currently accessible only for a few hours a day, so a visit to the cathedral requires careful planning. Hence my question."
"Why would anyone build a cathedral they can't get to most of the time?" Kate asked.
"Oh, you could get to it when it was built," James said. "And you can still get to it any time you like, if you're willing to wade knee-deep. The weight of the cathedral and the plaza together have sunk the islet it's built on a few feet. Enough that when the tide is high, it makes for damp walking."
"I think we've had enough wading for today," Thomas said with a glance at Kate. "What did your father have to say, Cecy? Anything to the point?"
"As much to the point as Papa ever is," I said. "Which is to say, there is a good deal of useless history about Sainte Chapelle and the Ile de la Cite, but—" I stopped, frowning at the letter.
"What is it?" Kate and James said together.
"Papa mentions a monograph about the Ile de la Cite, by one Monsieur Montier," I said. "And I have just remembered—when I met Theodore in Paris, he mentioned the same monograph. He said it was the only thing Mr. Strangle had given him that was worth reading. And—no, let me just read you what Papa says."
This suggestion proved acceptable to everyone, so I began.
"My dearest Cecy:
"Having received your letter from Paris, I am delighted with your report of the Temple of Minerva Victrix, which was all I could have hoped for and more. I am of course pleased by your great happiness, and pleased as well to have acquired so estimable a son-at-law as Mr. Tarleton, for it is to his benign influence that I must attribute your newly acquired interest in history, though it is clear from what your Aunt Elizabeth says of her correspondence with you that you have not lost your taste for Society in the process. I therefore trust hopefully in your husband's full and complete recovery by this time from the unfortunate indisposition you described, as well as in the entire likelihood of the remainder of your journey being without similar incident, highwaymen not being of such common occurrence even on the Continent as to trouble you twice.
"I entirely comprehend your frustration at the closure of Sainte Chapelle, which prevented your viewing it, but you need not repine too greatly. Though the chapel and the stained glass are reported very fine, they are relatively modern, dating only from the thirteenth century. It is the location itself that is ancient, having been the sacred site not only of the Frankish kings, but of the tribal chieftains of the Gauls before Rome conquered them, and possibly even of prehistorical barbarians, though the earliest traces have naturally been obliterated by the constant passage of the later occupants, so that the truth or falsehood of the matter must necessarily remain speculative.
"Monsieur Montier, in his otherwise enlightening and informative monograph on the subject, places great emphasis on the continuous nature of the site's occupation; too much, I feel, to support the weight of his argument. His remarks on the ceremonies of the Gauls, the Romans, and the early Franks are comprehensive and, so far as I can determine, accurate, but his contention that the Bourbons lost the throne of France due to their neglect of the preeminent importance of the Ile de la Cite and Sainte Chapelle in creating them true kings is, of course, nonsense. Such rituals may, perhaps, be enhanced and strengthened by being performed at a particular location, in the event there is some question as to the legitimacy of the claimant to the throne, but no such question has ever arisen about the rulers of France.
"Prehistory and superstition aside, however, there is no question that the Ile de la Cite is an ancient and sacred royal area, and it is a pity you could not have visited it. By this time, however, you will no doubt have seen even more ancient and wonderful places. How I envy you! The crypts in the monastery at the pass of Great Saint Bernard, the ruined baths in Westphalia, the shrine of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the temples of the Forum in Rome!
"I can tell from the tenor of your questions that such background as I can provide, being little and, by virtue of the distance these missives must travel, too late to give timely enlightenment, will very likely be unsatisfactory. I must therefore refer you to others, should you have additional queries to which you require prompt attention. As you must be all too well aware, I have maintained a regular correspondence with a number of like-minded colleagues in France and elsewhere, a list of whom I enclose, along with a suitable letter of introduction, in hopes that no matter where this letter finds you, you may discover a useful source of information and intelligent discourse nearby. I regret exceedingly that I did not think to suggest it before you left England, but perhaps this tardy amends will serve the purpose.
"Your affectionate Father."
When I finished reading the letter, there was a moment's silence.
"He does have a fondness for flowing periods," Thomas commented at last.
"Are any of his correspondents close to Venice?" James asked. "I can think of several queries I'd like to put to one of them."
I looked at the list, blinked, and went over it again more slowly. I had indeed been well aware of Papa's voluminous correspondence with other antiquaries, but I had had no idea that Papa included two royal dukes (one of France, one of Austria) and a double handful of lesser nobility among his fusty colleagues. "Yes, there's a gentleman living just off the Rio San Giacomo Dell'Orio, one Cavalier Coducci."
"Never heard of him," Thomas said.
"I have," said James, to my surprise. "He's been a well-known expert in classical Rome for years. He must be getting on a bit."
"Then we'd best arrange to meet with him soon," Thomas said, peering over my shoulder at the letter of introduction Papa had sent.
"All of us," Kate said firmly.
Thomas looked wounded. "Would I even consider anything else?"
"Yes," Kate and James said together.
Thomas looked even more put out, but he did not argue. He did, however, leave the business of arranging our visit rather pointedly in James's hands.
Unfortunately, Cavalier Coducci was not currently in town, but his maggiordomo informed us that he would return any day. James rolled his eyes at this, and muttered something about the Italian sense of time. As there was nothing we could do to hurry Cavalier Coducci's return, James and Thomas went back to occasionally watching Eve-Marie, Kate and Reard
on searched booksellers and libraries for a copy of Monsieur Montier's monograph, and I set about creating a focus for my magic.
I had been thinking about what to use for some time. At first I had planned on some piece of jewelry, but I soon saw that it would not do. For unless I chose some bit of mere trumpery, I would not wish to smash it if ever I decided to change my focus, and it would quickly become obvious to anyone if I wore the same cheap ring or brooch with everything (besides which, it is quite impossible to find one piece of jewelry that is suitable with everything one wishes to wear). On the other hand, I did not wish to have to pack something as bulky and inconvenient as Thomas's chocolate pot everywhere I went.
When we reached Venice, however, I found what seemed the perfect solution. Venetian glass is quite lovely, and among the many unusual things they make from it are intricate paperweights of solid glass with colored patterns inside. Being made of glass, they are quite smashable; being solid, they are not at all easy to smash by accident. (I spent an afternoon experimenting with several samples that I had purchased while Kate and I were out shopping. I confess that I had a hard time forcing myself to destroy such lovely things, for although I had looked for the ugliest ones on purpose, I had been unable to find any that fit such a description.) The smallest of the paperweights fits quite comfortably in the palm of my hand, making it a convenient size for carrying in a reticule.
Having chosen an object for my focus and gathered the necessary ingredients for the spell, all that remained was to find a quiet time and place for the ritual. This was not as difficult as I had anticipated. I simply stayed behind one afternoon when Kate and Reardon went on their search, and sent Walker off in search of some embroidery silks. This left me with most of the palazzo to myself, as Italian servants are mostly inactive in the afternoon.
I read through Lady Sylvia's directions twice, to make certain I had committed them to memory, and also reviewed the incantations (though I had memorized them weeks before, with James's help). I closed the door of the sitting room and cleared all the miscellaneous objects—the candlesticks, my embroidery, Kate's inkwell, a penknife that someone, probably Thomas, had left lying near—into drawers or cupboards, and pulled the little writing desk I had been using for my sewing into the middle of the room. I set the basin in the center of the desk, with my chosen paperweight beside it and the candles, salt, water, and feather near to hand.
I took a deep breath and began the ritual. It is curious how sweeping out a room, which is the most ordinary of activities, becomes a matter of magic requiring serious concentration simply by virtue of muttering the proper Latin while doing it. Having cleaned the room, I laid a ring of salt on the desktop, enclosing the basin. I was extremely careful to be sure the ring was unbroken, and I was equally careful about positioning the candles along its edge, alternating one inside the ring and one outside it, so that I did not brush the salt out of line in the process.
Still chanting, I reached between the candles and placed the paperweight inside the basin. Then I lit the candles, working clockwise. As I did, I felt magic gathering around me. Carefully, I reached between the burning candles to pour water into the basin, to wash both my hands and the paperweight. The magic swirled through the air around me, then flowed along my arms like the water, into the circle and the basin.
When I could no longer feel magic anywhere outside the circle of salt, I picked up the feather and held it over the basin. "Candles, salt, water, feather," I said in Latin. "Fire, earth, water, air, be a binding link between me and this object. Fiat, fiat, voluntas mea."
As I spoke, I felt the magic within the circle swirl and intensify. Then, with my final words, it surged downward and outward at the same time. Suddenly everything seemed clearer, sharper, and more distinct, the way it sometimes does when the wind unexpectedly clears a smoky haze that one had not realized was there.
And then the writing desk exploded.
From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield
27 October 1817
Venice
Palazzo Flangini
When catastrophe strikes, in the domestic sphere at least, it leaves behind a curious hush, a silence different from all other silences. That silence is no mere absence of sound. It is the hush that results when enormity sinks in.
This afternoon Reardon and I returned from our search for the Montier monograph to find the palazzo entirely silent. Not a servant was stirring. Reardon and I noticed the phenomenon at the same time. She and I looked at each other askance for a moment, but, really, we were listening. An unnatural silence held, precisely the sort of thunderous silence I know so well from Aunt Charlotte's lectures. I would not have thought it possible the effect could be so marked in an edifice (for call it a house I simply cannot) the size of the palazzo.
"I'll find out what has happened." Reardon helped me out of my muddy shoes and into a pair of dry slippers. "If you can manage, my lady?"
"Of course, of course." I sent Reardon on her way and went to the chamber we had been using as a sitting room. To my consternation, the door was closed and locked. I put my ear to the panel but could hear nothing. Then, when I held my breath to be sure, I thought I heard the rustle of fabric. I knocked on the door. "It's Kate," I said, quite unnecessarily. "Do let me in."
After an unintelligible grumble in Thomas's distinctive voice, the door opened. Thomas stood in the doorway, arms spread wide so I could not enter. The look in his eyes was pure relief. "Thank God you're back. Don't come in." With his neckcloth disarranged and his hair untidy, Thomas looked somewhat harried, but otherwise much as usual.
"Are you all right?" I looked past him into the room. "What on earth—" The pictures on the walls were intact, and the great windows looking out on the Grand Canal were undamaged. Everything else in the room looked as if a giant had come by and stirred it with a spoon.
"I'm not finished yet," said Thomas hurriedly. "I'll come out as soon as I can." Before I could ask my first question, he held up a hand to stop me. "Cecy has had a little mishap, that's all. James is with her now. We've sent for a physician, just to be perfectly sure she's all right."
I clutched at Thomas's lapels. "Cecy! What's happened to Cecy?"
"Don't be alarmed. It's all right. I promise." Thomas put his arms around me. "Cecy would be the first to reassure you. She's fine."
"Oh, Thomas. You know Cecy. She would claim to be fine if both her legs were cut off."
Thomas had the gall to chuckle. "Very true. But I promise you, she is fine. Truly. These things happen. Occasionally."
I looked back at the wreckage of the sitting room. "They do?"
"They do when you don't take pains to ground your focus spell." Thomas tightened his embrace. "Kate, you don't fancy yourself a magician, do you? You'd never try something like this on your own? You'd tell me if you were planning to, wouldn't you?"
I gave Thomas an impatient shake. "Are you mad? Of course not. I don't know anything about magic. Why would I try to perform any?"
Thomas gave me a small shake back, more gentle yet far more effective. "Promise me you'll never try anything like this."
"I promise. Anything like what? What did Cecy do?" Reluctantly, I turned my full attention from the expression in Thomas's eyes to the destruction in the room beyond.
"She created her focus. Unfortunately, there were one or two problems with the parameters, so the magic didn't enter the focus she'd chosen." Thomas looked distinctly grim. "Fortunately, her magic destroyed the object it entered into inadvertently. Just as well, because I don't think even Cecy could explain away taking a writing desk with her everywhere she went."
"A desk?" I looked around again. The gilt-legged, marble-topped writing desk I remembered was gone. Thomas had been sweeping something that looked remarkably like a heap of gold dust, or possibly sand, into a tidy heap on a sheet of newspaper.
"I've been cleansing the room and gathering the magical residue. The lion's share of it is back with Cecy again," Thomas explained. "But I'm ta
king no chances."
"Residue?" I echoed weakly, looking at the heap of golden dust.
"That's why you can't come in. No one can."
I regarded first the room and then Thomas with great misgiving. "Why? What happens when you have magical residue?"
"I don't intend to find out. But at the very least, no games of chance should be played in this room for the foreseeable future." Thomas added wryly, "I think the laws of probability may be on holiday at the moment."
I gazed at the heap of dust. Really, it looked much more like housekeeping than it did like magic. "What will you do with it?"
"I'll remove as much of the magic as I can before I clear up the residue. Get as much of it back to Cecy as possible."
"How long will it take you to do that?" I asked.
"I'm not entirely sure. Things are greatly improved since James and I returned, but there are still traces of the ritual to be cleared away." Thomas took another look at me. "Why don't you go change out of that very muddy gown? I'll join you as soon as I can."
"You must on no condition hurry," I countered. "I'll just go see if Cecy needs anything."
"Don't look so stricken," Thomas said. "If nothing else, one good thing has come out of this."
"Oh?" I gazed at the ruin of the once lovely room and tried to think of a single good thing about it.
"Now that she knows firsthand that there's more to focusing one's magic than meets the eye, Cecy can never again make slighting remarks about my chocolate pot." With that, Thomas kissed me, locked himself in the sitting room and, I surmised from the muffled sounds I heard through the door, went back to work.
At Cecy's door, I met Walker coming out with a tray. Upon it she carried a decanter of brandy and a pair of empty glasses. Apparently James and Thomas subscribe to similar beliefs concerning the medicinal powers of strong drink. "May I see Mrs. Tarleton?" I asked Walker softly.
Before she could answer, Cecy's clear voice came from her room. "Oh, Kate! You're back. Come in!"
I entered the bedchamber to find Cecy reclining on the grand gilt bed, with James in attendance. Cecy looked at least as healthy as James. In fact, the pair of them shared a certain high color. I wondered if brandy alone were responsible.
02 The Grand Tour Page 21
