by Lena Coakley
Charlotte was about to reply with a cutting remark but then remembered what was to come and repressed a smirk. “I think that as the story progresses, you will find it original enough.”
She looked out at the dance floor. Branwell hadn’t noticed yet, but the Countess Zenobia and the Duke of Zamorna were already dancing together. It was a lively quadrille, and the partners did little more than hold hands as they performed the intricate steps, so there was nothing scandalous about their pairing. Not yet. She had to admit they made a handsome couple. Zamorna was magnificent in his short jacket and silk crepe breeches, and the countess’s raven locks looked stunning against her scarlet gown.
“How could you call this a confection?” she asked. “When have I created a lovelier scene?”
Branwell shrugged, to her great annoyance. “You hardly let them breathe.”
“Who?”
“All of them. Those dancers—they’re like clockwork. I think you control every step. You’re frowning with the effort.”
What’s wrong with that? she wondered.
“And what’s the Red Countess doing here?”
Now Charlotte allowed herself a wicked smile. It was time to advance the plot.
“The quadrille ended and Zamorna made a gesture to the orchestra,” she said. “A waltz began to play. He put his arm around the Red Countess. There were gasps from the crowd as they began to dance.”
“What are you doing?” Branwell asked.
There was something truly shocking about Zamorna and Zenobia waltzing together. They were altogether too close—and too at ease in their closeness. Neither took their eyes from the other. Dancers left the floor, but Zamorna and Zenobia didn’t seem to notice. No one who saw them could have any doubt: They were lovers.
“Charlotte, you can’t,” Branwell said. “The Red Countess is Rogue’s wife.”
“It makes perfect sense. Rogue only married her for her money. He doesn’t love her.”
“But you can’t make my character a cuckold! Take it back.”
“You know I can’t,” she said. “At that moment, a pair of high doors burst open, and Mary Henrietta came rushing through, ribbons fluttering, a vision in violet and green.”
Mary Henrietta burst in just as Charlotte described. She looked at the dance floor, and a little moan escaped her. She put her hand to her heaving alabaster breast. Young Lord Castlereagh followed quickly after and was there to catch her when she fell into a graceful swoon.
“I thought you weren’t going to write any more melodramas,” Branwell sneered.
His words hit their mark. For the first time, Charlotte wondered if she’d made a mistake with this new pairing.
Out on the floor, the duke and the raven-haired countess waltzed on. They hadn’t noticed the stir they had created, though many of the guests were murmuring loudly to one another. Mary Henrietta lay across a velvet sofa, a tear running down her cheek. Mina the maid dabbed at her face with a handkerchief.
Was this love? Charlotte wondered. Was this passion? Anne had said she wished Charlotte’s writings were more true, but how was truth achieved? And if neither Zenobia nor Mary Henrietta had the spark to feel true love and to make Zamorna truly love them in return, then who did?
Perhaps I should dance with Zamorna myself.
The thought appeared as if from nowhere, but the picture it immediately conjured up in Charlotte’s mind—of Zamorna reaching down to waltz with a tiny woman in spectacles—made her blush hotly. How the guests would laugh. Even the servants would hide their smirks behind white gloves.
“I shan’t watch any more of this,” said Branwell. “Rogue entered and challenged Zamorna to a duel.”
Nothing happened.
“Where’s Rogue? What have you done with him?”
“I haven’t done a thing!” Charlotte insisted. “I think it’s a splendid development.” In fact she was very glad that Branwell had thought of some action to distract her mind from its strange meanderings. She looked around the room. “Try again.”
Branwell drew himself up and took a deep breath. “Rogue entered, pistol drawn. ‘Unhand my wife, you villain,’ he cried.”
They waited. Zamorna and Zenobia danced. Mary Henrietta moaned softly. Rogue did not appear.
“I suppose he’s somewhere else,” Branwell said sheepishly.
“You’re his author,” Charlotte said. “How can he be somewhere that you didn’t put him?”
Branwell didn’t seem to know what to say to this and looked defensive when he answered. “I don’t keep so tight a rein on my characters as you.”
“Looking for the earl?” said a voice.
S’Death, Rogue’s frequent partner in crime, was so close at Charlotte’s elbow that she started backward. “Mr. King,” she said, recovering herself and giving a short bow. She’d never liked the man, and at that moment she liked him even less than usual. With his flame-red hair and his asymmetrical face, he was a blot of ugliness on her brilliant party.
“Allow me to find him for you. I believe I know where he is.” S’Death bowed deferentially, but Charlotte had the distinct feeling she was being mocked.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, watching him go. “I don’t know why you ever invented that character, Banny.”
“I didn’t,” Branwell said. “I thought you did.”
EMILY
STRANGE,” SAID ROGUE. “WHEN I WAS COMING here, I told a friend I’d like to meet one of the Genii—but you are not what I imagined.”
He seemed to have lost some of his fear, and he stepped toward Emily, deep suspicion in his eyes. Anne had retreated behind the armchair again. Emily swallowed, wondering how much Rogue understood about who the Genii truly were.
“For one thing, I never imagined an omnipotent being wearing so many . . . ribbons.”
Emily touched her hair, silently cursing her elder sister.
“Why such an unassuming guise, I wonder? Would I melt to see your true forms? Would I go mad? Take off your masks, ladies—or I will deduce that you are harpies with pointed teeth and eagle wings and bare alabaster breasts.”
“Sir!” said Anne.
Rogue smiled at the reaction. “You are the good and modest Genius, I see, unlike this other witch.” He pointed at Emily. “Are you the one who changed my appearance? Made me younger?” Emily kept her expression fixed, but he seemed to divine an answer. “You may change my face, but I’m damned if you will change me.” There was a mirror over the dressing table and Rogue bent to peer into it, rubbing his whiskers. “Why did you do it? The ladies will mistake me for the romantic hero.”
She laughed at this, though it was a little forced. “Romantic hero? You look like the wolf in a fairy tale.”
He turned and narrowed his dark eyes at her. “There is a certain sort of girl who wants the wolf to eat out of her hand. If you are such, I’ll warn you, she doesn’t keep her fingers long.”
Emily met his gaze. “Some wolves can be tamed.”
“Then we call them lapdogs, my dear—and you’ll put no leash on me.”
He stepped forward again, and Emily realized he was edging toward the stiletto on the sofa. She made a grab for it, but was too late.
“Ha! Now we’ll find out if the gods bleed!” he said, brandishing the knife.
Emily moved to stand between Rogue and Anne’s armchair. “You cannot hurt us.” She tried to sound certain as she said this, to be certain, and make it true with the force of her will.
“Why not? Will I turn to stone?”
“Why would you want to do us harm?” Anne asked. “We are not your enemy.”
“Why?” Rogue tried to step around Emily to speak to Anne, but Emily moved with him, and so he directed his words to her. “I have been meddled with! Tampered with! Do you deny that the Genii have a hand in all my failed schemes? Do you deny lifting up that fop Zamorna at every turn, while I am constantly struck down?”
“Zamorna has a noble heart despite all his flaws,” Anne said. “Perhaps
you fail because evil will always fail when faced with good.”
Rogue raised an eyebrow at Emily. “Is she quite serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He lifted the stiletto’s blade so that it was at Emily’s throat. “Make me a king. Make Zamorna drop dead of an apoplexy.”
“I can’t,” Emily said. She struggled to keep her voice calm, forcing herself not to step back, though the blade was cold as ice. “I didn’t make this world. We are . . . younger Genii, and not very important, if you must know. Our elder siblings made Verdopolis.”
“If that is so, I might as well kill you now.”
Emily took a deep breath, steadying herself. With one finger, she pushed the blade away. “I told you. You cannot. Though you might be wicked, your one redeeming quality is that you would never harm me.”
Rogue scowled, gripping the knife more tightly. “I believe I must make one thing clear.” He spoke the next words slowly and distinctly, each word as precise as a hammer hitting an anvil. “I decide what my qualities are, and I do not choose to have any redeeming ones.”
He lunged toward her, and Emily couldn’t help but flinch, but she didn’t shut her eyes. The knife froze. Rogue struggled against himself, his face reddening. Finally he lowered his arm.
“Devil take you! It seems I can’t kill a young lady in cold blood—though I deny it has anything to do with my redeeming qualities.”
“I told you,” Emily said, breathing heavily in spite of herself. “You can’t harm a hair on my head.”
His eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a challenge to me.”
Again the knife shot out, lightning quick. Emily gasped, feeling a tug at her hair—and the next moment Rogue was dangling something in front of her eyes, a wild grin spreading across his face. It was one of her own plaits. He shook it, making its red bow dance.
“Perhaps I only need to work up to drawing blood.”
Emily stepped back, her hand at her head. For the first time since he’d arrived, fear flooded through her. Could he harm her?
The door flew open. “What the devil are you playing at, man?” It was S’Death. “While you’re here chatting, the Duke of Zamorna is seducing your wife!”
“What?” Rogue cried. “Damn his eyes! It’s time for that man to die.”
CHARLOTTE
ROGUE ENTERED, PISTOL DRAWN. “UNHAND my wife, you villain!” he cried.
“At last,” Charlotte muttered.
The musicians stopped their playing as he strode out onto the dance floor, boot heels clicking. The Duke of Zamorna stepped protectively in front of the countess. “We all know who the true villain is here, Rogue.”
Zenobia shrank back behind her lover. “Be careful, my darling,” she said. “He’s a mad dog when he’s angry.”
“You dare call him darling in my presence, woman?” Rogue shouted. “Have you no loyalty?”
“What did you ever do to inspire it?” the countess spat. “You never loved me. You’ve never loved anyone.”
“This is very good,” Charlotte whispered to Branwell. “But what have you done to Rogue’s appearance? He’s far too young and dashing.”
“It wasn’t me,” her brother hissed back.
“If you mean to challenge me, I am at your service,” Zamorna said. “Name your seconds, and I will meet you at dawn.”
“A duel?” Rogue scoffed. “You mistake me for a man of honor, sir. Why should I allow you to arm yourself?” With that he cocked his pistol, aiming for Zamorna’s head.
“Branwell, don’t!” Charlotte said, grabbing her brother’s arm, as if he were the one who held the gun.
The sound of a shot split the air. The countess screamed. Partygoers fainted or cried out. Mary Henrietta, still on her sofa, put a hand on her brow. “Oh, is my faithless husband dead, Mina? I cannot bear to look, for still I love him so!”
To everyone’s surprise, Zamorna was still standing, though a star-shaped crack had appeared on the mirrored panel behind his head.
“No, milady, no,” murmured the faithful maid. “He is not dead. Do not distress yourself.”
“Damn and blast!” shouted Rogue. “I could not have missed at this range. It’s unbelievable. You truly are protected by the Genii.”
Zamorna touched his ear and blood came away on his fingers. He laughed wildly at the sight. “Perhaps I am.”
Having had only one ball, the pistol was useless now, and Rogue tossed it to the floor, where it skidded toward the fireplace. He scanned the room. Partygoers backed away at his fierce gaze, but he seemed to be looking for someone in particular. “You,” he said, pointing into the crowd. He grabbed a girl in a blue dress and pulled her by the wrist onto the dance floor.
“It’s Anne!” Charlotte said.
Rogue wrapped his hands around her little sister’s neck. “Genii!” he called. “I know you are here. I know you are among us. I’m told this girl is a minor goddess, that she has little power in this world. I call on her betters, the elder Genii, to show themselves. Otherwise I shall strangle her before your very eyes.”
“Stop it!” Emily pushed her way onto the floor. “You will not harm her.” Charlotte was surprised to see that her dress was a lurid red.
“Branwell, what is this?” she said. “Why are Anne and Emily in the story? What’s this talk of Genii?”
Her brother began to mumble words furiously, though she couldn’t hear what he was saying. “It’s no use,” he said finally. “I can’t change anything. The story is . . . I don’t know . . . it’s happening on its own!”
This must be Anne and Emily’s plot, thought Charlotte, though it was strange that Branwell could not direct it. Those girls were always getting their sticky fingerprints on everything she and Branwell did. Charlotte had to admit, though, the story was unique.
“Rogue, you’re mad,” Zamorna said. “This young lady is my cousin from the provinces—not some mythical deity from our ancient past. Genii? Are you a believer in fairy tales now? Unhand the poor girl!”
Charlotte couldn’t help admiring the straightness of Anne’s posture and her bravely jutting chin. It made for a dramatic tableau—the small, slim girl with the dark figure of Alexander Rogue hulking behind her.
“I rather like him burly,” Charlotte said. “Look at the size of his hands around her neck!”
“Stay back,” Rogue said to Zamorna. “Stay back or I’ll wring the life out of her. You!” He nodded to Emily. “Look through the crowd and point out the other Genii, the ones you say have made this place—if you don’t, I swear, I’ll turn this girl as blue as her gown.”
“I tell you, you will not harm her. You cannot!” Emily said. She looked genuinely afraid.
Rogue’s voice lowered to a growl. “Oh, I feel your will, little goddess, but I have a will, too. I don’t know what I am exactly—a figment, some made-up thing—but I know that I am ungovernable by any man or god.”
“Emily,” Anne said, her voice ragged. “Do as he says.”
Emily turned, catching Charlotte’s eye. She seemed to be asking for help. Fear began to seep into Charlotte’s mind. If this were Anne and Emily’s plot, why did they look so afraid? She stepped onto the dance floor and clapped her hands twice.
“Stop,” she commanded.
Nothing happened, though a few of the party guests looked at her askance, as if wondering what the young lord could be thinking. She clapped her hands again. “Stop, I say!”
“Charles,” Zamorna hissed. “Don’t be a fool, boy. Stay out of this.”
Why couldn’t she take control of the story? Why couldn’t Branwell? Whose plot was this?
“I’m waiting,” Rogue said to Emily as Charlotte stepped back sheepishly. “Who are the elder Genii?”
Emily made a show of looking through the crowd. “I don’t . . . see them.”
“Branwell,” Charlotte whispered. “Something’s happening. Something I don’t understand. I think we must go home—now!—even if it means we disappear in the midd
le of the party. If you can get to Anne, I’ll cross Emily.”
“Yes, yes, but how can I get to Anne before Rogue strangles her?” Branwell asked, his voice high with tension. “And . . . do you think . . . ?” He took her by the hand, something Branwell never did in Verdopolis or in life. It alarmed Charlotte as much as anything else that had happened. Her brother may have been playing Lord Thornton, but the fear in his eyes was all his own. “Do you think that if we die here, in Verdopolis, we die in the real world? Charlotte, could Rogue kill Anne?”
Charlotte felt the breath go out of her. She had always held such tight rein over her stories that she’d never thought to wonder about this. She’d never felt any danger. What if Anne . . . ?
“I have something to say,” Anne said, interrupting her thoughts. She was firm and loud in a way that was unfamiliar to Charlotte, commanding the attention of the room.
“That’s better,” Rogue said. “Name your coconspirators, girl.”
“What I have to say is . . . is . . . Wellesley House is on fire!”
For a moment nothing happened, though Charlotte thought she saw Anne mouthing something else. Was she counting? Then the curtains behind Charlotte and Branwell burst into flame.
“Fire!” a servant screamed, dropping a tray.
In seconds the flames had risen up the curtains and were blackening the ceiling. Someone pushed Charlotte, and she fell. She looked around for Branwell, but she didn’t see him.
“Fire! Fire!” The word was shouted on every side. Panic coursed through her. Charlotte was afraid she would be trampled. Could we die? she kept thinking. Why haven’t I ever asked myself that before?
She managed to stand up again and look around, but her siblings were lost in the crowd. The party guests had spilled out over the dance floor and were swarming around Rogue and Zamorna, their drama forgotten as everyone pressed toward the double doors at the far side of the room. Rogue towered over most of the guests, so Charlotte could see him scanning the crowd just as she was. He seemed to have lost Anne and Emily in the confusion—that was one blessing, at least.
