Whilst this stratagem of Joanna’s was going forward, Sophie was wrestling with her conscience, which spoke to her in the gruff baritone of Dougal MacAngus, lecturer in magickal ethics at the University in Din Edin: Was it, or was it not, a permissible breach of principle to use her magick to distract her mother-in-law’s attention from a matter which they had been expressly instructed not to discuss with her?
A pleading glance from Miss Pryce decided her. “Miss Pryce,” she said, rising from her chair and drifting over to the pianoforte, “Amelia, may I impose upon either of you to turn my pages, or perhaps to indulge me in a duet?”
Miss Pryce sprang up from the sofa as quickly as though she had sat upon a hatpin. “I should be most happy, Mrs. Marshall,” she said, and, bending close to Sophie’s ear with one hand on her shoulder, “A lullaby, perhaps? Or something like it?”
“You are very quick, Miss Pryce,” said Sophie, low, and began riffling through her collection of songs in search of the Cymric song which she had so often heard Miss Pryce sing to Agatha and Yvon in the course of this sojourn in Grosvenor Square, and had entertained herself one rainy afternoon by setting down and harmonising.
“Oh, but you must wait for Genevieve!” said Mrs. Marshall. “Whatever can be taking such a time? Graham, do you not think I ought—”
“Let me?” said Miss Pryce quietly, when after some searching the necessary page had yet to come to Sophie’s hand, and Sophie yielded up her seat at the pianoforte.
Whilst Mrs. Marshall went on talking of Jenny, in fretful counterpoint with Gray’s unpractised attempts to soothe or divert her, Miss Pryce settled herself on the piano-stool, flexed her long fingers, and setting them upon the keys, produced an experimental series of chords. Then she looked up at Sophie over her shoulder, and at Sophie’s tiny nod, turned back to the instrument and began to play and sing:
Huna blentyn, ar fy mynwes,
Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon . . .
Miss Pryce had a very pretty voice, though not a strong one; it shook a very little with the force of her anxiety. Having seen her, as Sophie had done, with her dark hair shorn to boyish curls, dressed in clothes borrowed from one of Kergabet’s grooms, matter-of-factly plotting the theft of an Alban publican’s draught horses in the service of a sub rosa rescue mission on the Ross of Mull, such anxiety seemed out of character; but, after all, there came a point in that sort of undertaking after which nothing seemed altogether real, and one could only fight one’s way forward, for there was no way back—none of which was necessarily useful preparation for Mrs. Edmond Marshall.
For Miss Pryce as for Sophie herself, however, singing appeared calming to the nerves, for as she settled into the burden (Ni chaiff dim amharu’th gyntun/ Ni wna undyn â thi gam . . .) the clear mezzo-soprano was steady and sure—and, better still, Gray, Amelia, and Joanna (did Joanna know how clear the longing showed upon her face?) had all turned attentively to listen, depriving Mrs. Marshall of her audience.
Sophie laid a steadying hand upon Miss Pryce’s shoulder and felt her way into a descant upon the melody. She did not have the words by heart as Miss Pryce did—it was for this reason as much as any other that she had been attempting to find her notated copy—and so resorted to improvised and vaguely Cymric-sounding nonsense; Miss Pryce’s shoulders twitched briefly under her hand, in censure or amusement.
Once, long ago, the magick Sophie had inherited from her grandmother by way of her father had flowed out along with her voice without conscious thought, without effort—in fact, altogether without her knowledge, inflicting her cheerful or melancholic or pensive humours upon everyone within earshot. For some years now, however, she had been labouring at the task of bringing it under her conscious control, and acutely mindful of her capacity to do harm by this means; the result was that she had now to find her way into the magick, as well as the music that would carry it forth.
She ought to have chosen some other song, of course—one whose words and melody she knew as she knew the lineaments of her sister’s face, or of Gray’s—so that she might sing by instinct alone, and devote all her conscious thought to the magick. But, however, le mal est fait, she told herself, and, satisfied that she should at least not disgrace herself, sank down into the awareness of her magia musicæ, surveyed the metaphorical gates with which she had learnt to keep it in check, and began unlocking them one by one.
* * *
By the time Sophie and Miss Pryce had sung once through the latter’s lullaby and once through “Llywn On” (the more effective as a spell-song, because Sophie knew it so much better, though it was by no means a lullaby), Gray was yawning enormously, and everyone else appeared to be fast asleep. Miss Pryce turned on the piano-stool, stifling a yawn of her own, and said, quietly astonished, “Well!”
Sophie crossed the room to perch on the arm of Gray’s chair, winding her arms unselfconsciously about his neck (there was no one to see but Miss Pryce, and she, Sophie knew, had seen much worse).
“I ought to feel guilty,” she muttered into the hair above his ear, “but I confess I cannot quite manage it.”
“Nonsense,” said Gray bracingly. “Desperate times, desperate measures . . .”
He yawned so widely that his jaw produced a tiny, ominous creaking sound, then scrubbed his free hand through his hair. Sophie leant more fully into his embrace, closed her eyes, and sighed.
It might have been some hours later, or perhaps only a few moments, that she was startled awake by Jenny’s voice, exhaustion mingled with sardonic amusement, inquiring, “And what have we here?”
Sophie sprang up—she had somehow slid down from the chair-arm into Gray’s lap, as though her former position had not been humiliating enough—so quickly and carelessly that her shoulder caught Gray under the chin and her elbow jabbed him in the ribs.
“Oof,” he said sleepily, rubbing at his jaw. He blinked up at Sophie, then at Jenny, who stood just inside the drawing-room door, wearing an unseasonably woolly shawl and a bemused expression, and at last said, “Well?”
“Oh, no,” said Jenny. “None of that, if you please. You may ask your questions in the morning.”
“Jenny?”
They all three turned at the sound of Joanna’s sleep-roughened voice. Joanna and Amelia had dozed off on the blue sofa, one heeling over to port and the other to starboard; Joanna, rousing herself, looked for a moment more like a badger dressed for dinner than like a well-brought-up young lady.
Miss Pryce, at the piano, rubbed one eye and suppressed a yawn. “What’s the hour?” she said.
“I have not the least idea,” said Jenny, “except that it is past time for all of you to be abed, my wayward goslings. Sophie, what on the gods’ green earth have you done to my mother?”
“I—”
“What we shall have to do again before long,” said Gray, “if we are not to speak to her of what is in all of our minds. I am out of practice in withstanding maternal interrogation, Jenny, and your disappearing upstairs for the whole of an evening was bound to raise Mama’s suspicions—”
“There was no help for it,” said Jenny. She cast an anxious look in the direction of her mother; Sophie followed her gaze but found Mrs. Marshall still asleep in Jenny’s chair, very gently snoring. “He was half-dead with fatigue—and Mr. Fowler no better—and he would never rest if I did not make him.” Another glance at Mrs. Marshall—a furrowing of brows—and then she said, “Have you thought what you shall say to them, when they wake?”
“There was no help for this, either,” said Gray firmly.
“I do not think I meant your mama to fall asleep, exactly,” said Sophie. Her conscience was prodding her with renewed force now, and she was regretting having yielded to the impulse to end the conversation by any means necessary. “Only to stop asking questions which none of us dared answer, and threatening with every other breath to charge up the stairs to your assistance.”
“Mother Goddess!” Jenny breathed, her face going rather pale. “I thank you, in that case, from the bottom of my heart; though I should rather like to ask Lady Maëlle—” An anxious, questing glance about the room. “Where is Lady Maëlle?”
Joanna and Sophie exchanged a look: Jenny was distraught indeed, if her ordinarily perfect recall of all her guests’ comings and goings had been disrupted to this extent. “She is gone to stay with Lady Karaez,” Sophie reminded her, “to assist with her lying-in.”
“Yes,” said Jenny, nodding. “Yes, of course. How stupid of me to forget!” She put up a hand to her head—the movement a near-twin to Gray’s habitual gesture, but stymied by the arrangement of her hair—then pressed the other to her eyes.
“Jenny,” said Sophie, approaching her with some caution to lay a hand on her arm. “Jenny, when had you last a proper night’s sleep?”
Jenny’s hands came down from her face; she clasped them together, then visibly loosened her grip. “I have been rather anxious,” she conceded.
“Of course you have,” said Joanna, “playing hostess to half the kingdom whilst your husband is off doing the gods know what in pursuit of a band of—” She shut her mouth with a snap; swallowed; and after a moment continued, “Go along to bed, Jenny, I beg. Gwen and I shall be hospitable in your stead; and perhaps things may look better in the morning.”
Or better yet, the afternoon.
Jenny protested, but plainly her heart was not in it, and before long they had succeeded in sending her away to bed, with Gray’s arm to help her up the stairs. Sophie, Joanna, and Miss Pryce looked at one another, then studied the two sleepers; at last Sophie said, “Miss Pryce, come back with me to the pianoforte; Jo, sit down again . . . where were you? Ah!” Joanna had found her place at one end of the blue sofa and was arranging herself, somewhat implausibly, as though reading the book of philosophical treatises which Gray had left behind on a nearby occasional table. “Yes, that will do splendidly.”
Sophie sat down at the pianoforte, struck up a rollicking melody in triple time, and poured a judicious measure of magick into a wholly illusory feeling of cheerful energy as she began to sing: “O, whistle and I’ll come to ye, my lad!”
It was a deliberately provocative choice—a song of the Borders, such as Mrs. Edmond Marshall most disparaged, and of unabashed female flirtation, which (by her lights) was worse—and Sophie’s magick, or the song itself, or both, soon had the desired effect: First Amelia, then Mrs. Marshall, started and snuffled awake, and neither seemed at all reluctant to believe that they had only nodded off briefly, when Joanna told them so.
CHAPTER XII
In Which Sieur Germain Calls a Council of War
Early the following morning Sieur Germain quietly gathered his forces—in the persons of Joanna, Miss Pryce, Sophie, Gray, and Mr. Fowler—in the library. To Sophie’s secret relief, both her brother-in-law and his secretary looked much the better for their night’s sleep: grimly resolute, rather than merely grim.
They seated themselves along the sides of the long reading-table, upon which the morning sun cast blocks of light through the eastward windowpanes. At the head of the table, Sieur Germain cleared his throat.
“This is highly irregular,” he began, “and I must tell you that I am acting against the wishes of several senior members of His Majesty’s Privy Council; but in my view all of you have, for your own reasons, a vital interest in the question at hand, and a right to fuller information than His Majesty may as yet see fit to make public.”
How exactly this assessment applied to Miss Pryce—and not to Amelia—Sophie was not certain; but perhaps, in Kergabet’s estimation, Miss Pryce had earned her right to be in all the family secrets by her extraordinary bravery and resourcefulness on the Ross of Mull, and if that were the case, Sophie could not disagree.
“The prisoners have now been at large most of a se’nnight,” Kergabet continued, “and as yet we know very little more of their methods or whereabouts than we did on the day of their escape. A general search of vessels departing England, Cymru, and Kernow has been ordered, as well as a search of all conveyances departing London, and descriptions of all the prisoners have been circulated to the Watch Captains of every city and town large enough to possess such a thing.”
Sophie nodded.
“And, of course, as well as such practical measures Lord de Vaucourt and his colleagues have undertaken various scryings and finding-spells—also, I regret to say, to no avail.”
“Perhaps Sophie and I may be of some assistance in that endeavour,” said Gray. Ignoring the wary frown which instantly creased his brother-in-law’s face, he continued, “A colleague of ours in Din Edin was kind enough to teach us some very useful variants on the standard finding-spell, which may be used to extend the spell’s range or to continue it over a period of several days.”
Joanna muttered something under her breath to Miss Pryce, presumably in reaction to this statement, which Sophie chose to ignore.
“I thank you,” said Sieur Germain. “I shall convey your offer to Vaucourt this morning.” He had ceased frowning—in fact, he looked rather pleased—and no wonder: Here was a means by which they could be useful, but quite without drawing danger upon themselves or the rest of the household. “In the meantime, however, I must ask that you bear in mind the danger which these men may pose to the three of you particularly”—he looked gravely at Sophie, Joanna, and Gray in turn—“and continue to refrain, so far as possible, from advertising your presence in London.”
“That horse has long left the stable, I fear,” said Joanna.
“I must confess,” said Sophie, attempting to convey the same sentiment with more dignity, “that I do not see how our presence can possibly be concealed. Joanna is known to the whole of London society, it seems to me, and this past se’nnight excepted, I have been seen with Lucia MacNeill at every gathering of note since I arrived.”
Her brother-in-law gave her a grim little smile. “Nevertheless,” he said.
Sophie could see his point—she was not a fool—but after such freedom of movement as she had enjoyed in Din Edin, under the eyes of watchers so discreet that she need not remark their presence unless she wished it, the prospect of continuing in what amounted to house arrest held even less appeal than formerly.
“Sophie,” said Joanna, with a small incredulous laugh, “surely you are not objecting to be told not to draw attention to yourself?”
Sophie frowned at her but was forced to concede that this was, in fact, an absurd position for her to take.
“I will undertake to conduct myself with all possible discretion,” she said primly, therefore, and Sieur Germain nodded, apparently satisfied.
“And it need not even be said, I hope,” he continued, now addressing Joanna and Miss Pryce, “that there can be no question of anyone’s riding in the park unescorted, at dawn or at any other time, until this business has been . . . satisfactorily concluded.”
Joanna and her friend, who ought surely to have predicted this, looked briefly outraged; before either could protest, however, Kergabet quelled them with a look.
“There is another complication, however,” said Sophie to her brother-in-law. Briefly she recounted the substance of their tumultuous conversation with Amelia, emphasizing her own conviction and Joanna’s that Amelia was concealing something connected to her father’s escape.
“A complication, indeed,” Sieur Germain sighed. He rested his forehead briefly on one fist—for just a moment revealing the weight of the cares that pressed upon his broad shoulders—then met Sophie’s gaze with a return of his earlier calm resolve.
“I should not expect that Amelia will talk of this to anyone,” said Sophie, “but—begging your pardon, sir—Mrs. Marshall is not a fool; this is not a secret that can be kept for very long, not within this house.”
What she wished very much to say, but—being a gues
t in Kergabet’s house—did not quite dare, was that Mrs. Marshall had as much right as any of the rest of them to know what was afoot, if only so that she might take herself off home and out of the way of events.
Sieur Germain acknowledged her words with a curt nod. “We had hoped, of course,” he said, “for the expeditious recovery of the prisoners, so that the public need not be alarmed unnecessarily.”
Sophie did not need Joanna’s sotto voce gloss to interpret this as So that this disaster might the more easily be hushed up.
“Regrettably, however . . .”
“Yes,” said Gray. “We shall of course be guided by you, sir, but I must agree with Sophie: This news is not likely to improve with age.”
“I shall speak with your mother this evening,” said Kergabet. Had they, in fact, persuaded him of something? Or had he been intending such a conversation in any case?
“I am glad to hear it,” said Gray.
“Lucia MacNeill has already been told what is afoot, however, I hope?” said Sophie. “I have kept my promise, sir, and said nothing in any of my letters; but Lucia must think it odd that my visits should cease so abruptly.”
“Lucia MacNeill is in the secret, yes,” said Kergabet, and—astonishingly—smiled. “Oscar MacConnachie had also to be informed, of course, and Lady MacConnachie was all for retreating posthaste to Din Edin, but Lucia MacNeill would not hear of it. ‘If Sophie Marshall did not flee Din Edin after seeing her father and brother stoned to death in effigy,’ she said, ‘why in Brìghde’s name should you suppose me willing to flee London now?’ She is her father’s daughter, certainly,” he concluded in an approving tone.
“I suppose Roland will be feeling very smug,” said Joanna; and, in response to Sophie’s questioning look (for this remark seemed to her an utter non sequitur, and in rather poor taste besides), “His conversation with the yew-trees, you know—the trees warned him of an enemy, he said, and an enemy we surely have.”
A Season of Spells (A Noctis Magicae Novel) Page 16
