“No,” Mr. Gregson said. “That is not what I said at all.”
I lowered my fists, frowning. “Yes, you did. You said—”
“Not every child who inherits the powers of a Guardian is offered the chance to join our Order.”
I tried to raise just one eyebrow, like Angeline. They both came up together, so I had to settle for looking surprised instead of sardonic.
Mr. Gregson fixed me with a firm look. “Your family hovers on the edge of respectability in Society’s eyes, and thus in the eyes of our Order. If they were but one step lower on the social scale—if your father had turned to trade rather than to the clergy; if your mother had married a merchant rather than a vicar—”
“Wait a moment,” I said. “You said last time that my parents’ marriage was the whole reason Mama was exiled from your snobby Order. Didn’t you?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Not … exactly. The point is—”
“What could possibly have been wrong with Papa? He’s a clergyman. That’s the most respectable position there is!”
“The Church,” said Mr. Gregson, “has never understood the necessity for any kind of magic, even the respectable and natural form that we practice.”
“Hmm,” I said, and thought, Not that respectable, if you have to keep it a secret. He kept going, though, his voice speeding up with agitation.
“One could hardly approve of any clergyman as a husband for a Guardian. And your mother—Olivia Amberson, of all women! The most powerful young Guardian I had ever trained!—was choosing not only to marry a man who could never appreciate her, but to bury herself in a community that would never accept who she was. It was the most phenomenal waste of ability I have ever seen in my life. I begged her to reconsider—we all begged her—but she would not listen to any of us. She was too young to understand the risks she ran, and too foolishly in love. And, to be fair, he did seem quite besotted with her at the time.”
Besotted. I remembered the love spell in Mama’s magic book, with Papa’s name written beside it. Every sarcastic thought I’d been forming tumbled straight out of my mind. My lips formed an Oh that I didn’t say out loud. Instead I asked faintly, “How long do love spells last?”
He cocked his head to one side like an inquisitive bird. “That depends on the strength of the spell. Sometimes, only a week. Others last for years.”
“Oh,” I said, and closed my mouth tightly.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said. “I only wondered.”
I hoped Mama’s love spell had lasted for years. I hoped it had lasted all her life. I hoped it had never faded away and left Papa blinking at her with blank surprise, wondering how he could ever have sacrificed his career for her sake.
My chest hurt. I blinked hard and set my jaw. “Why couldn’t she stay in the Order after she married Papa? Did you expel her just because”—I could hardly even say the words, they sounded so ridiculous in my mouth—“because she married beneath herself?”
“Oh, no. Of course, it would have been difficult for her to disguise her activities from your father and everyone else in the community. A clergyman’s wife in a small country village has an extraordinarily public position, and it all would have been dreadfully inconvenient for everyone. But despite everything …” Mr. Gregson sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. “I had no idea how far she had strayed from our path until Lady Fotherington came to me. She had gone to your mother, tried to make her see sense about that absurd betrothal.”
“Oh, I can imagine that meeting,” I said.
“Humph,” said Mr. Gregson. “Well, perhaps you can. But it was much worse than any of us had anticipated. For during the course of their confrontation, Lady Fotherington found evidence—quite incontrovertible evidence—that your mama had betrayed us all.” He lowered his voice as if he were speaking blasphemy. “Olivia had actually been practicing witchcraft, as a Guardian!”
“So?”
“So?” He shook his head. “Young lady, it is the most unbreakable law in our Order! We protect Society against the misuse of magic—against rogue witches! It was witchcraft that nearly burned Parliament to the ground in 1605. It was witchcraft that led to the Civil War, when Cromwell and his associates turned against us all. Guardians were burned at the stake because of the damage witchcraft had caused!”
I gritted my teeth. “Are you going to tell me that witches are the only people who have ever misused magic?”
He flushed. “Our membership requirements have changed in the last two hundred years,” he said stiffly. “Nowadays, any Guardian who might misuse their powers would never be trained by us in the first place.”
Ha! I thought. Any Order that would keep Lady Fotherington and expel Mama had no notion of reasonable membership requirements. But I had more important matters to pursue. I put on my most innocent voice. “And your Order pacifies witches. Isn’t that what Lady Fotherington said?”
He shrugged. “If we must. If they use their powers against innocent members of the public, for instance, or if we deem them a significant threat to Society itself.”
If they use their powers against innocent members of the public … As Mama had, with her love spell. And as Angeline had, only a week ago. Coldness crept through me at the thought.
“How exactly would I pacify a witch?” I said sweetly. “If they were misusing their magic? If I were … protecting Society?”
Lady Fotherington might have noticed the sharp edge hidden in my voice. Mr. Gregson only looked confused.
“Well, we do have ways of modifying a witch’s magical powers, if necessary—of taking away even their most ingrained ability to use them. But that is of no matter now. It will be many years before you can control your own powers to that extent, and at any rate, that—”
“Taking away their powers,” I repeated flatly, and gave up on sounding sweet. “Why didn’t you do it to Mama, then? Wouldn’t it have solved all your problems?”
Mr. Gregson suddenly looked much older. “Olivia had been my student,” he said. “She was a Guardian. Expulsion was enough of a punishment for her. The process of pacification might have damaged her mind irreparably. To take such a risk … no.” He shook his head. “No. The Head of our Order agreed with me. If you had seen Olivia’s distress—if you had seen her reaction when her portal was closed, and she was shut out of our Order and the Golden Hall forever …” He took a deep breath. “Even Lady Fotherington could not have desired more than that. Not if she truly considered the matter.”
You don’t know Lady Fotherington at all, if you think that, I thought. I’d met her only once, but it had been enough to know one thing for certain: She had truly hated Mama. I would have wagered any sum that when she’d discovered Mama’s witchcraft, she had been absolutely delighted. Even now, more than twenty years later, she was still seething that her revenge hadn’t been complete.
“Thank you,” I said politely, and started to turn away. “That’s all I needed to know.”
“I’m glad.” He relaxed, smiling. “You’ve already discovered your portal, of course; otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
I hesitated. “You mean the mirror?”
“Indeed. You thought we were inside the mirror itself at first, didn’t you?” Mr. Gregson’s smile turned into a smug grin. “Quite amusing, really, but entirely misguided. No, no, it is merely a portal to our hall. We all have them, under various disguises—my own is this pair of spectacles I wear, inherited from my father. I imagine the mirror displayed some strong reaction when you first touched it? It drew you toward it, in a manner that could not be resisted?”
“Well …” I hated to be so predictable, especially to him.
“Of course it did,” Mr. Gregson said. “So, you see? The choice has been made.” He beamed at me complacently. “Now all that remains is for you to begin your training. I believe the first step ought to be—”
“Thank you,” I said. “But I think not.” I slitted my eyes half-shut, trying
to remember last time. When I’d left …
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Gregson looked at me as if I’d suddenly started speaking Spanish. “What are you saying?”
“I told you,” I said. “First you expelled Mama, which made her miserable, and then Lady Fotherington tried to make me her magical slave. I’m hardly going to join you after all of that, am I?”
I didn’t mention the real reason I’d bothered to stay and ask him so many questions—and the real reason I would never, ever join his pompous Order. I knew exactly what they did now, and especially what they did to witches. Mama had only escaped because of Mr. Gregson’s fondness for her; Angeline wouldn’t have any such protection if she was ever discovered by them.
“But you don’t understand. The work of our Order—the urgency of our need! If you only knew how vital it was to—”
“I’m sure it is,” I said. “So perhaps you should have thought twice about expelling Mama. Perhaps you should think twice about being so prejudiced in the first place.” I closed my eyes. There. I had it: the thread of connection I’d found just at the last moment last time, when I’d run from Lady Fotherington and flung myself at the golden wall. I smiled.
“But my dear young lady—think of your own potential magical powers! If you don’t join us, you’ll be stunted—you’ll never learn how to use them properly, you—”
Mr. Gregson’s sputtering was the last thing I heard before I landed with a bounce on the green and yellow covers of my bed in Grantham Abbey. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, bright and clear and entirely different from the deep golden glow of the hall I’d stood in only a moment before. The bed was satisfyingly solid and real, there were no signs of whirlwinds or hurricanes in the room around me, and I was wonderfully, perfectly alone.
The mirror was back in my hand, closed and latched once more. I looked down at it and laughed out loud. Then I tossed it in the air and caught it again.
I was getting better at this. I was almost certainly safe, too. Mr. Gregson was far too proper to follow me out of the hall and into my own bedroom, no matter how irate he might be. He wouldn’t be able to lecture me or work any magic on me in public, in full view of all the other houseguests, either. As long as I stayed away from the Golden Hall, I was safe.
Unless … Sudden discomfort coiled in my stomach. Lady Fotherington had stayed in London for the moment, Mr. Gregson had said. But if he gave up on convincing me through self-righteous lectures alone, would he decide to summon her? And then—
I stood up, closing my fingers tightly around the mirror. Let her come.
By the time we all went down to dinner, two hours later, I’d patched up the reticule just about well enough to carry with me. Stepmama gave me a definite Look, though, when she saw it looped around my arm with half the beads knocked off. She sighed and shook her head.
“Thank goodness no one will be looking at you, Kat,” she said. “At least Elissa looks perfect.”
Elissa really did look beautiful. Even her pale cheeks only set off her deep blue eyes and fair hair, and she was wearing her newest and finest gown, of pure white muslin, with puffy short sleeves, a modest round bodice, and a string of pearls around her neck—Stepmama’s pearls, I realized. I bit down hard on my lower lip at the memory they brought back: Mama’s broken pearls, lying scattered around her cabinet …
“Do hurry, Kat! We don’t wish to be late, tonight of all nights,” Stepmama snapped, and herded us all down the long corridor and grand flight of stairs.
As we reached the bottom of the stairs, Elissa’s hand found mine and squeezed. I squeezed it back.
“Elissa,” I began, in an urgent whisper.
“Hush,” she said, and smiled at me more wanly and unhappily than ever as she let go of my hand.
“Now,” Stepmama said, and ushered us, smiling as fiercely as a general, into the crowded Long Gallery.
Nine
There must have been at least fifty people in the gallery, and at first all I could take in was a confused mass of gowns and coats and far, far too much high, trilling laughter ringing in my ears.
But Stepmama plowed straight through the crowd toward our goal.
“Smile, girls,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “And Kat, if you say a single word out of place, I vow I’ll see you locked in the nursery tonight no matter what Rosemary might say.”
I didn’t bother to grace that with a response. Even if I’d wanted to, I was too busy avoiding the hard male elbows that jutted out from the crowd around us, just asking to be knocked into, and the women’s hands flung out for emphasis, glittering with rings. I’d never been allowed to attend a single dinner party back in our own village, and those parties only ever included six or eight families, all of whom I’d known my entire life. I’d never even seen this number of strangers before, let alone been required to mind my manners in front of them.
For a moment, the nursery actually sounded like an appealing option. But only for a moment.
I was concentrating so hard on avoiding the shift of arms and elbows all around me as I followed in Stepmama’s wake, I completely forgot to look where my feet were going. So the first sign of disaster didn’t come until it was too late.
I stepped back to avoid a swinging arm and landed on something soft. My right foot caught and slipped; my arms swung out, searching for balance; I pulled them back before I could hit anyone; and then I lost the battle altogether and fell flat onto my back in the middle of the crowd, knocking into at least three people on the way. My head hit the marble floor with a thud that was almost—but only almost—enough to drown out the ripping sound from around my feet, and the sounds of breaking glass nearby.
Nothing could have drowned out the shriek that came straight afterward. “My gown! What have you done to my new gown?”
I cringed and closed my eyes. Pain thudded through my skull. But there was no escape.
All the laughter and buzzing talk of the crowd vanished as if it had been sucked right out of the room. Then whispers erupted around us, and footsteps hurried toward me. I felt a cool, familiar hand against my cheek.
“Kat?” said Elissa. “Kat, can you hear me?” Her voice shifted as she spoke to someone else above me. “She did hit her head. Do you think she—?”
“Oh, she’s not unconscious,” Angeline said in a low, scathing whisper, from my other side. “She’s only embarrassed. As well she should be. Come on, Kat, you might as well get up before Stepmama can pull you up by your hair.”
I opened my eyes. My sisters both knelt beside me, and Stepmama was hurrying back toward me, rage in her eyes. Nearby, two footmen were cleaning up the remains of two broken wineglasses. I let Angeline help me up.
“I am sorry,” I said to the crowd at large, and heard my voice waver pathetically. “I tripped—”
“I ordered this gown all the way from Paris,” said the voice I’d heard before. It came from a tall, fish-faced blond woman who wore an enormous silk turban like a Turkish sultan. She pointed down at the train of her crimson gown. The flounces around the hem had been torn half off; they hung limply from her skirts, dragging against the marble floor. “This was the first time I’d even worn it!”
The whispers intensified. I felt the whole crowd staring at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, and curtsied as well as I could. It made my head spin horribly. “I didn’t mean to, truly.”
“We are all so sorry,” Stepmama said. She gave me one of the most furious looks I’d ever seen from her. “Katherine is very young and inexperienced, and she will be—”
“You ordered that gown from Paris, you said?” Angeline repeated the woman’s words with a slight frown, speaking as lightly as if she were only mildly curious. But I knew that look in her eyes. “Is that not illegal, ma’am? In a time of war against the French? In fact, I thought it had been specifically prohibited by His Majesty’s government.”
“Well …” The woman fluttered her fan higher as color mounted in her thin cheeks. “
That is hardly—”
“You would have had to order the gown rather than go to Paris yourself, naturally,” Angeline said thoughtfully, as Elissa’s face went paler and paler beside her. “For only the smugglers ever actually cross—”
“That is quite enough!” Stepmama said. “Madam.” She curtsied stiffly to the fish-faced woman. “You have our deepest apologies. From all of us. If you will do us the honor of having your gown conveyed to our apartments this evening, my own maid shall see to its repair.” Of course, what that really meant was that Stepmama would stitch it up herself. None of us had a maid to do our sewing for us.
The fish-faced woman drew herself up haughtily, folding her thin face into fishier lines than ever. “My maid,” she said, “is a genius from France, and she will take care of the matter herself, thank you very much.” She cast one last simmering look at me. “And you should dismiss your own maid without references if she’s the one who cut your daughter’s hair. It looks ridiculous!” With a swish of her remaining skirts, she turned her back on us. Supported by two of her friends, she hurried across the room, back toward the stairs to the guest quarters. She was followed by whispers all the way, mounting into a full-out roar of delighted gossip.
Stepmama turned on me. She couldn’t tell me everything she thought, of course; not now, under the pressure of all the eyes still upon us. But her face spoke for her.
“Later,” she said, and twitched her skirts away from me.
“Ah, Margaret.” Lady Graves appeared. She was very nearly panting with exertion, in the most refined possible manner; she must have hurried all the way through the crowd to arrive so quickly. “And girls. I do hope you are all enjoying your evening so far.”
I don’t know what looks we gave her, but I saw her blink and step back an inch.
“I’m afraid Miss Katherine suffered a small injury to her head,” Stepmama said, in tones that were trying to sound honeyed. “It would really be best if you excused her so she could lie down quietly in her room. Isn’t that so, Kat?”
Kat, Incorrigible Page 8
