by Lena Coakley
A thought occurred to Anne. “Scissors, please,” she said. She counted to three and pulled open the drawer of the nearest side table, smiling as she took out a pair of scissors. “Look, Emily. We can still change some things, just as we could before.” She sat down again on the sofa and began to cut the silk flowers from her dress, tossing them one by one into the fire.
“Oh,” Emily cried. “Don’t ruin your dress. It looks so lovely on you.”
Anne snipped the head off a flower with a bit too much vigor, leaving a small hole. She’d expected Emily to understand. “I wanted to be exactly myself, not Lady Anne from the provinces. It’s what I chose.”
Emily frowned. “I thought you simply couldn’t think of a character to play.”
Anne shook her head, trying to find the words. “It’s foolish . . . but you know that I wish Charlotte’s writings were more true. I suppose I thought a plain Haworth girl might be just what Verdopolis needed.”
“I see.”
“And a muslin dress, too.” Anne looked up at her sister. “They can catch fire, you know. I feel quite in danger.”
“Oh, Anne, that’s just an eccentricity of Papa’s,” Emily said, sitting down again. “But I’m very sorry, at any rate. If I’d chosen to play a character Charlotte approved of, she might not have changed either of us.”
Anne couldn’t help but smile. “You were so wicked, Emily. I don’t know how you dared. The Red Countess, of all people!”
Emily smiled, too, but then leapt up again with an “oh” as if struck by lightning. “I have an idea,” she said. “If you and I do create these rooms without realizing it, do you think that if we closed that door, counted to three, and opened it again, we could make any room we wanted?”
“Haven’t we just determined that it’s a hallway?”
Emily made a frustrated hiss. “For heaven’s sake, Anne. It could be anything. It could be a magical door. To Gondal.”
Anne doubted this was possible. There were unwritten laws and rules to Verdopolis set down by Branwell and Charlotte. Occasionally characters had visions or saw ghosts, but Anne had read enough about Verdopolis to know that there was no fairy-tale magic like what Emily was describing.
“I don’t . . .”
“There’s no harm in trying, is there? Stand here with me.”
Anne joined Emily in front of the door. “Very well, but don’t say what you wish for aloud. Remember when we used to play with the wooden chest that Charlotte made for us? Things were always more interesting when you asked for nothing and then opened the lid.”
“Splendid idea,” said Emily. She put her hand on the door handle, giving Anne a nervous glance. “One. Two. Three.” She threw open the door.
It was still only a hallway, just as Anne had imagined it would be. However, it wasn’t empty now.
“Ladies,” said a deep voice. Into the room stepped Alexander Rogue.
CHARLOTTE
WAS IT CHARLOTTE’S IMAGINATION, OR was the room different in some inexplicable way? She was still in the green and gold salon, and the malachite fireplace was still exquisite, but the paintings on the walls were all of shipwrecks or storms raging over jagged mountains. Hadn’t they been tranquil landscapes before?
This was Emily’s doing, somehow. Even as a child, she had ruined stories with her strangeness. Charlotte should have remembered how, in the old days, her plots had veered off in odd tangents when Emily was around, and even her own characters became unpredictable. At least Charlotte’s collaboration with Branwell allowed for each of them to have their own particular stories—whereas Emily’s imagination seeped into everything like strong dye, changing what wasn’t hers to change.
“Did you hear? Zenobia Percy is at the party,” a woman said.
Charlotte was alone in the room, but the double doors were open. She could see the party guests gliding by in their finery and could hear snippets of their conversations.
“The Red Countess?” a man answered. “Why would she be here? Her husband is the duke’s deadly enemy.”
Why indeed. What in heaven’s name was Charlotte to do with this plot development? Truth be told, Emily was right about the character’s potential. Zenobia could be the Verdopolitan Madame de Staël. The modern Cleopatra. Perhaps she plays the mandolin and speaks fluent Chinese, Charlotte thought.
“All covet an invitation to her salons,” she said under her breath, “where the greatest politicians, the wittiest authors, and the most talented artists gather around her like moths to a flame.”
Yes. She liked that. But still, why would the Red Countess come to the party?
“A love affair,” she breathed aloud as the idea struck. “A love affair with the Duke of Zamorna.”
Now, that was interesting.
Not only were there hundreds of dramatic possibilities to such a romance, but it would also mean that Branwell’s character, Alexander Rogue, was a dupe and a cuckold. Charlotte grinned, thinking how vexed this would make her brother. He deserved it. Hadn’t he threatened to kill off Zamorna?
Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt for what this would do to Mary Henrietta—she’d be devastated to learn that her husband was having an affair with her own stepmother—but then, she would be so beautiful in her melancholy. Besides, her noble and virtuous love hadn’t set Zamorna’s heart on fire the way Charlotte had hoped it would. Perhaps forbidden love—guilty, tortured love—with the Countess Zenobia would finally bring him to life.
Charlotte ducked behind a sofa and squeezed her eyes shut, ready to take hold of the story. In a singsong voice, she murmured:
“The young lord Charles, though intelligent beyond his years, was not above the games and japes to which all boys are prone. After being abandoned by his rude cousins, he fell to playing with a ball, which bounced under the legs of a silk-upholstered sofa that had once belonged to Louis the Fifteenth. It was for this reason that when the duke of Zamorna and the viscount Castlereagh entered the room and shut the door, they believed themselves to be alone, not noticing Zamorna’s young brother behind the sofa. Dear reader, do not blame young Charles for not admitting his presence, for otherwise how would we know of the conversation that ensued?”
“I did not ask her to the party,” came Zamorna’s voice. “You must believe me. She took that upon herself. But now that she is here . . . I must dance with her, Castlereagh. By God, one dance is all I ask.”
Charlotte opened her eyes. The Duke of Zamorna stood by the fire with his friend, the Viscount Castlereagh, a handsome, fair-haired gentleman of twenty-one. Both held glasses of sherry in their hands. In past stories the young viscount had idolized the duke, but now he looked at his mentor with shock and disappointment in his eyes.
“Zamorna, you are mad. You have married the most beautiful woman in Verdopolis—a paragon of virtue and loveliness. Why throw away your happiness for a dance with another man’s wife?”
“Zamorna hurled his glass into the fire,” Charlotte said, “making the flames dance.”
Zamorna hurled his glass into the fire. “Damn it, Castlereagh! I tell you, I must! She and I have a history—one that I cannot forget.”
“I would think a face like Mary Henrietta’s could make you forget all else.”
“A man such as I can never be content with one woman.” Zamorna looked into the distance, his face twisted with strange passions. “It is my curse.” He grabbed his friend by the hand. “I beg you, find some pretext for keeping my wife away from the ballroom, for if she sees me dancing with . . . her . . . she will know all.”
Castlereagh shook his head. “I can refuse you nothing, my friend.” He drank the remains of his sherry in one swallow to brace himself for what he was about to do. Then he gripped Zamorna’s shoulder in parting, smiled grimly, and left the room.
EMILY
EMILY STOOD WITH HER HAND ON THE door. Her mouth was dry and blood throbbed in her ears. It was Rogue. Her Rogue. How real he was—exactly like her portrait of him, only more vivid, more vigorous.
I wanted to meet him dressed in red, she thought, not with these ridiculous bows in my hair.
“What an unusual gown,” he said. “It changes color with the light.” He took a step forward and seemed to fill the room.
Emily looked down. Her dress was the one that Charlotte had given her, but now it was a deep scarlet, and the roses trimming the bottom were real and in full bloom. She touched her head, hoping her hair had changed as well. It hadn’t, though a glance to the mirror told her the bows had also turned red.
“I’m afraid I am lost,” he said. “Is there a party somewhere in this rabbit warren?” When no one spoke he gave a small bow. “Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland. Also known as Alexander Rogue.”
“We know who you are,” Anne said, backing away. He raised an eyebrow at this.
Emily curtsied, though her body didn’t feel her own. She was sure her face was as scarlet as her dress. “I am Lady Emily, and this is Lady Anne,” she said. “We are cousins of the Duke of Zamorna.”
“And these are private rooms,” said Anne. “Please begone.”
Emily turned and glared. Her sister had retreated behind an armchair and was gripping its back with tense fingers. Emily turned back to Rogue and smiled what she hoped was a sweet smile, but it felt insipid on her lips.
“Forgive my sister’s rudeness. Do sit down, Rogue . . . your lordship.”
“We must not detain you,” Anne said.
Rogue glanced at Anne, then back at Emily. “I do have business at the party.” His hand went briefly to his waist, where Emily knew his pistol was hidden.
He mustn’t go yet, she thought. She caught a hint of his scent—like horses and tobacco—and had the strongest urge to lean into his chest. Emily Brontë. Take hold of yourself.
“Before you go, do have a look at . . .” She wracked her brains for something that would keep him. “This.”
She leapt to the drawer where Anne had found the scissors. “One, two, three,” she said under her breath, and she pulled the drawer open.
“Good heavens,” he said. “Is that an antique stiletto?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised as he, but pleased with her result. “Indeed it is.”
Carefully Rogue took the long, thin dagger out of the drawer and held it up. “Beautiful. Look at the workmanship on the hilt. I collect these, you know.”
“I know.”
“For heaven’s sake, Emily,” Anne hissed. “Now you’ve armed him.”
“He was armed already,” Emily retorted. “He has his pistol.” Rogue started at this, and she smiled sweetly at him again. “One assumes.” She sat down and gestured to the place next to her on the sofa. “Do make yourself comfortable. I’m sorry we have no refreshments to offer you. All the servants are occupied with the party.”
He sat down. “Cousins of Zamorna, you say? I’m surprised to find the duke has such amiable relations. You’ll forgive me. He and I are not exactly friends.”
“Oh, that’s all right. We think our cousin Zamorna is the most colossal ass. Don’t we, Anne?”
Anne glowered, and Rogue barked a laugh at Emily’s candor. “I can’t say that I disagree.”
He toyed with the stiletto, trading it from one hand to the other. Then, as if coming to a decision, he gripped the handle and pointed the tip toward Emily. “I suppose he’d pay a high ransom for you girls, should you go missing.”
Emily’s heart leapt. “Oh,” she said. “Are you going to kidnap us? What a wonderful idea!”
Rogue frowned. “I can’t say that anyone has ever reacted that way before—and I’ve carried off a dozen women.”
“Thirteen,” Emily said. “If you count the Hawthorn twins as two.”
He looked at her now, and his wide smile was a beautiful surprise, piercing her heart as surely as the stiletto. “What a strange young lady you are. I’m beginning to wonder why I’ve never been to the provinces.”
She stopped breathing. Oh, she thought. This is how I’ll die. From a look. It wasn’t a handsome face by most standards—his brow was too heavy; his eyes were too wide-set; his whiskers and eyebrows were too bushy—but in that moment she couldn’t possibly look away.
Lightly he brushed her cheek with his finger, making a chill run down her spine. Somewhere Anne began to cough, but it seemed far away.
“You’re not one of those women who screams all through an abduction, are you? I find that very trying.”
“Screaming is a very sensible response to kidnapping, in my opinion. But no, I’d be meek as a lamb. I’d faint a lot and sigh like a bruised flower. Then, when you least expected it, I’d stab you in the eye with your own knife and steal your horse.”
“Marvelous,” he said.
“I know!” Anne’s voice punctured the moment. “Perhaps the earl would like to help us wind our wool into balls while we tell him all the gossip of the provinces.”
“Pardon?” he said.
Emily blinked as if awakening from a dream.
“We country girls would find such an evening a thrill, I dare say,” Anne went on. “And—goodness!—if we are kidnapped, we shall have many such evenings in front of us. We may bring our knitting with us, mayn’t we? Lord Percy, my sister tells the most amusing story about a vicar’s cat getting caught in a tree.” She feigned a laugh. “Wait until you hear it.”
Rogue was looking around the room as if wondering how he got there. Emily flushed, suddenly aware of her youth, her scarlet dress, her ridiculous plaited hair.
“But I hope we are not keeping you from other engagements, Lord Percy,” Anne continued. “Didn’t you have someone to meet? An evil plan to put in motion? I feel you mentioned something along those lines.”
Rogue felt again for his hidden pistol. “Yes.” He stood. “I don’t know why . . . I really ought . . .”
Emily stared daggers at Anne. “Before you go, you must see what’s in this drawer,” she said to Rogue. She stood, reaching for the table on the far side of the sofa.
“It’s yarn,” Anne said. They both made a dash for the knob, counting under their breath, but Anne was first. “I was right. A drawer full of yarn.” She pulled out a tangled, multicolored mass and waved it at Rogue. “Winding this will take all night. I do hope you’ll stay.”
“Oh, no. Thank you,” Rogue said, backing away from them. The stiletto was still in his hand, but he set it on the sofa cushion.
“That is not what I wanted to show his lordship,” Emily said through clenched teeth.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Rogue said at the door.
“Stop!” Emily said, and Rogue stopped, frozen and unmoving. She hadn’t known she could do that.
Emily went to him and took his hands in her own, though they seemed cold and inhuman now. She didn’t like him this way. His hands should be warm. “This is what I wanted to show you,” she whispered, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “One. Two. Three.”
When she opened her eyes, Rogue was frowning into them. Anne was gone. Wellesley House was gone. They were outside under a gray sky, a strong wind whipping their hair. Where was she? She wanted to look around, but Rogue’s black eyes fixed her to the spot. She could smell moor and damp, and she heard, somewhere close, the mournful call of a curlew.
“What witchery is this?” he said, and pulled his hands away.
Immediately they were in the sitting room again, and he was backing away from her across the floor. Emily hardly knew what had happened. It must have been Gondal, she realized with a stab of regret. She’d done it. She’d been there for a brief moment—far too brief. Her very own world.
Rogue was pressed against the wall now, pointing at her, terror in his eyes. “Genii,” he breathed.
CHARLOTTE
CHARLOTTE WAS INDULGING ONE OF HER secret Verdopolitan passions. She knew it was unseemly, but she told herself that, after all, it was the very last time. She had gone to the grand ballroom, weaving her way in and out of the dancers to stand at one of the heavily laden refreshment tables at the f
ar end of the room—and there she began to eat. She ate the way a ten-year-old boy would eat—without worrying about manners or growing fat. She ate marzipan and bonbons and sugared limes. She ate miniature oranges and tiny cakes that looked like musical instruments or crystal flowers or horses’ heads with spun-sugar manes. She ate walnuts and glazed pecans and fruits that only grew in Verdopolis but that tasted like a spiced candy someone had given her once, a long time ago. No one dared to scold her. She was Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley, after all.
“Too sweet,” someone said next to her, just as her mouth was full of cake.
Charlotte turned to see her brother leaning casually against a pillar. She swallowed quickly and brushed the crumbs from her velvet suit. “If you don’t like the confections, may I direct you . . . ,” she began. “Well, may I direct you anywhere but here, Lord Thornton?”
“I’m not referring to the confections,” Branwell said, waving a hand over the assembly. “Or rather, this whole affair is a confection. Too sweet. It’s all spun sugar, Charlotte.”
His criticism slid off her. She had only to look around to know she had outdone herself with this scene. The mirror-paneled walls reflected a hundred glittering chandeliers; the orchestra never missed a note; the swirling dancers never missed a step. Perfect.
“The name is Charles,” she corrected. “And I know jealousy when I hear it.”
“What have I missed? I saw Mary Henrietta in the conservatory. She looked more tragically beautiful than usual—if that’s possible.” A footman with a gilded tray bowed his head and offered them refreshment, but Branwell waved him away.
“She’s had a presentiment,” Charlotte said. “The suspicion that Zamorna loves another gnaws at her heart like a worm.”
Branwell frowned. “I hope she’s not going to waste away from his neglect like his other two wives.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Don’t kill her, Charlotte.” She was surprised by the emotion behind this request. “She’s too lovely to die. She’s . . . well . . . you’ve turned her into someone rather luminous.” The idea that Branwell admired the character more than he’d been letting on brought a smile to her lips, but he seemed to realize he had accidentally paid her a compliment, and the haughty tone returned to his voice. “Besides, it would be too similar to your previous plots, and you would begin to bore me.”
