by E. E. Holmes
“Swallow your protests, please. Do not think I seek your reassurance. Who understands the workings of death better than we, with one foot in the living world, and the other planted firmly in the world of the dead. For many years, I denied the inevitable. I delayed my fate, through means I now cannot look upon without sincere regret.”
Another outbreak of whispers shivered through the room, and I understood why. Finvarra had fended off her illness for several years through a common but morally reprehensible process called Leeching. Through Leeching, a Durupinen siphoned energy from a Crossing spirit and used that energy for herself. Finvarra used it to heal herself, which I suppose was better than the majority of the Council, who were using the spirit energy purely for the purpose of maintaining unearthly youth and beauty. But that practice had come to a screeching halt with the investigation in the aftermath of the Prophecy. The International High Council had sanctioned Finvarra and the others for the Leeching. Some had lost their Council seats or other official positions. Karen had confided that it was only under the condition that Finvarra allow her illness to progress naturally that she had been allowed to stay on as High Priestess. It had seemed so harsh at first—a death sentence. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that all her “sentence” did was put her on equal footing with the rest of us mere mortals.
Finvarra went on, bursting my bubble of thought. “I am prepared for the journey I surely must take, and soon, but not before I ensure that our sisterhood is on solid footing for the future. I feel it incumbent upon me, as the High Priestess, to set the expectations very clearly as we begin. Petty political stunts will not be tolerated. We were very nearly destroyed a few short years ago. I will not stand by and watch us destroy ourselves, not with ill-conceived sniping and juvenile grudges. We have critical work to do. We have a Calling to live up to. It is time to decide if we are worthy of it.”
Women all around me were shifting uncomfortably or bristling with silent resentment, but I wanted to stand up and cheer. Facing one’s own mortality must be a truly terrifying and eye opening experience, but Finvarra wasn’t backing down from it. Hell, she wasn’t even blinking. We’d gotten a glimpse of this new resolve when she’d called us into her office, but now, clinging to her dignity before this assembly, she was truly a force of nature.
“Trusting that we will choose to honor my words, let us begin. Council Secretary, if you would officially call us to order, please,” Finvarra said, inclining her head graciously toward Siobhán, who was hovering anxiously in the shadows behind the throne. She stepped forward, looking relieved that Finvarra had been able to get through her opening address. She watched as the two Caomhnóir slid Finvarra’s wheel chair away from the podium, and then took her place at the microphone. Celeste came and stood beside her, a sheaf of parchment scrolls and folders in her arms.
“The assembled clans being present, and the High Priestess having addressed the assembly, I officially call to order the 203rd Airechtas of the Northern Clans. Let the roll be called and recorded in the register.”
With a great ripple of motion, everyone took their seats, and the session began.
Eleanora: 27 June 1864
27 June 1864
Dearest Little Book,
It is a sorry state of affairs when the worst havoc being wreaked in your life is not by the many spirits that haunt your every step, but by your own mother. This is the state in which I find myself tonight.
Surely you must know by now, from my near constant griping, that my perceived value in life is to land firmly under the thumb of some wealthy gentleman, preferably before the venerable age of twenty and whilst wearing a wedding dress. Some of my earliest memories are of my mother correcting me for showing too much intellectual curiosity in public. I remember one occasion in particular when I was about five years old, and I had asked what stars were made of.
“It is not for a young lady to ask questions,” she would admonish me. “But if a question must be asked, a young lady must nod and smile, and defer to the gentleman’s opinion or explanation at all times.”
I did not think much of this advice, particularly because my pompous and overbearing elder cousin had chosen that moment to inform me that he personally had created the stars by shooting his archery arrows up into the sky and tearing holes in the darkness. I was not about to nod or smile, or defer to such utter nonsense as that. The ensuing argument between my cousin and me about the validity of his claims left my mother quite vexed with me.
I have since learned to temper my opinions with demureness and my inquisitiveness with a healthy dose of charm, although I am still not the delicate wallflower my mother would prefer me to be. But never has my patience been more thoroughly tested than at a dinner party this evening when I was paired with Harry Milford.
I have, of course, known the Milford family for many years. We have hovered around the outskirts of their circles, occasionally brushing elbows in the context of balls or charity work. My mother has lamented, time and again, the fleeting nature of our social connections with the Milfords, as their money and influence would prove incredibly beneficial to our family. I have always praised the infrequency of those same connections, as I have always found Harry Milford to be possessed of both an abundance of confidence and a dearth of intelligence.
But tonight I found myself thrust into his arms not once, but many times throughout the evening at Lord Huddleston’s ball. First, Harry’s mother made a considerable show of introducing us, though we have been introduced several times before. Then she orchestrated a very long conversation between us, during which I nodded endlessly as Harry regaled me with tales of his hunting exploits. I was expected to attend breathlessly to his description of his new velvet hunting coat, a fully ten minute long endeavor that would have bored a corpse to tears. Then I was alarmed to discover that it was Harry’s intention not only to dance with me, but to claim every dance of the evening and demand my undivided attention between them.
I found myself seated beside him at dinner, where he proved to have as little interest in gentlemanly table manners as he did in allowing me to express even a single fact about myself. I was constantly aware of both of our mothers’ hawkish attention to our interactions, and had to endure several ill-mannered jokes from Lord Milford about his son’s fine taste in companions. In the end, after Harry had consumed entirely too much wine, I was forced to extricate myself from his increasingly bold liberties by insisting I was not feeling well, but that I sincerely looked forward to seeing him again later this week at Lord Kentwood’s ball. I then practically sprinted for the door.
It was very clear to me as I rode in the carriage home that some kind of arrangement had been agreed to between the Milford family and my own, or, at the very least, that an arrangement was being discussed. I waited up in the drawing room for my mother to return from the ball, meaning to confront her about it, and was attacked instead.
“Eleanora, what in the world is wrong with you? Couldn’t you see that Harry Milford was angling for your attentions?”
“I was not feeling well. I have a headache,” I said shortly, not caring to elaborate.
“I don’t care if your head were falling off of your shoulders! How dare you jeopardize such a significant social connection! Surely it could not have escaped your notice that Harry would not be parted from you all night! He is to inherit an enormous fortune, and his father’s title to boot! What do you mean, fleeing from him as though the building were on fire?”
“I do believe the glint and glimmer of that fortune has blinded you to the nature of those attentions, Mother!” I replied when I had recovered sufficiently from being scolded like a naughty child. “Harry Milford may be noble, but he is no gentleman, I assure you.”
My mother scoffed. “No gentleman, indeed. He is a fine young man and an excellent prospect for you.”
“A fine young man? He spent half of his time preening and gloating and the other half working his way steadily through a week’s supply
of wine!”
“A man of his stature is bound to gloat. It is not your place to criticize him, Eleanora. He is not the one who needs to seek approval.”
It was at this point that I think I may have shrieked rather indelicately. “Are you suggesting that I should be working to seek his approval?”
“Of course, I am!” my mother snapped at me. “If you can secure this match, you will have a title. A title, Eleanora, just think of that! Lady Milford! It will be a crowning achievement for our family.”
“A crowning achievement? To chain myself to a preening, insolvent braggart for the rest of my life? What possible achievement could I claim besides an astounding disregard for my own happiness?”
“You are being selfish!” my mother insisted. “Do not think of yourself. Think of your family! Think of your cl—”
She stopped herself, but it was too late to cover for her error.
“What does our clan have to do with it?” I asked her. I had to repeat the question several times before she would finally deign to answer it.
“The Council has determined that your marriage into the Milford family is crucial to the Durupinen’s ability to wield political influence. The match is being arranged with their assistance.”
I felt quite light-headed, unable to comprehend what she was telling me. “Is this what I am to you? Is my happiness to be sacrificed for political influence?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Eleanora,” my mother scoffed. “No one is being sacrificed. This is a match to which we would have aspired regardless of the Council’s involvement.”
“You may have aspired to it, but I would have refused!” I cried. “I am not naïve, Mother. I understand that position and money have weight in matters of matrimony, but they cannot be the sole considerations! You cannot possibly expect me to sacrifice every hope of happiness for the sake of a Durupinen political agenda!”
“I certainly do expect it,” my mother said bluntly, which left me too stunned to reply. She went on, “With your gift comes responsibility, Eleanora. That responsibility takes precedence, in this instance as in all others. The decision has been made. Make your peace with it.”
I feel as though the walls of my room are closing in upon me as I write these words. I have always known I would have to choose wisely in matters of love, but I had always taken for granted that love itself would be a factor. What am I to do? Am I honestly to be shackled to a man I despise for the rest of my life? Oh, Little Book, if only there were a Casting I could write upon your pages that would whisk me far away from here, I assure you, I would already be gone.
Eleanora
9
Contagious
DESPITE HER POWERFUL, passionate opening to the meeting, Finvarra appeared more than happy to turn over the running of the session to Siobhán and Celeste. The Caomhnóir settled her in a less prominent position in the back corner of the platform, where a nurse tucked a blanket around her legs and felt her pulse. Carrick drifted over beside her chair, leaning down to speak quietly to her. Whatever it was he was saying to her, Finvarra waved it off with an impatient flick of her hand. Then she closed her eyes as though overcome with exhaustion, and lay her head back on her headrest. She did not move again for quite some time. Carrick stood guardian over her, looking ready to destroy the first person to disturb her moment of rest.
The taking of the official attendance seemed to last forever. Each clan name had to be called, the participants had to stand and say their names, which then had to be recorded in a massive, gold-gilded book by hand with a quill. It probably didn’t help matters that Savvy’s Caomhnóir, Bertie, was the Council scribe, and appeared to consider his penmanship a matter of monumental importance. Just behind him, Fiona was looking daggers at him as he recorded each name with painstaking care.
“Someone better hurry Bertie along, or else he is going to get a chair to the back of the skull courtesy of Fiona,” I whispered to Hannah, who smothered a giggle with the back of her hand.
Most of the people in the room were using the roll call as an opportunity to turn around and stare at whomever was being introduced, and then whisper conspiratorially to their neighbors. I could only imagine what they were saying; exchanging clan gossip and commenting on appearances, probably. And then it was our turn for the general scrutiny.
“Would the representatives from Clan Sassanaigh please rise and state your names for the official record?” Siobhán called.
As Hannah and I nervously rose to our feet, we were met with an obvious increase in the muttering and whispering, so much so that I actually felt the need to raise my voice when I stated my name. When we sat again, it was with scarlet faces and a serious desire to sink through the floor.
In an effort to distract myself from all the unwanted attention, I dropped my eyes to the table in front of me and picked up a folder that lay there. It was imprinted with a gold Triskele and contained a large stack of papers that had been stapled together into a packet. I started to flip through it, just for something to do, and saw that it was a summary of what would be covered in the session that day. The whole thing was divided into sections and subsections, with addendums and footnotes, like an outline for the most tediously boring research paper of all time. Oh God, this was going to be torture.
“The Council would like to acknowledge Deputy Priestess Celeste Morgan,” came Siobhán’s voice, cutting into my document-induced horror. I looked up. Everyone around us had begun murmuring again, but the focus was no longer on anyone in the crowd. Every eye seemed to be drawn to the empty seat in the Council benches. They must have reached the point in the role call when Catriona’s clan ought to have acknowledged itself.
“Thank you, Siobhán,” Celeste said as she reached the podium. Siobhán stepped aside so that Celeste could stand before the microphone. “I wish to address the absence of one of our Council members, Catriona Worthington.”
The assembled Durupinen went silent, clearly eager for an explanation.
“Catriona has fallen very ill and could, under no circumstances, attend the meeting today. Our hospital ward staff is hopeful that she will make a full recovery, though they do not yet understand the exact nature of her illness.”
A woman a few rows back stood up. “What do you mean, the exact nature of her illness? Is this a physical ailment or a spirit-induced issue?”
Celeste threw a quick glance at Siobhán, who gave a tiny nod. “I wouldn’t like to speculate too much—after all, I am not a medical professional—but the incident does appear to be spirit-induced.”
“But what’s happened? What’s wrong with her?” another voice called from the back of the hall.
Celeste put up a hand. “As I’ve said, I really can’t speculate about—”
“Why are we so concerned?” a third, harsher voice added. “Her clan has disgraced itself beyond recovery. Why have we allowed her to maintain her Council seat, anyway?”
A great number of voices rose in reply to this question, and Siobhán actually had to step back to the podium and use the gavel there to silence them. I glanced at Hannah. Her eyes were wide, though she kept them trained on her clasped hands in her lap.
“It is not up for discussion or debate at this moment,” Celeste said in a commanding voice, “whether Catriona should or should not continue as a member of this Council. That matter has already been thoroughly discussed, investigated, and voted upon.”
“But not by us,” the third voice continued. I turned to look at the speaker. I had never seen her before. “We were never consulted.”
“You were consulted when you voted on your Council representatives,” Celeste said. “The women sitting up on this platform now are your chosen delegates, and they have been entrusted to make decisions on your behalf. If you do not trust their judgement or fitness, by all means, vote them out at your next opportunity, and I include myself in that. The Trackers and International High Council investigated this matter and found Catriona to be innocent both of any wrongdoing in this ma
tter, and also of any knowledge of her cousin’s wrongdoing. Do you suggest their investigations lack merit?”
The woman mumbled something about, “… never said that…”
Celeste took advantage of the woman’s momentary embarrassment and went on, “Unless you have further evidence to provide us, we must rely upon the thorough investigations that have already been conducted. The guilty party, Lucida Worthington, has been tried, convicted, and sentenced to spend her life imprisoned at the príosún on the Isle of Skye. We are not in the habit of punishing one of our sisterhood for the crimes of another. We will not begin to do so now. If you take issue with this policy, I suggest you take it up with the International High Council. I’m sure someone there would be delighted to explain it to you.”
The dissenting woman flushed pink, but her expression remained defiant as she lowered herself slowly back into her seat. Several other people around her were casting stony looks up at Celeste, but she had already turned away from them.
“As I was saying,” she went on, “Catriona is still a voting member of this Council and her absence will impede our proceedings. In the interest of avoiding delays, I move that, though we press forward with discussion and debate of issues, we hold off on any formal voting until we can ascertain if Catriona will be able to join us. It may save us the trouble of having to nominate and vote in a temporary replacement for her.”
“Seconded,” Fiona called from the stands. Celeste nodded gratefully to her.
“Very well, then,” Siobhán said, stepping forward to the podium again. “A simple majority carries. All in favor of the motion proposed by Clan Turascuain that formal voting be postponed pending the health status of our Councilwoman?”
Hands went up all around the room. I was rather alarmed at being asked to vote on something so quickly, but after a moment of surprise, and a silent consultation with Hannah, I raised my own hand tentatively into the air. It seemed silly not to accomplish what we could while waiting for Catriona to recover. Many others seemed to agree; most of them, in fact, although I noticed the woman that had challenged Catriona’s continued seat on the council had declined to raise her hand, as had several of the women sitting around her.
