Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2)

by Melissa McShane

  “Oh, that will not be necessary. I was simply curious. This ring has no special meaning,” the Duchess said. “Will she be recovered in time for dinner, do you suppose?”

  Cecy sat up abruptly, releasing Sophia with some vehemence, and opened her mouth to say something that, even from her awkward angle, Sophia could tell would be fierce and angry. Mr. Rutledge put his hand on Cecy’s shoulder. “I believe Mrs. Westlake will need to return home,” he told the Duchess. “Mrs. Barham would like her carriage brought around, if you don’t mind.”

  “It will cause the most awful imbalance at my table,” the Duchess said, but turned away to call a footman.

  Mr. Rutledge dropped to one knee beside Cecy. “Please allow me to accompany you home, Mrs. Barham,” he said quietly. “Mrs. Westlake appears incapable of walking, and I believe you would find it difficult to maneuver her in and out of your carriage.”

  “What she said—” Cecy began, and Sophia had never heard her so furious.

  “Is unimportant,” Mr. Rutledge said. “Let us get Mrs. Westlake home so she can recover. Mrs. Westlake, can you hear me?”

  With great effort, Sophia nodded, setting her head throbbing again. Why was everything suddenly so difficult? And how dare Mr. Rutledge insinuate himself into Cecy’s confidence? They did not need his help. She tried to stand, and found herself utterly incapable of doing so no matter how she strained; the effort left her feeling even more exhausted. They needed his help. She closed her eyes against the tears she refused to shed. How humiliating, to be so completely helpless. To depend on someone she could not bear to see again.

  “We are waiting for Mrs. Barham’s carriage to take you home,” Mr. Rutledge said. “Don’t be afraid. You will be well with a little rest.”

  Sophia closed her eyes again rather than acknowledge him. A little rest. Her humiliation deepened. She had driven herself past breaking, just as Cecy and Daphne had said, had let her need for vengeance override her good sense, and now she had collapsed in front of a room full of people who would no doubt be dining out on this tale for a month. She had been so wrong—she had said such awful things to Daphne!—and it had been for nothing, because exhausting herself had not got her any closer to her goal.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, refusing to cry. She would not humiliate herself any more than she already had.

  In which Daphne has a cunning plan

  small commotion turned out to be the Duchess’s footman, come to tell Cecy the carriage was waiting. Sophia once again tried to stand, but none of her muscles responded, and she had to endure being lifted by Mr. Rutledge, as easily as if she had been an infant, and carried through the icy palace of the entryway and into Cecy’s barouche. Her cheek pressed against the smooth fabric of his tailcoat, which smelled, unexpectedly, of cinnamon and cloves, as if Mr. Rutledge had come to the Duke’s home from some distant, exotic market in Marrakech or Shanghai. It was a pleasant smell, and it made her feel more humiliated that she took enjoyment in any part of this farce.

  She hoped to be allowed to lie still on the rear-facing seat, her face hidden in the darkness, but Mr. Rutledge supported her in a half-sitting position, his arm securely around her shoulders to keep her from sliding off the seat and her cloak draped over her body. She closed her eyes again and pretended to be asleep. If only this nightmare were over!

  “Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Rutledge,” Cecy was saying as the carriage bumped its way toward home. “I am sure Sophia is grateful to have such a friend as you.”

  “She has a better friend in you, I warrant,” he said. “Mrs. Westlake, are you comfortable?”

  Sophia kept her eyes closed. She had nothing she wanted to say to him. Not that she could speak.

  “I believe she is sleeping,” Cecy said. “I wish she had listened to me! I knew she was spending too much time in Dream.”

  “So she did overexert herself,” Mr. Rutledge said. “Is she normally so… determined?”

  Cecy laughed. “Such a polite way of saying ‘stubborn’, sir. She is always… determined… when she is pursuing a passion.”

  “What passion could possibly be worth hurting herself?”

  It was fortunate Sophia’s muscles were too exhausted to respond, because she would have tensed all over at this question if she could. If Cecy told him she was pursuing Lord Endicott, Mr. Rutledge would believe her still obsessed, and treat her with pity or condescension. She hated herself that his opinion still mattered so much to her.

  “She is… searching for someone,” Cecy said. Sophia would have relaxed if her body were at all under her control. “Someone difficult to find.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Rutledge. The carriage jolted, nearly knocking Sophia off her seat, and Mr. Rutledge’s arm tightened around her, holding her steady. “Then for her sake I hope she finds him soon.”

  “Because even this will not persuade her to be cautious, you mean? So do I.”

  Cecy sounded so bitter that Sophia could not keep a few tears from welling up. Her selfishness had hurt more than just herself. It was her responsibility to help Cecy in her times of pain; Cecy should not have to worry about her.

  She shifted her position and was relieved to find herself capable of moving, though she was beginning to ache as if someone had given her a shovel and ordered her to dig from Cecy’s house to Whitehall. Her proximity to Mr. Rutledge was becoming uncomfortable, far too intimate even though he was only touching her to keep her from falling to the floor of the carriage. She moved again, trying to sit, and Mr. Rutledge restrained her with ease.

  “I do not believe you can sit unsupported yet,” he said.

  “Sophy, please do not exert yourself,” Cecy said. She sounded as if she were crying again, so Sophia gritted her teeth and tried not to think about how awkward and embarrassed she felt. He gave off warmth more steady and consistent than a fire, which chagrined her further that she was so grateful for it. She was cold, and as she registered that feeling, she began to shiver and could not stop herself even when he put his other arm around her and drew her closer to provide more warmth.

  It had been years since she had been this close to any man. The smell of cinnamon and cloves was stronger now, and his embrace was gentle but firm, holding her securely so she would not fall. She rested her head on his shoulder and wished with all her heart it meant something more than the simple need to keep her on the seat.

  She was having trouble remembering why she was angry with him—oh, yes, he had manipulated her and betrayed their friendship… though that did not explain why he was being so solicitous of her needs now… Could he, too, regret what had passed between them? Could he, too, wish things were otherwise? Her head was beginning to hurt again, and she pushed all of those thoughts aside.

  “I have asked Dr. Garland to come in the morning,” Cecy was saying, “though it is just a precaution. I know from the past that Sophy simply needs to rest, and to give over Dreaming for a few days.”

  “I…” Sophia’s mouth was too dry to articulate words. “Forgive,” she managed.

  “Never mind that,” Cecy said, and the carriage bounced to a halt.

  Sophia watched her friend exit the carriage, then Mr. Rutledge lifted her again and backed down the steps to the pavement without her head so much as grazing the side of the door. He turned, and she slipped. Without thinking of how hard it was to move, she put her arms around his neck to stop herself falling. He paused, just for a moment, before hitching her up to a more secure position. The smell of spices filled her again. “Forgive,” she repeated, and withdrew her arms in favor of clasping his coat front.

  “I won’t drop you,” he said. He took her through the front door and up the stairs to Cecy’s sitting room, where Cecy was directing one of the footmen to drag the chaise longue around closer to the fire. Mr. Rutledge set Sophia down on it and stepped back to make way for Cecy, who moved pillows to support her head and feet and spread blankets over her. She was still unaccountably cold, though the fire had
been built up until it seemed almost large enough to spill out over the hearth and consume her.

  She looked to where Mr. Rutledge stood at the foot of the sofa, his dark eyes fixed on her, his expression unreadable. “Thank you,” she said. At that moment she felt no bitterness toward him, nothing but gratitude and regret that they could not return to what they had been before.

  He inclined his head to her. “It was my pleasure to be of service to you, Mrs. Westlake,” he said, sounding as if she were no more than a stranger he had helped to cross the street.

  Regret stabbed at her heart again, and she cast about for something else to say, something that would keep him by her side, but he had turned away and was having a low-voiced conversation with Cecy she could not make out. Then he left the room without looking back.

  “Do you suppose you can sleep? Or do you want something hot to drink? You were shivering so badly, there in the carriage,” Cecy said, coming to lower herself to the floor near Sophia’s head.

  More tears began forming. “You…too good,” Sophia said. Cecy’s face crumpled into tears.

  “You scared me!” she exclaimed. “You told me you would not push yourself, and you did—you were so white, and for a few moments you stopped breathing, and then you fell, and I thought you might die in that stupid woman’s drawing room with all those horrible people watching and hoping that you would die because then they would have something horrible to tell their horrible friends! If Mr. Rutledge—”

  She shuddered, and tried to control herself, even as tears continued to spill down her cheeks. “You are fortunate to have had one friend among those ghastly people, and I do not know how I would have got you home without him. Sophia, why do you do this to yourself? Lord Endicott means nothing, do you hear me? I know he hurt you, and I know you want justice, but you will kill yourself over it and nothing will change!”

  Sophia reached out from beneath the blankets and groped for Cecy’s hand. Her friend clung to her, crushing her hand, but she welcomed that little pain; it was something real, something more powerful than the aching immobility that gripped her. “Yes,” she said. “I… was foolish. Forgive me.”

  “You know I do,” Cecy said, wiping away her tears with her free hand. “Sophy, please let this go. I need you. And I don’t want to see you suffer.”

  Sophia nodded. It took less effort this time. “Yes,” she repeated. “You’re right. I don’t need to do this. Forgive me.”

  Cecy’s grip relaxed. “Just… just sleep, please? You will feel better in the morning, and Dr. Garland will make sure of your recovery.” She stood, too slowly, and grimaced.

  “You are ill,” Sophia said.

  “I should not have knelt on the floor, that is all,” Cecy said, but her eyes said she was lying. “I will sit with you until you fall asleep, and then I will go to my own bed.” She smiled. “You see, one of us is capable of sensible behavior.”

  “I wonder about that,” Sophia said, returning her smile.

  “Extreme physical exhaustion,” Dr. Garland said, releasing Sophia’s hand. “Nothing a little rest won’t cure, though I’ve done what I can to accelerate the process. Seers and Shapers are prone to it if they aren’t careful. Seers shape Dreams out of the same physical reserves Shapers draw on to alter flesh. Do it too often, and your body runs out of those resources faster than you can replenish them. No more than two Dreams in twenty-four hours, Mrs. Westlake, unless you want to collapse again and give Mrs. Barham cause for alarm.”

  “I understand, doctor,” Sophia said. She pushed herself up on the chaise longue and felt no more than a small ache. “Thank you.”

  “Well, don’t make it necessary again,” Dr. Garland said, straightening with a spine-popping yawn. “And I suggest you spend the rest of the day lying down, just as a precaution.”

  “I will.”

  Dr. Garland shouldered her satchel and nodded at her, then nearly bumped into Cecy as she exited the room. Cecy apologized to the doctor, then came forward to sit near Sophia. “Are you well?” she asked.

  “Very. But I intend to rest here for today, if only to keep you from fretting.”

  “If my possible fretting keeps you from exerting yourself, then I will gladly hover over you like an anxious hen. Though I doubt any chick in the history of the world was as recalcitrant a patient as you.”

  Sophia scooted further up to sit against the arm of the chaise longue. “You are not to wait on me, Cecy,” she said. “I brought this on myself. I should not be rewarded by being brought food, or tea, or books, or the papers. Beeton will see to my needs.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. How many times have you waited on me when my unwise exertions caused me to collapse?” Cecy drew a chair closer to the sofa. “Besides, it makes me feel virtuous that I have not once said ‘I told you so.’ “

  “I believe you said as much several times last night.”

  “Only in spirit. Those exact words have never escaped my lips. Now, what would you like? Not food, because breakfast was only an hour ago. A book?”

  Happily settled with her book, Sophia assured Cecy that she would call for her if she needed her, but when she opened it, she discovered she could not focus on the words. After reading the same sentence three times, she laid it down on its face in her lap and stretched. She was more at peace than she had been in days. Weeks, even. Deciding not to pursue Lord Endicott further had lifted a weight from her heart she hadn’t realized was there. There were so many other things she could do with her talent, though having Visions for the Duchess of Lenshire was not one of them.

  Had the woman actually implied that Sophia’s collapse had ruined her dinner party? And asked her for a Vision out of a frivolous desire to see Sophia perform? That she had collapsed in the service of someone so arrogant and thoughtless… well, that did not matter now, because she would refuse to acknowledge the Duchess again, and the woman would find that offending an Extraordinary Seer carried with it social consequences that were not inconsiderable. The thought cheered Sophia even more.

  The door banged open. “The rumor is you died at the Duke of Lenshire’s home last night,” Daphne said, “which I knew could not be true, but I thought I should see for myself what really did happen. It was all the Dreaming, wasn’t it? I like being right, but not under these circumstances.”

  Sophia sat up straighter, and said, “Daphne, I do beg your pardon—”

  “Oh, I didn’t take offense, your mind was clearly disturbed, and I knew you did not mean a word of it. I only left so you would not give yourself more reasons to feel guilty later,” Daphne said. She pulled a chair around so she could face Sophia directly. “You really are angry at Lord Endicott, aren’t you, to push yourself to such extremes. I apologize for not understanding that before.”

  “I will not pursue him any longer,” Sophia said. “Cecy is right—he is not worth my health, or my life. He can do nothing to me save anger me when we meet in public, and I believe I can control myself enough that he will eventually lose interest in that. There are so many other things I can do with my talent.”

  “But Sophia, you cannot simply give up now!” Daphne exclaimed.

  “No, Daphne, it is not worth the risk. Cecy was so distraught—I can’t make her endure that again, and I am so bad at knowing my limits. Really, it’s better I give up this mad quest.”

  “I see,” Daphne said, leaning back in her chair and extending her legs as if she were wearing her Bounder uniform, with its trousers and sturdy boots, instead of an attractive muslin dress that at the moment was rucked up under her arms. “So you’re quite decided on leaving Lord Endicott alone.”

  “I am. Why? Daphne, you look positively wicked.”

  Daphne grinned more widely. “Because I can get you into his house.”

  In which Sophia embarks, again, on a life of crime

  is… house?” Sophia said

  “His town house! It will be a challenge, but that is exactly the sort of thing I like. And you can take something of hi
s so you can have Visions, and follow where he goes, and see to whom he speaks—you see? It’s the perfect plan!”

  “Daphne,” Sophia said, “it is not a perfect plan, it is insanity. Breaking into someone’s home is illegal, and if we are caught… being Extraordinaries would not protect us, never mind the scandal. I appreciate how you wish to help me, but I truly do not want to pursue Lord Endicott any longer.”

  But it was too late. She could not stop herself thinking of what she might do with some possession of Lord Endicott’s, how much that would help—I promised Cecy! How can I even consider this? She closed her eyes as if that would ward off temptation. You did not actually promise her anything, a tiny, wicked voice told her. And Vision is different from Dream. The right Vision might actually make your Dreams more effective. The wicked voice was very good at justifications.

  “I believe you do want to pursue him, and you are simply trying to be virtuous,” Daphne said, “but isn’t it more virtuous to expose a criminal who might bring down the government?”

  “It is not that dire, Daphne.”

  “I’ve been reading about it, forgery that is, and it is serious, because it undermines our economic foundation, and—you know people have been sentenced to death for forging so much as a one-pound note? That seems very serious to me. You would be serving your country, and so would I, because I won’t let you do this alone, you’ve already shown what poor judgment you can have.”

  “Daphne—”

  It would be easy to find something small, something he would assume he had misplaced. How useful would it be to be able to see through his eyes. And she would be very, very careful not to hurt herself. She could tell the whole truth to Cecy when it was all over, and Cecy would be angry, but she would have to admit Sophia had done something important and valuable. “I do not understand how you can possibly enter his house,” she said.

  Daphne sat up and clapped her hands in delight. “It is the easiest thing in the world,” she said, “though that’s an exaggeration, just a little, and I would—it’s actually quite complicated, but not hard, if you understand me. The hard part is knowing when he will be gone—why could he not have gone into the country for the hunting, that would—oh, but then he would take his important things with him, so it would do us no good—”