The young sorceress walked around the simulacrum, straightening the upswept dark curls and twitching the folds of the skirt into place. That accomplished, she stepped back, looking herself squarely in the eye.
“If you please,” she said crisply, then repeated the phrase in Grammaryean.
“If you please,” the simulacrum repeated in Celia’s own voice.
“Thank you kindly.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed!”
Celia smiled and added three more such remarks to the simulacrum’s repertoire. Six bland courtesies to be recited as the occasion dictated, surely enough to carry her through the Countess of Rivington’s tedious masquerade!
“Celia!” Her mother’s querulous voice floated upstairs. “The carriage is here!”
“Coming, Mama!” Celia called back. She draped her pink domino over the simulacrum’s shoulders and pressed the mask into its unresisting fingers. “Off you go, now.” She opened the door, and gave her duplicate a gentle push into the hall.
“Thank you kindly,” the simulacrum chirped, as it tripped away down the corridor.
Upstairs, Celia listened intently as the front door closed behind her mother, her sister Lucy, and “herself.” Moments later, from her window, she saw the family carriage rattling away towards Rivington House.
Free! She twirled about the room, wondering mischievously if her family would discover the switch. Certainly not Lucy, dreaming only of her sweetheart these days! And as for Mama, she was no more likely to notice Celia’s uncharacteristic docility than she had Celia’s fury at being removed from school three years ago for her season. “Magic isn’t a ladylike profession, my dear,” she’d explained, ignoring her daughter’s protests as she ignored everything that went counter to her own schemes. “Once you’re well married, you’ll forget all about this foolishness.”
The memory still rankled after three dismal years in “society.” I’m good at this “foolishness,” better than I ever was at dancing and flirting. And Grandmother was so pleased I’d inherited Father’s Talent. Celia sighed; the Dowager Lady Eversleigh had done what she could for her youngest son’s daughters, but her hands were tied while they were still minors.
Well, no more—I’ll be twenty-one next week, able to leave this house and resume my schooling, as soon as I get enough money together. Which reminds me…
Gareth Markham would be coming for his spell tomorrow; if she worked diligently, she could finish before the others came back from the ball.
Humming to herself, she fetched out her candles, her basic grimoire and the white satin slippers Gareth had sheepishly laid before her yesterday. Not his, he’d hastily explained, but his younger sister’s: Marianne Markham had received a last-minute invitation to the Duchess of Thornhill’s annual cotillion. Celia had offered congratulations—her grace’s cotillion was a most exclusive event. The Markhams’ business investments had made them one of the wealthiest families in town, though much of fashionable society still found their money too “new.” But if her grace was coming around, others would surely follow her lead.
There would be new dances, however, and even with the best dancing-master money could provide, Marianne could not learn them all in time and she worried about making a good impression in front of the Duchess. So her brother had come to Celia for magical assistance.
And after he pays me, there’ll be more than enough to take me to Northwood, and Grandmother’s. The prospect was intoxicating: freedom, after three years of Mama’s criticisms, and the independence to pursue her dearest dream! She could hardly contain her elation—not even Lucy knew yet. I shall miss her terribly, but Captain Dalton will take care of her. I only hope he has the sense to court her discreetly—Mama has such antipathy towards younger sons!
She was putting the final touches on Mr. Markham’s spell when she heard her mother and sister come in, their voices raised in furious, and in Lucy’s case, tearful argument.
“That any child of mine would form so unsuitable an attachment!” Mrs. Eversleigh trumpeted.
“But I love him!” Lucy wept.
“Love won’t keep a roof over your head, you stupid girl! With your birth and looks, you could have an earl or a marquis!”
“I don’t want an earl or marquis! I want John!”
“Go to your room!” Mama thundered. The next instant, Lucy’s running footsteps were heard in the hall, punctuated by sobs and a slamming door. Distracted, Celia was momentarily surprised to hear her mother addressing her. “You too, Celia. My nerves simply cannot take any more of this tonight.”
“As you wish,” the simulacrum said demurely.
Seconds later, Celia eased her door open and drew her blandly smiling double inside. The simulacrum looked slightly faded around the edges, but otherwise no worse for its evening out. Celia snapped her fingers, uttered another Grammaryean phrase, and the simulacrum again became a length of spider gossamer, which fluttered soundlessly to the floor. Celia folded it carefully, replaced it in her wardrobe, and went to comfort her sister.
Lucy opened the door to Celia’s light tap and flung herself, sobbing, into her older sister’s arms. Celia murmured soothing nonsense and waited for Lucy’s tears to abate.
At length, the younger girl pulled slightly away. “It is you, isn’t it, Celia?” she asked tremulously.
“You knew?”
Lucy gave a watery giggle. “I trod on your toe, and you said, ‘if you please.’ I offered you caviar, which you hate, and you said, ‘thank you kindly.’ Then I pointed out the ugliest man in the room, asked you if he was handsome, and you said, ‘indeed!’ So I knew something was up. Don’t worry,” she added hastily, “Mama hasn’t guessed. She was too busy ringing a peal over me when she caught us in the garden.”
“She found you and John together? Dearest, that was indiscreet!”
Lucy raised her chin defiantly. “He proposed and I accepted! Aren’t you happy for us? I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t!”
Celia kissed her. “I think he’s the very man for you. But you know Mama will never consent!”
Lucy clutched her sister’s hands. “Couldn’t you speak to her? You’re the eldest, perhaps she’ll listen to you!”
“Why? She never has before,” Celia remarked with some asperity, but she looked at Lucy’s hopeful face and sighed. “Very well, I’ll do my best.”
Unfortunately, Celia’s best was not nearly good enough in this case. Mrs. Eversleigh turned a deaf ear and a stony face to all her pleas on Lucy’s behalf.
“But Captain Dalton is a worthy young man, Mama, and Lucy loves him,” Celia protested.
“Love!” Mama lifted a scornful shoulder. “I married your father for love! If I’d had any sense when I was Lucy’s age, I’d have taken his older brother instead. He wanted me too, and he had lands and the title.”
Flushing, Celia replied with lethal sweetness, “While Father had only a kind heart and a generous nature. I understand why you feel so cheated, Mama.”
Mrs. Eversleigh reddened in her turn. “How dare you speak to me that way! Why can you not be as agreeable as you were last night?” She rose from the breakfast table, a study in offended dignity. “I’ll never consent to this match, nor do I intend to discuss the matter any further. Instead of meddling in Lucy’s affairs, you should try bringing Lord Faringdon up to scratch tonight!”
“Lord Faringdon? “ Celia stared at her mother, horrified. Lord Faringdon was nearly fifty, a greedy lecher who’d already buried two wives!
“He was very taken with you—said he’d never met a prettier or more biddable girl!” Mama uttered a short laugh. “When I first heard that description, of course, I thought he must be speaking of someone else! But when I saw him bringing you lemonade, I concluded that there may yet be hope for you!”
May I fetch you a glass of lemonade, Miss Eversleigh? If you please... Celia closed her eyes, feeling distinctly sick. Oh, what have I done? I never taught my
simulacrum how to say NO. A procession of revolting images paraded through her head, all featuring Lord Faringdon proposing and her double responding with “Thank you kindly” or worse, “As you wish.”
Mama, oblivious to her distress, was still talking. “Of course, he’s much older than you but the wealth and title should make up for it. Besides, you’re nearly on the shelf, Celia, and in your position, you cannot be too particular!”
With that parting shot, she swept majestically from the room. Hands trembling, Celia took several restorative swallows of tea. Seven more days of this. No, six—six days, five hours, and twenty-seven minutes of this, to be precise...
She had just regained her composure when Lucy peered around the door. Her face fell when Celia shook her head, then hardened into lines of determination.
“No matter, then. But I love you for trying.” She helped herself to eggs and toast from the sideboard.
Celia rubbed her aching forehead. “Why is it ‘no matter,’ dearest?”
Lucy glanced swiftly around the room, then dropped onto the chair beside Celia. “John’s getting a special license today, and we’re leaving with his regiment tonight!”
“Tonight? “ Celia stared at her. “But you’re expected at the Thornhills’ cotillion!”
“That’s what I wished to speak to you about, love.” Lucy’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Can you—do what you did last night, for me? Please, Celia, it’s our only hope.”
Celia hesitated but only momentarily. “Come to my room an hour before we’re to leave for the ball.”
Lucy flung her arms around her sister in a throttling embrace. Celia hugged her back, sighing inwardly. Magic slippers for Marianne, a simulacrum for Lucy, and an escape from Lord Faringdon for myself. Did Cinderella’s godmother ever feel this overworked?
“An invocation to Terp—Terp—”
“Terpsichore,” Celia supplied. “The Muse of dance.” She turned over the slipper to show Gareth Markham the tiny series of Greek letters etched on the sole. “Your sister will be able to master any dance wearing these, even the wicked waltz.”
“Is there to be waltzing?” Gareth asked. “My mother thinks it’s indecent!”
“If the Duchess approves of the dance, the rest of society will surely follow.”
“A point well-taken,” said Gareth, smiling. “I shall tell Marianne to remind our mother of that if she objects.”
“Will you be escorting your sister to the ball?” Celia inquired, rising from the park bench and twitching the leash to awaken her mother’s pug dog, snoring at her feet. Pug looked at her reproachfully but heaved himself upright and waddled after her.
Gareth shook his head. “I’ve heard—from certain others— that the smell of trade is still too strong on me.”
“What an odious thing to say!” Celia exclaimed indignantly.
Gareth shrugged. “Oh, I’ve never cared much for balls or routs. But Marianne adores them—it’s painful to see her slighted simply because of the way our family makes its living.”
“She must be very dear to you,” Celia observed, thinking of Lucy.
He flushed slightly, but did not deny it. “Marianne’s one of the prettiest, most sweet-natured girls in town, even if she is my sister. She deserves the best chance at happiness we can give her.” He glanced at his pocket watch, “I’d best be on my way, but here’s your full payment.” He handed her a heavy leather pouch.
The coins within chinked invitingly—enough to take Celia anywhere she chose. She’d never guessed freedom sounded like money. Brow creased in thought, she weighed the purse in her hand a moment longer, then looked up at Gareth and spoke quickly, before she could change her mind. “How much would it cost to hire your fastest carriage for tonight, Mr. Markham?”
“Markham’s Thunderbolt?” Lucy stared at her sister. “Dearest, that must have cost a fortune!”
“It’s their swiftest model, love, and it’ll take you and John to the border faster than anything Mama can send after you.”
Lucy’s eyes filled. “It must have taken every penny you own,” she choked.
“Nonsense,” Celia replied, ruthlessly quashing any lingering regrets. “Mama cannot keep the days from passing—her power over me ends the moment I’m of age. And I daresay, Grandmother may be willing to help me then. And we’re true sisters,” she added bracingly, “with never a debt between us! So, if you’ll stand within my circle, I shall get matters underway.”
Blinking furiously, Lucy summoned up a smile and obeyed, carefully raising the skirts of her jonquil-yellow ball gown so as not to smudge the chalk lines etched on the floor. Celia lit the candles set to the north, south, west, and east poles of the circle, then carefully maneuvered her sister’s cheval glass into position so Lucy faced her full-length reflection. Stepping back, she raised her arms to shoulder level and began the complicated incantation to fix the image in the glass. Within the circle, a wide-eyed Lucy stood like a statue, hardly daring to breathe.
The first stage of the enchantment complete, Celia caught up the length of spider gossamer and flung it over the mirror. As the soft folds settled into place over the glass, she began the second spell. Lucy gasped as the gossamer grew thinner, more insubstantial, and finally dissolved altogether, leaving her facing her reflection once more.
“That cloth—where did it go?”
“You’ll see,” Celia returned calmly. “Reach out, Lucy—and take her by the hand.”
Tentatively, Lucy put her hand up to the mirror and exclaimed as her fingers met first empty air, then other fingers closing over hers with the lightest of pressures. To her astonishment, her reflection stepped from the frame to stand before her, smiling blandly. Behind them, the mirror resumed its familiar glassy shine.
Celia smiled, despite the slight weariness that came from spellcasting. “Now, the real work begins.”
“Lucy!” Mama’s voice was sharp. “Stop that sniveling at once! What will her Grace think of you?”
“Lucy” uttered a sigh that seemed to shake her slender form and took refuge behind her handkerchief again. Mama pursed her lips and stared towards the other end of the room, ignoring her unsatisfactory daughters. Celia stifled a giggle; her sister’s instincts had been entirely correct. Lucy had instructed her double to sniffle, sigh and occasionally sob, and utter only a murmured refusal, equally appropriate for declining food, drink, or the next waltz.
“Mama will expect me to be a watering pot, love,” she had explained to a dubious Celia. “And perhaps,” she’d glanced warily at her replica, “it’s best if the creature says as little as possible.”
Remembering her own predicament, Celia grimaced. If her own simulacrum had confined herself merely to “yes” and “no,” she might not be in this situation now. She quickly scanned the gleaming, candlelit ballroom and saw Marianne Markham, resplendent in white satin, waltzing in the arms of a young man whose impeccably cut evening clothes and lack of any discernible chin marked him as an aristocrat. Still, he had a kind, if rather foolish face, and Celia had no doubt that he and the lovely, bird-witted Marianne would deal quite well together.
But no sign of Lord Faringdon, yet... Celia began to breathe more freely. Perhaps his lordship had turned his attentions elsewhere. To her relief, Mama’s attention was now being claimed by a dowager peeress, allowing both daughters to slip away unnoticed. Celia guided the simulacrum to a far corner of the room, populated—as she knew from her own experience—by all the young ladies not considered pretty or wealthy enough to dance with. A few, who had envied Lucy’s successful season, nudged each other and smirked at her apparent distress, but others, more kindly, surrounded her with sympathetic murmurs.
Celia smiled and prepared to blend into the background when she caught sight of a stocky, grey-haired man greeting Mrs. Eversleigh and Lady Blessingham across the room. Colonel Montford, one of Lord Faringdon’s oldest friends, and if he was here…
Celia licked dry lips. His lordship was nowhere to be seen
but perhaps it would be best if she left the ballroom altogether, instead of remaining here like a lame duck. The simulacrum was safe until the next morning, and would remain so, as long as Celia worked no further major spells to tax her strength. Besides, the Thornhills’ topiary garden was said to be a marvel. Gathering up her leaf-green skirts, she stole quietly towards the terrace.
The night air was pleasantly cool, after the heat of the ballroom, and scented with jasmine. Moreover, colored lanterns bobbed from the branches of many trees so that even nighttime visitors could enjoy the garden. Lulled by the plashing of distant fountains, Celia strolled down the path, nibbling on a piece of gingerbread filched from the refreshment table and admiring the fanciful topiary shapes, trimmed to resemble mythical beasts. Here a gryphon reared its head and forepaws in the classic rampant position, while a dragon crouched over some shadowy treasure.
Swallowing the last of her gingerbread, Celia paused before a topiary unicorn that she found particularly well done. Perhaps that was why this figure stood so close to the center of the garden at one end of a miniature courtyard. What lay at the other end? She wandered around the unicorn to see…and froze, the breath catching in her throat at the sight of Lord Faringdon seated on the courtyard bench, just beneath a pouncing topiary lion. Heart hammering, Celia glanced around for an escape—the ballroom, the hedges, even the fountain, if she could just run fast enough...
Too late—he had already seen her and was even now rising to his feet.
Celia’s thoughts fluttered frantically around in her head, like birds trying to escape their cages. If she simply make herself vanish…but no, most of her magic was bound up in Lucy’s simulacrum, and for an instant, she felt a fierce pang of resentment towards her absent sister, which she hastily suppressed. This coil is partly of my own making and now is no time for vapors. If I cannot think of some way out of this without resorting to magic, then I AM a poor creature!
Awakened and Other Enchanted Tales Page 7
