"Cecy, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Cecy assured me, "only I must perform the ritual again. I was particularly careful about the parameters, no matter what Thomas thinks."
"I'm quite sure you were," I said. "James, is she really all right?"
"We'll let the physician have the last word on that subject," said James.
At precisely the same time, Cecy said, "I'm fine."
"She seems fine," James conceded. He made a minute adjustment to the shawl around Cecy's shoulders, and I thought I detected a faint tremor in his hands. I felt a rush of gratitude toward him for taking good care of Cecy.
"Thank heavens for that." I found a chair and sank into it. "What precisely have you done, Cecy? The sitting room looks as though you'd been at it with a sledgehammer."
"I was creating a focus for my magic." Cecy sat up straighter, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Only there seemed to be quite a lot more magic than I expected. It was so unfortunate, for in the moment before the magic destroyed the desk, I was truly focused. I've never experienced anything quite like it. Oh, Kate, it was simply splendid."
I remembered helping Thomas to create his focus. Splendid was not too strong a word, I judged from his reactions at the time.
"It was rash," stated James. "You could have been seriously hurt, perhaps even killed."
"But I wasn't." Cecy's happiness dimmed for a moment. "I'm sorry about the writing desk. Although it was quite spectacular to see the marble dissolve as if it were made of sand. Golden sand, when the gilt mixed in. I suppose we will have to find a replacement for it, or pay damages."
"Worth every penny," said James.
"Do let me conduct the ritual again before we try to replace any of the damaged furniture," said Cecy. "I believe it might help to perform the spell in an empty room. Easier to sweep, for one thing."
The physician arrived before Cecy could persuade James that she should conduct the ritual again. At Cecy's request, I remained, but the examination did not take long. I could see why the physician was considered a favorite among the English visitors to Venice, for his manners were even more excellent than his English.
"A light diet and no excitement," was his recommendation. "Mrs. Tarleton will not leave her room for a day or two. When she does, she must take only mild exercise for another day or two. Then, if there is no relapse, she may resume her ordinary routine."
"But I'm fine," Cecy declared, for approximately the one hundredth time.
"Of course you are," agreed the physician. "But for now you will humor those who love you and rest."
"Oh, very well." Cecy looked up at James. "You'll stay, won't you?"
James agreed very readily to stay with her, and the physician and I left them in peace, with Walker to see to anything they needed.
When I had seen the physician on his way, I went back to the sitting room. Thomas was still not finished there. I did not wish to distract him, so I came back here to our chamber to write this.
Cecy does seem to be largely unharmed by her experience. I know Thomas has a great deal of experience in dealing with spells that refuse to be cast as they should. But when I think of the remains of that writing desk, reduced to a few pounds of dust upon a sheet of newspaper, it makes me wonder what else might have gone wrong. What a good thing it is Cecy who has the aptitude for magic and the interest to gain the skill to use it. If it were me, I might have blown myself to atoms by now.
28 October 1817
Venice
Palazzo Flangini
Among the many letters and packages that we have received since our arrival here in Venice was a parcel for me from Lady Sylvia. Most mysteriously, the parcel contained no letter, not even a note. I can think of no particular reason for Lady Sylvia to send me a gift, but only she would have chosen something so perfect. It is a shawl. At first I thought there must be some message either embroidered or woven into the very fabric, but I can detect none. It is made of soft wool, not too heavy, the very thing for these cooler days, and it is a most pleasing shade of pink. I love it immoderately. I'm only sorry the note that she must have sent with it has been lost, but I have already posted my letter of thanks.
29 October 1817
Venice
Palazzo Flangini
The mystery of the vanishing gloves has been solved. I don't know what is to be done about it, but at least I know I have not been imagining things.
Chilly as the city can be at this season, Venice is not without beauty. I find it remarkable that I am beginning to feel accustomed to living in such grandeur, where the streets are, for all intents and purposes, liquid. Thomas and I were out admiring the splendor of it all, eating roasted chestnuts Thomas bought from a vendor as if we knew no better than to eat in public. Thomas peeled mine for me, a childish bit of chivalry I found absurdly touching.
"I'll let you," I told him, "because if anything happens to this pair of gloves, Reardon will be so cross." I was joking. It is true that I have only two good pairs left, but Reardon would never be really cross with me about it. I find her tranquil acceptance of my wretched clumsiness quite soothing. She has a remarkable way with mud stains, too.
"You tremble in your boots at the prospect, I see." Thomas handed me a peeled chestnut and started on one for himself. "There's a simple solution. Order more gloves."
"You are a good, kind husband," I said.
Thomas looked very pleased with himself. "I know."
"But shouldn't there be some sort of mathematical limit to the number of gloves I can lose? Some upper theoretical boundary? Given the laws of probability?"
Thomas ate his chestnut and started to peel me another. "They make excellent gloves here. If by some wild chance you are asking me for my opinion, I say, order more and perhaps we'll find the sum of an infinite series."
I looked deep into Thomas's eyes. Very wonderful eyes he has. Sometimes, when the light is at a particular angle, they are the exact color of brandy. That particular gray October day, they were merely brown. But to me they looked wonderful just the same. "I don't deserve you."
Thomas beamed at me. "Ah, that's where you're wrong. You do." He broke off, but the emotion in his words was still there in the silence.
After a moment he changed the subject by offering me the latest in peeled chestnuts. The mood dissipated. Yet when we moved on, I might as well have been floating in the air.
Perfect happiness is good for one's soul. It is wonderful for one's temper. However, in my experience, it tends to impair one's wits.
On my return to the palazzo, I floated into my bedchamber with a smile on my face and not a thought in my head. Only the talk I'd had with Thomas made me look twice at Reardon, who seemed to be doing something to the fire in the hearth.
"The glover will be sending another dozen pairs." With care, I removed the as-yet-unstained gloves I was wearing. "Thomas wanted me to order even more. What do you think? Will a dozen be enough?"
I looked up from fussing with my gloves. Reardon was standing at attention before the fireplace, her hands behind her back. Her eyes were fixed on a point some six inches over my head. To judge by her expression, I might have been a firing squad, so grim she looked.
"Is something wrong, Reardon?" It was the happiness still clouding my wits that made me ask the question. The meanest intelligence could tell something was wrong. Something was very wrong. "Are you all right?"
Reardon gave a despairing sigh. "Oh, Lady Schofield, please don't turn me off here in Venice. I shall never get home to Stroud from here."
I could only stare. "Why on earth would I turn you off?"
"I haven't been stealing your gloves," Reardon declared, but when she brought her hands from behind her back, I saw that she held one of my gloves. Mrs. Siddons in character as Lady Macbeth could have regarded her hands with no more horror. "I swear it."
Every tenet of Aunt Charlotte's I'd ever heard concerning the proper approach to tyrannizing one's servants came crashing back to me. I ignored th
em all. "Who said you have?"
"You." Reardon was having a hard time keeping her voice steady. "You ordered more gloves. You asked me if I thought a dozen pairs would be enough."
"I didn't mean that. It was just a question. You know how often I lose a glove."
"I wouldn't steal." Reardon had her firing-squad expression back.
"Of course you wouldn't. My gloves haven't been stolen. I just lose them. Usually the left. No one steals just one glove. They steal the pair." I saw I was making no headway against Reardon's obvious distress and tried another tack. "I've been losing things for years. I drop things, too. What is there in that to trouble you so?"
Reardon looked as if she might be ill. "I haven't been stealing them. I have been burning them." She offered me the glove she held. It was a left.
Alerted by the intensity of her regard, I examined the glove as Reardon looked on. Almost unstained but sadly crumpled, the glove was undoubtedly one of mine. But there was an area of faint discoloration at the base of the ring finger, as if I'd spilt tea on it. I smoothed the soft leather between my fingers as I looked at it more closely. The stain was visible on both sides of the glove. I turned the glove inside out and saw that the discoloration was even darker within. "What on earth is that?"
Reardon looked grimmer than ever. "Some of the gloves, the ring finger was all but burnt off inside. I couldn't risk throwing the glove away. What if a stranger noticed? I had to burn it."
I tugged at the finger of the glove. With only the slightest resistance, it came away. I felt a twist of sympathy for it, poor mangled thing. "Why did you never tell me?"
"I thought you didn't care." Reardon met my eyes and her own rounded with astonishment. "You mean you didn't know?"
"No, of course I didn't know. I still don't—" I broke off, because I had a sudden very good notion I did know. This was my wedding ring at work. I have been losing things for years, but never had I lost one thing more than another. Never had I lost anything with such frequency as I had lost gloves since Thomas focused his magic.
"Is that what happened to my good long gloves?" I gazed searchingly at Reardon. "The pair I wore to the opera?"
Reardon nodded.
I felt my heart sink a little, but reminded myself that gloves could be replaced. There were more important things to worry about. "Is there anything else you've noticed? Anything odd?"
"About your wardrobe?" Reardon looked thoughtful. "You know the pearl eardrops don't like it if they can't see each other?"
"Er, yes. I know about those," I said. "Anything else?"
"There's something a bit strange about that pink shawl," Reardon said. "Nothing sinister. Just—it's been charmed somehow."
"Has it?" I thought that over. "How do you know? Are you a magician?"
Reardon almost smiled. "Not I, my lady. But I have picked up a bit of knowledge here and there. I know the signs."
"Well, bring Lady Sylvia's shawl along. I want to see what Cecy makes of it."
"Mrs. Tarleton?" Reardon looked surprised. "Not Lord Schofield?"
"No, not Thomas. Not yet. He and Mr. Tarleton are paying a call at the moment. We'll discuss it with them when they return. For now, you and I will have a discussion with Cecy."
Cecy, despite her frequent claims of perfect health, was still confined to her room, although she was up and dressed. She had a writing desk placed to get the best light from the windows. Enough correspondence for our entire journey was being written during her enforced rest. Venice is as renowned for its stationers as it is for its glovers. She was alone except for Walker, who was sitting by the fire, doing something deft to the trim on a pelisse of Cecy's.
"Cecy, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to show you something. I've found out why I'm always losing gloves." I put the pieces of my poor maimed glove down on the blotter before her.
"Have you?" Cecy looked up from the letter she was writing. "I always knew there was something peculiar about that talent of yours."
I felt a surge of embarrassment. "It's hardly a talent. In any case, Lady Sylvia gave me that test with her tea tray last summer. If I had any magical aptitude to speak of, I'm sure she would have mentioned it."
Cecy sanded her letter with great attention to detail. Without taking her eyes off the letter, she asked, "Are you?"
Embarrassment yielded to impatience. "Am I what?"
"Are you quite sure she would have mentioned it? Because I'm not." Cecy's expression, when she finally looked up at me, was grave. "Lady Sylvia knows a lot about teaching magic."
I caught myself frowning at my cousin. Quite silly of me, for there was no reason for me to be out of patience with her. "Anything Lady Sylvia knows about me, Thomas knows, too. He would tell me."
Cecy didn't answer immediately. All her attention was focused on the glove I'd given her.
"He would," I said. "Thomas would tell me anything I ought to know."
"Yes, of course he would." If I hadn't known better, I would have said Cecy was humoring me. She studied the glove in minute detail.
I waited as long as I could before demanding, "What do you think?"
Cecy pointed to the detached finger of the glove. I could almost see her choose her words. "I think that explains Thomas's reaction to the highwaymen."
I kept my tone brisk and businesslike. "Exactly."
For a moment, Cecy looked quite fierce. Then she seemed to relent. "Cockle-headed," she said, half to herself, and I knew she was referring to Thomas.
"Reardon has been disposing of the damaged gloves for me." I considered it wiser to return to the subject at hand than to dwell on the incident of James's shooting. "I should have noticed much sooner. It was always the left glove. I used to lose both with equal regularity."
Cecy said, "It's a great pity you lost so many gloves, but it is certainly fortunate that Reardon took proper care of them for you." To Walker, Cecy said, "Will you be so good as to take Reardon with you to purchase those skeins of yarn we discussed? Thank you."
I felt a moment's surprise at the non sequitur, but a glance from Cecy explained much. It was one thing for me to trust the nature of Thomas's focus to Cecy. Better not to risk Reardon or Walker knowing any more about the matter than they already did. "Yes, by all means. Thank you, Reardon."
When we were quite certain we were alone, Cecy spoke softly. "Thomas didn't tell you anything about this?"
"I don't think he knows," I said. "What causes the stain? It looks as if I burned it, but I didn't."
Cecy was very grave. "Let me see the ring. No, don't take it off. Just let me look at it."
After a full minute of careful scrutiny, Cecy released my hand. "Thomas focused his magic in the ring."
"I know that," I reminded her.
Undisturbed by my interruption, Cecy continued. "One's magical focus does not work precisely the way a pair of spectacles works, but it is not at all a bad analogy. One can perform magic without one's focus nearby, but it is all a great deal more comfortable if one has it at hand."
I was starting to feel impatient again. "I know that, too."
"When Thomas uses his focus, do you feel it?" Cecy asked.
"No." I hesitated. "That is, I don't think so."
"Kate." Cecy regarded me with something like reproach. "Tell me."
I spoke haltingly at first, but soon the words were tumbling out. I told Cecy about the sense of shared experience I felt when Thomas created the focus. I told her how sick I'd felt in the carriage at the start of the highway robbery. I told her everything I could think of.
When I finished, Cecy studied my glove again. "If you took the ring off, Thomas could still use it as his focus, and I am sure your gloves would go undamaged."
"Very possibly," I replied. "I don't care about gloves. I'm not taking this ring off."
"That's the only solution to this problem I can think of," said Cecy. Before I could protest, she forestalled me. "But I'm much more interested in another problem that we don't have enough information to so
lve. If Lady Sylvia were here, we could simply ask her about the results of your magical aptitude test. As it is..." Cecy let her words trail off.
"As it is, I must ask Thomas."
"Yes, you must." Cecy was firm as only Cecy can be.
I took back my glove and remembered Lady Sylvia's shawl. Reardon had left it on my chair. I handed it to Cecy with care. "There's this, too."
"Your new shawl?" Cecy fingered the soft fabric. "Lovely."
"Reardon says it has a charm on it."
Cecy's interest sharpened. "Oh, does she?" After another close inspection had been carried out, Cecy looked up, obviously speculating. "She's right. Does Reardon have magical training as well as expertise in hairdressing and classical antiquity?"
"I don't think so. She says she doesn't. But she recognized there was a charm on my pearl eardrops. Whatever her educational background, I do trust her."
"Very well. Are you quite certain this shawl came from Lady Sylvia?"
"Am I—? The parcel came from Paris. The color is perfect. I thought—" I broke off, bewildered. "If it wasn't Lady Sylvia, who sent it?"
Cecy smoothed the soft fabric on her lap. "Thomas may be able to get more from this than I can. I don't think it is a malicious charm of any kind. It's wholesome enough." She paused for a moment, her entire attention focused on the shawl. "It's a bit... stern," she said at last. "It's for... truth. I think it has something to do with seeing things as they truly are. Not letting the vain and worldly people of Society turn one's head."
"How odd." I took the shawl back and held it at arm's length. "If it is Lady Sylvia's doing, Thomas will recognize the charm, won't he?"
"I should think so," said Cecy. "But in the meantime, be careful."
Thomas had his chance to inspect the pink shawl that night after dinner. With Reardon standing vigilantly near us in case of an emergency, he sat with me by the fire in our bedchamber and examined every thread of the shawl.
"Cecy was right," he said at last. "Nothing to do with Mother. Are you sure it came from Paris?"
02 The Grand Tour Page 22
