“Absolutely nothing happened. Mama took pity on my father and we left, and that was that. It was dreadfully anticlimactic.”
“Did you really want more excitement last night?”
“N-no, I suppose not.” Parthenope eyed her. “You did hear all of my conversation with Perry last night, didn’t you? I thought you were behind the curtain, but I didn’t see you. Did you do some sp … um … do something and sneak away?”
Sophie knew she was thinking of the groom perched up on the seat behind them, staring straight ahead as was proper but surely able to hear their every word. She gripped her reticule more tightly. “I was there.”
For the rest of the short drive to Curzon Street, they were silent. Sophie felt a tension in the silence and hoped it was due to the fact that they weren’t alone, rather than that Parthenope had begun to realize just how Sophie’s magic set her apart.
Once they arrived at Revesby House, Parthenope led her up to her bedchamber, handsomely done in shades of rose and pink. “I gave Andrews the morning off,” she announced, closing and locking her door behind her. “We’ll have a bit of luncheon at two, but until then we won’t be disturbed.”
“Another tot of gin, Mab!” said a cheerful voice.
“Oh, you good boy!” Parthenope exclaimed, crossing the room. “You said it quite plainly that time.”
Hester the parakeet sat placidly on a perch by a window, preening his feathers. Sophie regarded him warily as she put off her pelisse and removed her hat. “Is he going to start going on about turnips again?”
“I hope not. I’ve taught him a few much more interesting things to say. Don’t tell Mama, though.” Parthenope took a walnut meat out of a bowl on the sill and gave it to him. “There you go, my precious.”
“Doesn’t he, er, remind you of Mr. Underwood?”
“As a matter of fact, he does. The poor man did turn a rather peculiar shade of purple after I popped him in the nose last evening.” She turned back to Sophie and took a breath. “I thought about what you did half the night—I didn’t think I’d dreamed it.”
Sophie hesitated, then said, slowly, “Before we talk about this anymore, you have to swear to me that you will tell no one else. No one! If anyone should find out—”
“Good God, of course I would never tell anyone!” Parthenope pulled a pair of chairs closer to the window and dropped unceremoniously into one, the violence of her motion lending emphasis to her words. “Why do you think I sent Andrews away and locked us in here? Your magic saved me from a dreadful scrape last night—the very least I can do is to keep your secret for you!”
“Yes, but…” Sophie stopped. Parthenope obviously understood the necessity for secrecy. She also understood, far more deeply than Sophie herself seemed to, what was due to a friend.
“Then yes, I’m a witch,” she said, exhaling. “Or at least, I sort of am. Was. My mother—”
“Was?” Parthenope interjected. “That certainly looked like magic to me, last night!”
“Yes, I know. But I was lucky it worked. Ever since I was ill, my magic has been as crippled as my leg. It’s better than it was. For a year, I couldn’t do anything. But I can’t rely on it—I’d just tried to immobilize Mr. Underwood last night, not both of you—”
“Wait!” Parthenope held up her hands. “I think you had better go back to the beginning, or else I might burst into flame.”
Sophie smiled and told her about Mama and her lessons, about little Harry, about her illness. Parthenope’s eyes grew wider and wider as she spoke, until she got to the day that Papa had come to her and told her in a broken whisper that her mother was dead.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly when Sophie ran out of words. “Losing them was doubly bad, wasn’t it? They weren’t just family—they were the only ones like you.” She frowned, opened her mouth, closed it, then appeared to make up her mind. “I beg your pardon if this is a rude question, but … well, if your mother had this power, then why couldn’t she stop your illness, or keep your leg from becoming lame? Why couldn’t she help your sister?”
Sophie sighed. “Don’t you think she tried? But it doesn’t work that way. There are limits. I could very probably heal a broken bone if I tried—I know I can heal a cut or take away a wart … or at least I could, once. But that’s because I know what a cut or a wart or a broken bone is. What is sickness? How can we stop it if we don’t know what it comes from? I remember her trying to bring down my fever, and afterward trying to help keep my leg from twisting and shrinking. I don’t know if what she did helped or not. Maybe I would be even worse if she hadn’t. But I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I always come back to this: Why else would she have fallen into despair and illness herself, if she could stop it?”
Parthenope nodded slowly. “That makes sense, in a way, but it still seems quite godlike to me … or goddesslike, I suppose. And then losing it … why do you think that happened?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s because it too was somehow harmed by my illness, or something else, because sometimes it does work, like last night—”
“Thank heavens for that! When you did whatever you did last night, and we couldn’t move…” She shook her head. “I had tried to get a chance to hit that scoundrel, but he grabbed me so suddenly that I could not—”
“Yes, and I can hardly believe that you know how to box!” Sophie said. It was a relief to change the subject for a few minutes, though she was sure they would come back to her magic. “I was sure you were hoaxing when you put up your fists like that!”
“I would never hoax about such a thing! I thought it only fair to warn him. Perry taught me, of course—or I made him teach me when I found out he was taking lessons. I knew it would be useful someday,” she added, sounding smug.
“Speaking of whom…” Now that Lord Woodbridge had been mentioned, it was Parthenope’s turn to do some explaining.
“Who? Perry?” Her eyes twinkled. “Why, what about him?”
“Parthenope!”
She laughed and held up her hands in surrender. “Don’t bite my head off! Wasn’t it just perfect, last night? I’m astonished that I didn’t laugh and ruin it all. You heard him, didn’t you? Well?”
Now that they’d finally begun to speak of it, Sophie didn’t know what to say. “Well…”
“Don’t you dare go all missish on me! I knew from that first day we called on you and he was there that he was smitten. He’s quite gone about you, you know. I must admit I’m finding it monstrously amusing, the way it’s made him so cow-handed. And I don’t think I’m wrong in thinking that you’re not indifferent yourself, am I?”
Was she? She thought of the way he had looked at her at the Hallidays’ when he asked if they could start again and the tingle it had sent down her back and into her middle. “I don’t know. Don’t you remember what he said to me, that first day when you called? I don’t want anyone offering for me because he feels like he needs to protect me or because he feels sorry for me.”
“Of course you don’t,” Parthenope replied promptly. “That would be abominable, not to mention shockingly tedious. But think—when he said he loved you as soon as he saw you, he didn’t know who you were. That wasn’t until after, and he said it gave him such a turn because he couldn’t see anything to feel sorry for you about—”
“Until we tripped over each other and he understood what it was. Oh, God, Parthenope, I don’t know! He’s … yes, when we were presented I was … not indifferent—”
Parthenope snorted. “I should think not. He’s excessively handsome, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Yes, and so why would he settle for a cripple?”
Parthenope stood up and took a few paces, then turned and stared down at her, hands on hips. “Sophie Rosier, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. He’s in love with you. With you. I think he would be if you had three crippled legs. Why can’t you accept that?”
“I don’t know.” Sophie shrank
down in her seat and stared at the toes of her slippers miserably. “But it must matter, at some point. It always does. That’s just the way the world is. Didn’t you hear the rumors about me, at the start of the season? Half of society had decided that if I was lame, then I must be half-witted as well, or hunchbacked, or possessed of a squint. My aunt Isabel told me I should be lucky to find an impoverished younger son or a half-pay officer to offer for me and that it was fortunate my dowry would be so large. Do you wonder that I’m suspicious, then, if the best-looking man in London suddenly seems to be taking an interest in me? I know it’s not for my dowry—he’ll be a marquis someday and doesn’t need my money … so what can it be, except a mild attraction inflamed by sympathy? You yourself were the one who said he’s got a chivalric streak as wide as the Channel.”
Parthenope sat down again, her face softer. “Might I give your aunt a taste of my boxing skills, next time I see her? Is that what you think is going on here?”
“Isn’t it?” Sophie felt in the sleeve of her dress for the handkerchief she’d tucked there.
“No, it isn’t,” Parthenope said, very firmly. “But I’m not sure how to convince you of that. Perry’s dying to go to your father and ask his permission to pay his addresses to you, but he won’t until he thinks there’s a chance you’ll say yes or at least not refuse him outright. What would you do if he came to you tomorrow, asking for your hand? What would you say to him?”
A flutter of excitement burned in Sophie’s throat at the thought, cooled by a wisp of doubt. He was handsome and very eligible, fashionable without being a fop or dissipated, serious and clever without being schoolmasterish. He and Papa already got along … why, he was even attentive to Aunt Molly. And yet, would that niggling little doubt that he regarded her as a strong, whole person in her own right ever go away? “I—I don’t know.”
“Well, that and the fact that you good as confessed you hardly slept last night tells me his cause isn’t completely lost. I should tell you, by the way, that I am quite determined to have you for a cousin.” One corner of her mouth quirked humorously. “If you’re still concerned about him feeling the need to protect you, we could always tell him about what you did to Mr. Underwood last night. That would—”
“Don’t you dare tell him!”
Parthenope made a face. “You know I won’t! But what if you do marry him? Will you tell him then?”
“I—I don’t know. Considering that I can barely do a spot-lifting spell—”
“Ooh, what’s that? Will you show me!”
Sophie couldn’t help smiling. Parthenope sounded like a child begging for a treat. “Do you have something with a stain on it? A dress or a—”
“Do I?” Parthenope leapt up and went to her bed, burrowing under the counterpane and lifting her mattress with a grunt. “Here. I sneaked some strawberries up to Hester yesterday and got an enormous red smear on the skirt of this muslin because somebody was not being a very dainty eater, was he?” She laid a white bundle on Sophie’s lap and gave Hester’s tail a small tug.
“Piddle,” he commented.
“Don’t you dare, or it’s back in your cage with you. Well? I was going to try to clean it myself so Andrews wouldn’t sigh patiently at me—she’s terrifying when she sighs patiently.” Parthenope perched on the edge of her chair, looking expectant. “What are you going to do?”
Sophie took out her handkerchief and shook out the dress. A couple of large red spots, along with some smears, marred its whiteness. “What am I going to try to do, you mean? Move the stain from your dress to my handkerchief.”
“Move it? Why not just … you know—make it go away?” Parthenope waved her hand vaguely.
“Because it’s a lot simpler to move it from one place to another than to make it cease to exist. Trust me.” She took a deep breath and rubbed her finger across the red stains, closing her eyes as she did. “Migrā,” she murmured.
“Oh!” Parthenope whistled softly. “I can see that magic could be very useful.”
Sophie opened her eyes. The stain was gone … she’d done it!
But wasn’t it pathetic that she should be so excited by such a trifling spell?
“By the pricking of my thumbs!” Hester said, fluttering down from his perch onto Sophie’s knee and scratching gently with his talons at the place where the stain had been.
“You don’t have thumbs, feather face.” Parthenope reached down and forced her hand under him so that he had to hop onto it, then set him back on his perch. “Get back up there and behave yourself. So where’s the stain?”
“Here, for now.” Sophie held up her forefinger. The pad of it was bright red. “And now, here.” She brushed her finger across her handkerchief. It remained unstained. She rubbed it again, a little harder. “Oh, the devil!”
“Umm…” Parthenope looked sympathetic.
“This is what it’s been like!” Sophie balled up her hanky and threw it to the floor. “I never know whether even the smallest bit of magic will work or not. It’s infuriating! I limp when I walk, and I limp when I do magic. I’m useless.”
“No.” Parthenope took her dress and held it up. “My dress is clean. And Norris Underwood is probably halfway to Scotland or somewhere by now because of your magic. Stop being so hard on yourself.”
“You don’t understand.” Sophie pulled herself to her feet and went to stand by the window.
“Maybe I don’t. Or maybe I see my friend chastising herself for no very good reason and want her to stop.”
“Parthenope, listen. If I can’t get my magic to work, someone might die.”
Parthenope snorted. “Now you’re just being dramatic—”
“Am I? Do you remember the statue falling at the Whistons’ ball, when we met?”
“Of course—”
“And Sir Walter’s horse throwing him in Hyde Park?”
“Yes, but what—”
“What do they have to do with my magic? Those weren’t accidents. Someone used magic to make those things happen. And last night, they tried again.” She explained about the railing in their box at the opera and Mr. Patten.
Parthenope listened intently and exclaimed softly when Sophie was through. “So that’s part of what rattled you so badly that night at the Whistons’ ball … and in the park, too! I remember how you went to Sir Walter’s horse.”
“I think he’d been spooked with an illusion. So that’s why I need my magic. If someone’s trying to hurt my father—and the others…”
Parthenope patted her chair. “Get back over here and talk to me. I don’t doubt that you felt magic had been used, somehow, but why should someone be trying to hurt them?”
Sophie sat down. “I don’t know, except that all of them just happen to be members of the War Office.”
“What? All of them?” Parthenope looked at her very intently. “You’re saying that someone is using magic to attempt to hurt members of the War Office, but trying to make it all look accidental?”
Said that way, Sophie wasn’t sure if it sounded even more sinister, or too far-fetched for words. “Well … yes.”
“But why? Unless…” Parthenope’s eyes widened. “Unless it’s the French!”
“We’ve been at war with the French for years. Don’t you think they would have already used their magic to help themselves, if they had it?”
“Oh, stop being so logical. It’s much more interesting if we think it’s them!”
Sophie stared at her incredulously. “Is that what you think this is? Something ‘interesting’ for us to think about? My father was nearly killed by whoever is doing this, and so were three other men, and there isn’t anyone but us who knows what’s really going on.” She reached up and rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just coincidence—”
“It can’t be—what about the magic you felt? And I’m not being frivolous. Who else hates the War Department as much as the French?”
“The Russians and the Austrians, beca
use we’re the only ones who never knuckled under to Napoléon? No, don’t take that seriously—but maybe there’s some other reason someone hates Papa and these men, and the War Office part is accidental. Maybe it’s someone who wanted to work for them and was turned away or lost his position.”
“I suppose that’s possible, though I’m not convinced. Hmmph.” Parthenope looked thoughtful. “There’s no way to tell where the magic might have come from? Like being able to figure out the direction from which a gun was fired?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Drat.” Parthenope drummed her fingers on her knee, brows knit. “Sophie—you haven’t done any kind of magic yourself those times, have you?”
“No—I told you, I can barely do any magic these days. Why?”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Parthenope said slowly. “The last thing you want to do is draw the attention of the person who is doing this onto yourself. I don’t know how many people out there can actually do magic, but it can’t be that many. And if whoever it is knows you can, I’m willing to wager that War Office members won’t be the only ones in danger.”
* * *
Sophie wasn’t sure she could face driving with Lord Woodbridge that afternoon, but Parthenope threatened all manner of dire consequences if she did not. Which was how she found herself beside him at five, trotting smoothly down South Audley Street.
Lord Woodbridge drove his curricle and pair with a quiet precision that she found pleasing. It was very unlike the showiness of some young men she’d observed who tried to demonstrate their skill by flicking flies off the backs of their horses with their whips or taking corners far too quickly whilst talking far too much.
In fact, he was being rather quiet, which suited her well enough while they still drove on the street. But once they entered the park, surely they would have to talk. After overhearing him last night, what could she possibly say? Perhaps, So tell me, Lord Woodbridge—do you truly think I’m the loveliest girl in London? Or, maybe, Do you truly intend to ask me to marry you?
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