by Mary Balogh
“Hairy Elizabeth of Thycklewaite,” he read. “Few modern practitioners risk attempting the elegant complexity of Elizabeth’s spells. Greatly respected during the fifteenth century for her skill with herding, fishing and knitting spells, Elizabeth also ran a successful perfumery business much favored by the local nunnery…. Okay. So why did you think I was responsible?”
“Because…” I leaned my head back against the leather of his sofa. “Because it seemed like a frat-house prank.”
“A frat house prank that could ruin your business. Isabella’s business. Emma, do you honestly think I’d do something like that?”
“No,” I whispered. I couldn’t figure out whether he despised me or whether I’d hurt him again, but now I was ashamed of my accusation. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s other stuff going on, too, isn’t there? You got all riled up when I asked about your finances the other day. I know it was intrusive of me, but my offer to help still stands.”
So I told him about the mysterious disappearing money and the other problems we’d had—the cancellation of our usual venue, the computer virus, the possible theft of our e-mail list.
He nodded. “Do you see how this all adds up? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I nodded. Now it all made sense, and it wasn’t good. “Yes. A curse.”
“Who the hell would want to put a curse on Hartfield?”
“Well…” I told him everything else. “Harriet did turn Elton into a frog a few weeks ago.”
“She did what? Harriet? Oh, come on. She’s only a friendly little werewolf.”
“I let her look at my spell book and she was almost at her time of the month, so she had great power. I believe she used the Frog Variant of Buckaroo Velmsley Witherington-Hughes of Texas because it did wear off after a while, although—”
“And then Elton brings gorgeous Augusta back into town to start his own agency. Did he hack into your e-mail list, too?”
I muttered, “I don’t think so. I think he got Frank Churchill to do it for him. I noticed someone had been at my computer when he…when he was in my apartment.”
“Oh, Christ,” Knightley said. “Change your password as soon as you can.”
“Okay.”
He sighed. “You don’t even have a password, do you?”
“Well, I—”
He reached for his cell phone. “We’d better get hold of Missy right away.”
“Missy?” I said stupidly.
“Yeah, Missy, the most powerful witch in D.C.” He had her number on speed dial. “Why else do you think she’s on retainer at the White House? Hey, Missy, it’s Knightley.”
The White House? Missy?
A shrill barrage of sound emerged from his cell phone.
“Uh…what? Oh shit, I’m sorry. Look, Missy, I… No, I don’t…. Yeah, of course. I’m sorry…. I’m sure she… I understand….”
Missy’s rant continued, Knightley nodding and making placatory sounds.
He turned off his cell and gave me a long, steady look. “You’ve screwed up badly, Emma. That was the dumbest and most unkind thing you’ve done in all the time I’ve known you. She was crying.”
“Look, she may be the power behind the throne, but she’s an embarrassment and a liability to Hartfield. I don’t know why Isabella kept her on the books so long. She—”
“Quit blustering,” Knightley said. “Admit you’ve screwed up and go do something about it. And maybe when you’ve learned to ask for help, you can get your life, and your sister’s business, back in order.”
“Okay, okay. Thanks for the repair job.”
“Emma.” He sprang to his feet and blocked my way. “Just like the last time, off in a huff.”
“No, you were in a huff.”
“Yeah, I was. I guess I am now. I have good reason to be. But I wasn’t the one who flounced off.”
“It’s your apartment. Obviously, you wouldn’t be the one leaving.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Knightley. I don’t. I’m sorry I doubted you, I really am.” One quick step and we’d be touching. “Have a good evening.” I leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth before running for the safety of the elevator.
CHAPTER 8
THE NEXT MORNING I WAS OUTSIDE MISSY’S HOUSE, with an apology gift—a large box of chocolates and a pair of guest towels embroidered with cats. I knew she’d be home, but she wasn’t answering the doorbell. I wasn’t sure, but I thought a lace curtain moved.
I plucked my cell phone from my pocket and called her number.
No reply, but I wasn’t surprised.
One of Missy’s neighbors, fussing over a boxwood in a pot outside his front door, gave me a curious look. Great, pretty soon someone would call the cops.
I gave the front doorbell one more push and then something brushed up against my ankles, making a soft crooning sound. I glanced down and met the green-eyed stare of one of Missy’s cats, a gigantic calico that liked to sit on your chest and breathe cat-food fumes into your face.
“Hildegard!” I said. “Who’s a good kitty, then?”
I scooped her up into my arms and stepped back from the front door, just to make sure Missy could see. Her windows were open so I was fairly sure she could hear.
“Shall we visit Uncle Knightley? You’re his very favorite kitty cat.”
I took a step toward my bicycle, parked on the brick sidewalk. “You’ll fit nicely into this carrier….”
The front door flew open, revealing a stone-faced Missy. “That’s a dirty trick, using my cat to gain access to my house, Emma.”
Hildegard gave a mew of pleasure and poured herself from my arms onto the sidewalk and disappeared inside the house, while I stood there dumbfounded at the emergence of a complete and unfriendly sentence.
“And it’s Ermintrude, not Hildegard.” Missy turned and walked away back into the house, leaving the door open.
I took this as an invitation to follow, wheeling my bike into the dim narrow hall. I followed the whine of an electric can opener to the kitchen, a modern addition at the back of the house, where Missy spooned cat food into three china bowls. She set the dishes on the floor and the cats swarmed toward them.
I set the gifts on the counter. “Missy, I’ve come to apologize. I was way out of line. I’m very sorry I hurt your feelings.”
She nodded.
I floundered on, “And I need your help. Badly.”
“I see.” She walked away from me into a tiny secluded walled garden at the back of the house. A small cast-iron table and chairs stood on a flagstone patio, and herbs and roses tumbled from containers.
I followed.
“Your sister and I are great friends,” she said.
My face heated. “Yes, I’m sorry.”
“She’d be very—how is Isabella?”
“Very well. In fact—” I reached into my backpack “—I thought you’d like to see this. I’m sorry it’s a bit crumpled. I’ve been carrying it around.”
Her face softened as she looked at the picture of the ultrasound. “Oh! How—and when is she due—I suppose she doesn’t know yet if it’s a boy or—we must have a drink—and something to eat—I have a—no, I think Jane and I ate the last—let me have a look, or—”
“Oh, please, I’d like to take you out to lunch.”
“How sweet, but Gregory—you know, such a lovely—he is such a—quite surprising, his—the girth, you know is so very—coming to pick me up at one—so Knightley thinks you have a curse—his e-mail—I try not to be prejudiced against elves, but invariably they cause—it really is too bad—”
“Knightley thinks you can help, and I’d be very grateful.”
“Yes, of course—I’ll get my—I know I put it—” Still talking, she went back into the kitchen and came back out with a cell phone and an appointment book.
She sat down at the table and gestured to me to sit. “Knightley? It’s Missy and dear Emma is… That’s what I thought�
�. Let me see.” She flipped through her appointment book. “The sooner the better…. Tonight… And we need another… Oh—do you think…” She glanced at me. “If you’re sure…. Yes, yes… Well, an academic background is very… But for this sort of… Of course I do trust your judgment…. If you really…Okay.”
She laid the phone down on the table and gave me a long, speculative stare. “Most interesting—that is—certainly not my choice but dear Knightley—you are to be the third, Emma—if you agree, that is—”
“The third what?”
“The third witch of the three needed to break the curse—but of course you know—that is, Knightley thinks it should—”
“Of course it should be me. It’s my business—my sister’s, I mean.”
“That’s not the—I don’t know that—”
“You think I’m not good enough.”
She nodded. “There are some dangers and—well, academic knowledge only provides—but Knightley thinks—he has some doubts, naturally….”
She thought I wasn’t good enough. And Knightley hadn’t even mentioned the possibility of me being the third of the trio of witches who would tackle a curse. The old, familiar resentment prickled and irritated. Once more he had made a high-handed decision without even telling me what he intended or consulting me. And then reason set in: he was right. I hated to admit it, but he was right, I hadn’t asked for help when I needed to and I’d been stupid enough to think Missy a silly, long-winded twit.
Missy, a cat on her lap, was cooing over the guest towels. This, I reminded myself, was the most powerful witch in Washington, D.C. I’d had no idea.
“Moonrise, in the lobby of your apartment,” Missy said, fingers buried in the cat’s fur. I hoped she wasn’t digging for fleas.
“Okay. And, uh, thanks.”
“Variant seventy-three of Claudius the Unhealthy’s Charm against Elfin Practices,” Missy said.
“No!”
She raised an eyebrow making me want to squirm in embarrassment.
I said, “It’s okay, but I think Variant seventy-five has the edge, and we should add in the postscript.”
She nodded and I wondered if she’d been testing me, particularly when she replied with complete coherency. “Absolutely correct. Now I remember that seventy-three has that unfortunate loophole regarding invisibility. Thank you for your timely reminder, Emma. Seventy-five, then. I’ll brief Knightley.”
AFTER SPENDING THE REST of the day in the necessary purification rituals, I waited in the lobby for Knightley and Missy that evening. My robe was bundled up under one arm—I didn’t want to give the tenants any ideas. I’d already received a few curious glances after the catastrophe of the night before and my stomach rolled queasily at the thought of what might happen later.
The elevator door opened. Knightley, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, holding a rolled-up robe in one hand, stepped out.
“Woodhouse.” He acknowledged my presence with a curt nod. He smelled faintly of mint and verbane and his hair was still damp. He sprang forward to open the outside door as Missy arrived.
This was a Missy new to me. She carried an aura of power that made my spine tingle. “Ready?” she asked.
We rode up to the rooftop in silence. Knightley produced a key to open the door, and as he inserted it, sprang back, swearing and shaking his hand. “Burned me,” he explained.
Missy must have seen the look on my face. “Courage,” she said, slipping her robe over her head. She took the key from Knightley and shook the loose sleeve over her hand to protect her skin.
The door flew open bringing a gust of wind and a swirl of dead petals and ash. Knightly and I, having donned our robes, followed Missy out onto the rooftop.
Yesterday it had been a scene of chaos and panic; tonight the air was thick with magic and menace. As we joined hands, a gust of foul-smelling wind blew in a dark cloud, blotting out the city lights and the stars. Elfin laughter rang out and thunder muttered and crackled.
As we chanted, the concrete surface of the rooftop changed, becoming soft and moist. Near us in the shadows something moaned and heaved. Knightley’s hand gripped mine a little more tightly.
Missy and I exchanged glances. We couldn’t interrupt the incantation, but we both knew something was getting at Knightley and gnawing at his defenses.
The wind rose to a howl and hail spattered and bounced around us. A bright crack of lightning was followed by a rolling burst of thunder.
Knightley fell to his knees. No, he wasn’t falling, he was sinking—sinking into what had been solid cement a few minutes ago, as if he were in a quicksand. His hand loosened in mine.
“Knightley!” I screamed, hoping Missy’s power was strong enough to do the work of three.
There was nothing else for it—I had to do what I’d only explained in classrooms, in front of yawning, sleepy undergraduates, as a very advanced technique that, should any of them care to pursue a higher degree in magic, might be within their grasp. I was pretty sure it wasn’t within mine, but I had to try.
I left my body.
I hurtled up into the darkness, into the swirling clouds that stank of magic. Below me three figures stood, one glowing almost as bright as her head of vivid reddish hair—Emma Woodhouse. The second gave off a bright, steadfast light, and the other, Knightley, oh, Knightley, please come back—was half-transparent, battled by elfin malice. The two women chanted the spell.
From above, I concentrated on Knightley and spoke the words that would strengthen him, a spell of return and identity. A spark lighted on Emma’s arm—my arm, the arm of the real Emma down below, and ran across our joined hands like flame running along paper.
Beautiful, vicious elfin faces appeared out of the darkness. He doesn’t love you, Emma…. He thinks you’re second best…just like your family does…. Not as smart as Isabella, not as pretty… Why should he care about a girl who lets a vampire bite her…? Let it go, Emma, admit you failed….
The spark of light that bound me to Knightley wavered and turned a pale, unhealthy blue. Knightley, who had gained a little more opacity, faded.
The elfin voices continued, whispering poison, sapping my resolve. He’s embarrassed he made love with you, Emma…. You were right, ten years ago…. You won’t fit into his world…. He’s wondering how to break it off with you now…. He feels sorry for you….
I gathered my strength as the dark, evil-smelling cloud swirled around me, obscuring the figures below as they chanted the last lines of the postscript.
“You’re wrong!” I shouted. “I take back what is mine, I declare your curse as worthless as your elfin mischief and fantasies, as puny and pathetic as my love for Knightley is strong. I love him even if he doesn’t love me back. Now go!”
A bolt of silver blue lightning shot from the dark cloud, scorching my face and sizzling my hair, spinning me around in a vortex of pure energy and tumbling me head over heels down, back to earth, into the arms of a blessedly solid and real Knightley. The air was scented with the fresh, earthy smell of freshly fallen rain and the familiar city sounds, sirens and traffic, rose up from the streets.
“Shit, Woodhouse,” he said, “what the heck did you do?”
“Very impressive,” Missy said. “Most—well, I think that should—everything should be okay now—Isabella will be—Knightley, I think I should take a cab—no, no, I insist, there’s no need for you to—or maybe Jane—but she has a date with—a cab will do quite—”
I was too tired to interrupt. There was something quite comforting in Missy’s endless stream of chatter. I followed them to the elevator and pressed the button for my floor. “I’m really tired. I need to sleep. Missy, thank you so much. You, too, Knightley.”
“Yes, but—” I couldn’t tell what he was thinking or what he wanted to say. All I wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep and sleep. Something came back to me from my class notes, about how energy was depleted after performing a taxing spell, and there were various methods, herbal concoction
s, for instance, that could help, and many witches developed their own recipe for such occasions….
“Emma!” Knightley had followed me into my apartment.
“Sorry, good night.” I dropped my robe onto the floor, then my T-shirt. “Sorry, I’m taking my clothes off.”
“Yeah, I— Emma, there’s something I…”
“Go away.” I fell into my bed.
Someone pulled the bedclothes over me, smoothing my hair from my forehead—strange and scratchy, that lightning bolt had singed it. “Thanks,” I managed. “Turn out the light.”
OH, GOD. I REALLY HAD TAKEN my clothes off in front of Knightley last night, everything except for yesterday’s polka-dot panties, which somehow didn’t seem appropriate for the practice of complex magic. And now the phone was ringing and I was in dire need of a herbal concoction—a simple caffeine drink, coffee, lots of lovely hot coffee with huge amounts of cream—but I rolled over to get the phone anyway.
“Emma!” My sister’s voice was high and strained.
“What’s up?” I sat up. “You—you’re okay? The baby?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” But her voice said otherwise. “Is Knightley there?”
“No, of course he isn’t. Why would—” There was a sudden, thunderous knocking at the door of the apartment. “Hold on, Iz, someone’s at the door.”
“It’s Knightley. Go answer it. Stay on the line.”
“Is this some sort of variant of pickles and ice cream?”
“Shut up and do as I say.”
I paid a quick visit to the bathroom and was greeted with the sight of charred hair and a red nose from last night, but I pulled on the embarrassing fluffy blue bathrobe and headed for the kitchen while Knightley—I supposed it was Knightley—continued to hammer on the door.
“Now what are you doing?” my sister said.
“Filling the kettle. I need coffee.”
“Hurry up!”
I put the kettle on to boil and headed for the door. Knightley stood there, unshaven and with dark circles under his eyes. “Has she told you?” he barked at me.
