Parthenope’s lips quirked, but she kept her countenance. “What sort of dress did you want?”
“It’s just … I had thought … well, I read a description of a dress that Lady Caroline Lamb wore to a ball once, and I’ve always wanted one just like it. It sounded so dashing.”
“Lady Caroline,” Parthenope pronounced, “is not perhaps a good person on whom to model one’s fashions.”
“Or any other behavior, for that matter,” Sophie added. “She’s rather fast. Half of London doesn’t like to receive her.”
“Oh, no!” Kitty’s face reddened. “No wonder Lady Sarah Lennox looked at me oddly and Lady Jane tittered and spoke of something else when I asked if they knew her and said how much I should like to make her acquaintance.”
Before they left, Mrs. Barker beckoned to Sophie to sit beside her. “I need to thank you,” she said quietly. “The, ah, situation we discussed not so long ago has improved greatly of late.”
“Yes, I thought it might,” Sophie agreed. “But that was Parthenope’s doing more than mine.”
“Was it? Then you must thank her for me, if you think it fitting. The problem person has not gone away—that would be too easy! But he has sufficient competition now that Kitty’s head is no longer in a way to be turned.”
“To be honest, it isn’t that Lord John or any of the others aren’t just as interested in Kitty’s fortune,” Sophie said. “But they are far better behaved and respected in society, and wouldn’t make her unhappy the way I suspect Norris Underwood might.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Barker sighed. “She’s young enough to fancy herself in love with any handsome young man who pays her marked attention. An older, wiser woman might be able to manage him quite well, but not Kitty.” She stared pensively down at her gloved hands for a moment, then said briskly, “Well, we mustn’t keep you longer.”
* * *
And then there was the question of what to wear, as giving a ball of course required a new toilette. Sophie chose a dress in her favorite green, a soft and springlike shade, overlaid with a gauze overdress trimmed at the bottom with rows of lace flounces; Parthenope’s dress was identical, but of a pinkish shade almost the color of a peach. Amélie bought them fans of Brussels lace and took them to a shoemaker who dyed his own leather to make them slippers to match their dresses. Sophie could not help feeling wistful, as he carefully measured her feet and murmured the numbers to his apprentice, and again when the slippers arrived a week later, wrapped in tissue paper and trimmed with a tiny frill of lace. Her dancing slippers would never dance, but at least they would look elegant with her dress.
Dancing slippers weren’t the only thing that made her feel wistful. Though she tried daily, her magic seemed all but dead; only occasional glimmers of it showed when she practiced simple spells. It was almost as bad as the months after she’d first recovered from her illness, when the same thing had happened. Would it gradually return, the way it had then?
At least she hadn’t needed it: No threats to Papa had occurred over the weeks they’d been in Brussels. Parthenope agreed that it must mean that whoever had been trying to kill him and the others was still in London, which was a comfort as far as Papa was concerned, but not as far as others were. Parthenope once mentioned that she’d gotten a letter from Peregrine and offered to read it aloud, but Sophie refused. Why pick at the wound? But at least she knew that he was safe so far, and also that no other accidents had occurred to other members of the War Office. It was as if the assassin had vanished … or was biding his time. The last thought made her shiver.
At least Aunt Molly was happy. She was always humming as she took her daily stroll in the Parc to visit the rhododendrons, and she took more pains with her hair, so that she looked less like a hedgehog. The comte came daily to take her driving or bring her flowers or just to call for a few moments in the morning, if he was on his way to report to King Louis in Ghent.
On one of those mornings, Sophie found him in the drawing room staring out the window into the street, waiting for Aunt Molly to come down before they went for a drive out the Allée Verte toward Laeken. He turned and smiled at her as she hesitated in the doorway. “Ah, mademoiselle! Your aunt, she must make herself beautiful before we go out driving, where the wind will disarrange her once again.”
“Is she making you late? Would you like me to have her called?” Sophie started toward the bellpull.
“No, no, not at all! I simply like to tease her about it and started a little too soon.” He looked at her speculatively. “I am under the impression that she has not often been teased over the years.”
“No,” Sophie agreed. “Papa does not know how, and my Aunt Isabel…” She shrugged; it would not be polite to say anything bad about Aunt Isabel, and knowing now what she did about her past, she could only feel sorry for her.
“Poor little Marie,” he said softly, looking down at his hat gripped hard in his hands. He made a visible effort to uncurl them from around the brim. “She was such a—such a merry girl, once. I cannot help feeling responsible for how she has … changed.”
Sophie hesitated. It would be fascinating to hear the story of their romance from him. All she knew of it was what Papa had told her. Would it be prying into private matters that didn’t concern her? On the other hand, she was dying to know more.… “Please—what was she like, when she was young?”
The comte leaned against the edge of the window embrasure and smiled, a faraway look in his eyes. “She was just what I said—merry. I had just come to London from France, where one was afraid to breathe, even—much less smile. We had very little, my younger brother and I, though we had left a handsome house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain and estates in Auvergne. My father stayed behind, at our country estate, where he hoped that he would be safe among our people.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
“I am sorry.”
The comte waved a hand. “I am not the only one who lost family. At least my father died knowing that his sons lived safe in England. And I met your aunt.” He smiled. “You wished to know what she was like? I will tell you how I first saw her. I was at a reception at the Duchess of Allston’s house—the duke was a friend of my father’s, and they were very kind to Ambroise and me when we first came. The reception was out of doors, in their garden, which made me both pleased and displeased—I had not gotten over my nervousness after leaving Paris and felt safer out of doors, but the daylight showed more plainly how shabby my clothes had grown. So I kept to the further edges of the garden even though I longed to be among the other partygoers, who all seemed so happy and carefree. And as I walked, I nearly tripped over your aunt.”
Sophie couldn’t help smiling. “What was she doing?”
“She was crouched in the path, drawing a flower in a tiny sketchbook that she had with her. She scolded me for standing in her light, and when I apologized, she looked up at me and laughed. But not at me. It was a happy laugh, and she said, “Listen to me. I sound like Isabel practicing to be a duchess. You could stand there, you know,” and pointed to a spot just a little to the right. “Then you could hold my parasol for me.”
Sophie laughed. It had always been hard to imagine a young Aunt Molly; the picture the comte was painting of her was unexpected, but not entirely so. “So did you hold it for her?”
“I did.” He smiled, but his eyes seemed to see some other place. “You must understand, I had come from Paris, where the etiquette at court and among the nobility was still stifling, even though it had relaxed since my father’s youth. But there I was in England, with your aunt, who was obviously a lady of importance, or she would not be at the duchess’s party. Back at home, Frenchmen were killing other Frenchmen for being of a different social class … and here your aunt was on her knees, sketching a flower that had taken her fancy and asking me to hold her parasol. Can you wonder that I was bemused?”
“And then?”
“And then?” he repeated. “And then we walked around the gard
en together for hours. I was in love with her by the time your grandfather’s carriage came for her and your family. I walked home to my lodgings above an apothecary’s shop across the river and did not stop thinking of her. She—her soul was filled with sunshine. I had seen so much darkness, and now all I wanted was light.”
“Oh.” Sophie couldn’t help sighing. It was terribly romantic, but it was also plain to see that he had suffered, poor man. It was no wonder that his eyes always held that sad expression. “I am sorry that—that…”
“That a penniless refugee did not become your uncle?” he finished for her, with a lopsided smile. “I am too, Lady Sophie. It took me a very long time to recover from losing my petite Marie—a long time to be able to see it from your grandfather’s viewpoint. What kind of life could I have offered her, not knowing if my father was dead or alive, or if our lands and property had been seized and destroyed? What good was it being a vicomte, heir to an old and proud name, when all that gave it meaning was gone?”
“What kind of life did she end up having?” Sophie asked.
He looked down at his hat again. “I try not to ask myself that question. It is why it took me so long to forgive your family, even after the Directoire restored my name and some of my estates.”
She wanted to ask him, “And now what?” but that was not a question a young girl could ask her elders. She certainly knew what she hoped would happen. Would the sadness be finally banished from the comte’s eyes if it did?
* * *
The day of the ball dawned clear and sunny. At breakfast Madame Mabuse came in to inform them that the weather would hold fair, according to her prophetic right knee, which never failed to warn her when rain was coming.
“How useful,” Aunt Molly commented when she left. “I should rather like one of those so I knew when the garden needed watering. But I can’t help wondering what her left knee has to say.”
“Perhaps it warns when rain isn’t coming,” Parthenope suggested.
Aunt Molly nodded. “Yes, you’re probably right, dear.”
They were not permitted to linger at table discussing Madame Mabuse’s oracular rheumatism, for that good lady wanted them out of the breakfast room so that her nieces would have a place to set out the freshly washed wineglasses they’d borrowed from Sir Charles at the British embassy.
The entire household had been bustling about since sunup; Sophie and Parthenope shooed Amélie away to oversee the other hundred tasks that needed doing, set Aunt Molly to arranging the buckets of ferns and early lilies delivered by the flower seller’s boy, and helped iron napkins and tablecloths. Even the comte helped; after going up to the ballroom to admire Aunt Molly’s arrangements, he took her out for a long ride. At Parthenope’s request, they went in search of a dozen new packs of cards for the card players—which kept Molly from pruning the rented potted ferns and palms into “more natural” shapes.
At about four o’clock, Parthenope suddenly remembered an errand she’d forgotten and went running out of the house without her shawl to do it. Sophie called her back to give it to her, then slowly climbed the stairs. A nap would be nice, as tonight would be busy, but first she would just go up to have one more look at the ballroom and make sure Madame Mabuse’s nephews had watered the flowers as directed. So she continued past the second-floor landing to the third … and stopped in the open doorway to the ballroom.
Amélie was there, but not checking flowers or that new candles had been set in readiness in the chandeliers. Instead she was kneeling on the floor, running her hands over it. Next to her was her maid, Nalini, frowning. She said something in Hindustani, and Amélie nodded.
“Est-il ici?” Amélie said in French, waving her hands in the air as if delineating something over the floor.
“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked, walking into the room.
Both Amélie and Nalini jumped. Amélie scrambled to her feet and hurried to Sophie. “Eh, petite, you startled us! No, nothing is wrong—that is, not much. Nalini thought the floor might be in that place—what is it the word?—rough and splandered—no, splintered.”
“Oh dear. Did one of the Mabuse nephews nap on duty?” Sophie stepped over to where they’d been standing, but Nalini got there first. “It is just a very, very little,” she said in her lilting voice, but planting her feet firmly. “I tell those boys, they come up and fix smooth.”
“I—I’m sure they will.” Sophie said, slightly taken aback. Why didn’t Nalini want her to see the spot?
She took a half step forward, and felt it: a whiff, a hint of … of something. She glanced down at the floor below Nalini’s sandaled feet. It was as bare and smooth as that in the rest of the room.
“Was there something you needed, Sophie?” Amélie asked.
“Um…” Sophie dragged her attention away from the floor and back to Amélie. “No, not really. I just wanted to check the flowers and make sure they were watered before I went to have a rest. Parthenope just went out, but said she would be back shortly.”
Amélie nodded, as if unsurprised by Parthenope’s vagaries. “A little sleep would be a good thing for you. You have worked hard today, and I am grateful. A daughter could not have done more.” She slipped her arm around Sophie and gave her a little hug. “You are ready for tonight? Is there anything I may do for you?” Amélie gently steered her through the door and toward the stairs. “I shall send Nalini in to help, if you think you may need her.”
“No, I think we shall deal famously.” Sophie realized, too late, that she had been neatly maneuvered away from the ballroom and down the stairs. What didn’t Amélie want her to see? What had they been looking at on the floor? What was it she had felt?
“Ah, très bien! Well, here is your room. Go and have that little sieste now, so that you will be fresh for tonight.” She paused. “I shall do the same—for I think that tonight I will dance.”
“You will?” Sophie forgot for a minute about whatever Amélie had been up to in the ballroom. “Oh, Amélie, that’s wonderful! That is … if you’re ready to put off mourning now.”
“I will never put off mourning inside, Sophie—I know you understand that. But I think that maybe I can begin to on the outside.” She smiled and touched Sophie’s cheek in a part pat, part caress, and opened her door.
“Thank you, Amélie.” Sophie stepped into her room, shutting the door behind her, then leaned against it. She would wait ten minutes before going back upstairs to the ballroom. The little scene she’d witnessed bothered her: Both Amélie and Nalini had obviously been concerned about something. And she had felt something—something not quite right. If either of them was there when she went back up, she could say that she hadn’t actually checked the flowers and had returned to do so.
Ten minutes had never seemed so long. Just before Sophie opened the door to slip into the passage, her patience was rewarded by the sound of Amélie and Nalini conversing quietly as they passed, followed by the snick! of a latching door. She counted to twenty and left her room, moving as quickly and quietly as she could.
In the empty ballroom she stopped first to check the flowers in their vases on the sills of the tall windows just in case, then turned to survey the polished floor, trying to estimate where Nalini had been standing. When she thought she’d found the approximate location, she awkwardly lowered herself to a kneeling position and ran her hands over the wood, just as Amélie had, and—
There! Under her outstretched palms, faint but definitely present, was the unmistakable tingle of magic against her skin. She began gingerly to explore it, looking for its borders and pattern. It wasn’t like any spell she’d ever made with Mama; not necessarily more complex or powerful … just odd. There was a feeling of space inside it, a cold sort of openness, but that was all she could read of it.
Sophie sat back on her knees and stared at it. What was it doing in the middle of a ballroom floor, and who had put it there? An image of Amélie as she had appeared just a short time before, hands outstretched over it, filled
her mind’s eye—
But that was impossible. She had known Amélie for months, lived in the same house with her—and never had she gotten the least inkling that Amélie might be a witch. But … but … her eyes widened. That did not mean Nalini … might she possess magical abilities? That might perhaps account for the strangeness of the magic she felt—if it were Indian, based on a different set of teachings.…
Except that it had been Amélie running her hands over the floor, not Nalini.
Could she have been wrong and just not noticed that Amélie was a witch? That could not be ruled out, especially if she had learned, as Sophie herself had, to be extremely cautious and circumspect about using magic. Her experience in London during the season had certainly taught Sophie that caution was the—
“Oh my God.” She breathed the words aloud. London, during the season. Magic.
Far below she heard the bang of the front door. Parthenope must be back from her errand. She scrambled to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane, and another memory struck her in the face: the canes that Amélie had made for her. She and Hester had both noticed something about them, a flavor of magic. She resisted the impulse to fling the cane from her and made her way as quickly as she could out of the ballroom and down the stairs.
Parthenope was just emerging from their room as Sophie reached the bottom of the stairs. “There you are,” she said, pausing in the doorway with one hand on her hip. “I distinctly recall telling you before I left to go have a nap.”
“Never mind that. We have to talk.” Sophie unceremoniously pushed her through the door, locked it behind them, then pulled Parthenope to the far end of the room, as far from the door as she could manage.
“Good heavens, what’s happened?” Parthenope said, amused. “Let me guess—you’ve just discovered that all those strapping nephews of Madame Mabuse are actually her bas—”
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