Almost did Flora pity Georgiana’s plight, but then she recalled the girl’s earlier remarks. Had Georgiana influenced her to better herself? Certainly she had, but it had not been a nurturing influence, and it had nothing to do with Flora’s elevation in status. That was the result of her father’s actions, of Will’s capriciousness, and of happenstance. Georgiana had had no hand in it.
The interview closed, and the trio in the spyhole slinked away to the hall.
“Viola,” said Will as they emerged, “remind me never to get on your mother’s bad side.”
“I remind myself of that every morning when I wake up,” Viola replied. “I never realized how necessary a reminder it was until now, though.”
Chapter Twenty-Two: Grand Exhibition
It’s here, the dreadful day of reckoning. I’ve read and re-read my paper for any errors. I’ve colored the lovely pictures. All that remains is setting up the display (which I hope will be in some out-of-the-way corner). Then there’s the promenade, and the opening of the exhibition, and I can finally focus all my attention on studying magic instead of this interfering nonsense (yes, of my own creation, I’m well aware). There’s less than a week now until that exam and my decided fate.
I just have to make it through today without any great mishap. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?
Monday morning dawned a crisp, sunny day. Flora gathered together the elements of her display in a box and rode to the Royal Academy in her father’s carriage. Her nerves were aflutter with anticipation: she was excited to show her finished paper, and even more excited to see what the other candidates would present.
She knew that Viola would have a display as well, but she didn’t know any details about it. Tempted as she had been to ask, she hadn’t wanted reciprocal questions about her submission, especially while she was still composing it.
Viola met her just within the entrance of the exhibition hall, a pencil in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.
“Oh!” said Flora with a budding sense of kinship. “Are you presenting something you wrote?”
Viola suppressed a laugh. “No. My display is probably the most unimaginative thing you can think of.”
“What is it?” Flora asked.
Viola used her pencil to gesture to the room around her. “This.”
Confusion wrinkled Flora’s brows. “This, what?”
“The exhibition. All my studies have been focused around magic, but I couldn’t display that. Really my only other skill is organization, so I offered to organize the whole exhibition. I’m in charge of the layout of the display area and the order of the performances.”
Flora was thunderstruck. “That’s very fitting,” she said when she found her voice. “I mean, of course you should organize the whole thing.”
“It was a lazy choice. At least I don’t have to get up in front of a crowd and play the flute or something. More than half the candidates are performing. I saw that your submission was flower arranging.” She looked at the open box Flora carried then and frowned. Inside was a pair of red roses—taken from the bush beside the well in Flora’s back yard—and her carefully written treatise.
Viola consulted her stack of papers in confusion.
“I arrange them in garden plots,” said Flora helpfully. “My display is a detail of the typical plants found in the country gardens of Lenore—I used to visit all the neighboring estates and kept a tally of what they were growing, what order they kept their garden in, what hybrids they were attempting, and such. I’ve compiled it and added some extra information about each individual plant. Edmund illustrated, and I colored, and here it is.
“We were supposed to submit a talent,” she added when Viola’s astonishment remained.
“But I’ve placed you between lace doilies and embroidered pillow fronts,” Viola said. “If I’d known it was scholarly, you’d be across the hall. There are some similar submissions there.”
“I think it’ll look nice between doilies and pillow fronts,” said Flora. “I didn’t mean to upset your order.”
Viola laughed. “Put it there then, if you don’t mind. I only hope the pillow fronts and lace doilies don’t mind either. Your name card says, ‘Flora Dalton—Flower Arranging,’ by the way, but if that doesn’t bother you I won’t let it bother me.”
Flora accordingly set up the display to her liking. She pinned the title page and a few of the colored pictures to the backing and then placed the main body of the paper on the little table next to a bud vase with her two roses. People could assume she obtained the flowers from a greenhouse. She intended to change them out halfway through the week, but even if she didn’t get around to it, it wouldn’t be so very bad to have the petals strewn across the table as they fell. It might even look picturesque.
“What on earth?” said a voice next to her as she stepped back to survey her work. She jumped and discovered Charlie, who had been assigned guard duty at the hall during the preparation hour. A deep scowl furrowed his brows.
“Criticize it and I’ll kick you,” Flora threatened.
He snorted. “It looks impressive, but I don’t think it’s going to win you any husbands.”
“Good, since I’d have no idea what to do with such an impractical prize.” She brushed her hands and walked away.
He caught up to her. “I really don’t understand what you’re doing in this competition.”
“Everything I do is for my dad,” Flora replied. “Besides, you don’t understand what any of us is doing here, aside from your sister. Apparently there’s some clout to be gained with participating.”
“So you are an ambitious girl after all,” he remarked a little snidely.
“Don’t be mean,” said Flora, and she left him there.
That afternoon, the candidates gathered at a park near the palace, each attired in her finest walking clothes. The route of the promenade passed the palace, where the Prince would reportedly be watching from his tower (though Flora had her doubts on that), to the adjacent Academy and the exhibition hall. It was just long enough to require a little exertion, but short enough not to wind everyone completely. Flora wore sensible shoes, but she noticed quite a number of girls mincing about in impractical footwear. She pitied them their imminent blisters.
Citizens of Lenore lined the route and cheered all along the way. Flora fell in step at the middle of the string of girls. She noticed Georgiana Winthrop at the front and Viola lagging near the end and thought the whole thing was a little backwards.
As they sauntered past the palace, their collective posture improved tenfold. Flora could imagine stacks of books on their heads instead of the exquisite array of bonnets and hats. Weeks of practice had culminated in this narrow window of time. It was an impressive, if not futile, show of poise and confidence, but it was also short-lived. Closer to the Royal Academy, beyond the supposed view of the Prince, many mincing steps became stilted. A general air of relief rippled through the applicants as they reached their final destination, the exhibition hall. Several girls sought out the nearest place to sit and surreptitiously rubbed sore ankles.
The crowd had gathered at the building’s entrance, where the Prime Minister and his wife grandly welcomed everyone. Together they cut a ceremonial ribbon. Thus began the exhibition.
Curious onlookers ambled among the displays. The first evening of performances would begin after dark in an adjoining theater, once the Prince had arrived and was ensconced in his private box. Flora accompanied her father to watch in the main galley and was impressed by the variety of talents before her. Most of the girls carried themselves well, with few mishaps to speak of. It was a festival of sorts to celebrate feminine accomplishments. Flora liked it immensely.
The evening ended at nine o’clock. “Are you going to the after-party at Mrs. Olivette’s?” Priscilla Irvine asked her as they passed through the door at the same time. Flora had received her invitation, but she had politely declined it, knowing that she could not brave the conservatory at n
ight.
“No,” she said.
“Too bad. We’ll miss you,” Priscilla replied and she went on her way. Flora couldn’t decide whether she was being genuine or merely polite.
“You should go, my dear,” said her father, with whom she walked.
She squeezed his arm. “Not tonight. I’m tired.”
“We’ll have to walk. I didn’t bring the carriage, and it doesn’t look like there are any available for hire. If you’re tired, are you sure you’re up for it?”
Thanks to her thoughtful choice of footwear, she was.
People strolled along the streets. Flora felt secure on her father’s arm, among the dwindling crowd of exhibit attendees. The further they went, the sparser the company was, but the air of good cheer remained.
Up ahead, one of the street lamps flickered and went out. No one paid it any heed.
From the direction of the exhibit hall a spine-chilling roar punctured the pleasant atmosphere.
Flora whirled, too familiar with that sound. “Gregor!” she cried.
To her horror, she discovered the jaguar bounding straight for her, jaws open and a growl rumbling in his chest. Flora dragged her father to one side, seeking refuge against the nearest building.
To her shock, Gregor sprinted right past them, into the shadows that pooled under the extinguished street lamp. Another roar shattered the night as he leapt bodily upon a figure there.
Flora started to scream, but the sound strangled in her throat. Beneath the assault of the predatory cat, the victim’s silhouette spilled away into smoke and vapor.
Shadow-shifter.
Her father’s hand tight in hers, Flora instinctively fled the other direction. Before she’d gone more than five steps, two bundled figures blocked her escape, forcing her to stop short.
“Hello, little guardian,” said one with a sneer, and all the lights along the street went black.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Dismal Curse, Dismal Cure
I still have nightmares about the shadow-shifters, nightmares where they swarm around me and no one comes to my rescue. I have no idea what they would do to me if they ever caught me—eat me, I suppose—and I never want to find out. Will assured me that the wards around the city have been strengthened, and my encounter with the brownies confirmed that the ones around my house are secure, but there’s always that niggling little thought in the back on my mind.
What if…?
Blackness and corporeal shadows mobbed her. Flora shrieked and held tight to her father’s hand, but he was ripped away from her. She heard him shout her name, heard Gregor roar and people along the street cry out, but the dark was too thick for anyone to help. The shadow-shifters, half solid and half smoke, effortlessly swept her away.
They moved like an avalanche of dust with Flora in their midst, through the streets and into unknown parts of the city. She would have screamed the whole way, but a foul, unpleasant mass covered her mouth and it was all she could do to stay conscious under the stench. They followed a path of darkness into a barren park, with snow thick on the trees and in patches on the ground.
Her mind raced, fueled by the terror that gripped her. Would anyone be able to find her in time? Had the well alerted Will to her danger, or did that only happen when she was near it? Was she going to die? He had said they would not harm her until they had attained the well, but they were taking her nowhere near the well. Instead, they seemed headed into the blackest place they could find. Her ears alone told her that they had at last arrived.
She could sense countless bodies writhing around her. They jostled and caressed her as they shifted from solid to airy states, and their cold, clammy touch chilled her to the bone.
“Hold her fast!” a voice hissed. Flora did not know from whence in the chaotic mass it came.
She protested against the suddenly tightened bonds around her, her voice muffled.
“Quiet, little guardian,” a shadow-shifter whispered in her ear. “There will be no one to save you this time. We have attacked both guardians, and your allies will defend the old well before they see to you. The new well is rightfully ours. You will give it to us.”
A barren chill encased her as the creature spoke. If Viola had been attacked, of course Will would see to her safety first. Tears coursed down Flora’s cheeks. Her breath was short. There would be no rescue. She was seconds away from her doom, and no one was coming.
“The others have been extinguished. We must hurry, before they try to retrieve her.”
“They are too late. She is one of us even now.”
The edge of a shallow bowl was shoved between her lips. Flora’s nose filled with the smell of rotting earth. She tried to balk as an icy, acrid liquid poured down her throat. She choked and could not breathe. The foulness spread to infuse her very soul. Her senses reeled and a flurry of whispers clamored in her ears as brightness flared before her eyes.
They were dozens; they were hundreds; they were family.
“Welcome, little bonded one,” a voice greeted her above the din, just as her mind slipped into oblivion.
Awareness returned by degrees.
She was shambling through the dark, step by step by step, her dull thoughts focused on only one goal: she had to get to the well. She had to get to the well and draw magic for the others. She had to bind them to the well. That would make them happy. That would make her happy. They were with her, alongside her, within her, everywhere. Step by step by step she walked through the frozen night, the stars above a painful brightness to her eyes.
There was movement ahead. The shadows hissed and struck at a creature that bounded into their midst. A ferocious growl tore through the cold night air.
Then, a blaze of brilliance seared through her skull. Her fellows shrieked in agony, seeking refuge. Instinctively she cringed, but she covered her eyes and kept walking. Hands grabbed her by the shoulders and a voice spoke gibberish to her. Someone tried to pry her arm away from her eyes. Listlessly she pulled away, intent upon her single-minded goal. Arms hoisted her up from behind. Flora thrashed like a feral beast, eyes still firmly shut. The brightness around her burned against her eyelids and threatened torturous blindness, but still she bucked and flailed, desperate for freedom.
She gained it, too. The arms released their hold. Even as she moved again toward her goal, though, a hand clamped firmly down on her forehead. A voice uttered a commanding word, and Flora knew no more.
The room was dark, but not dark enough. As Flora gradually regained consciousness, she could hear a conversation: three voices spoke in hushed words.
“How did you find her, Charlie?”
“I followed Gregor. He’s useless at fighting the monsters, but he still hunted them like a true predator.”
She opened her eyes to the too-bright darkness. She was in a bed, propped against pillows and covered with a blanket. But this wasn’t important. Her mind returned to the well. She needed to get to the well. She sat up to leave, but something constrained her. Vaguely she looked down and saw that her wrists had been buckled into leather straps, which were fixed to each side of the bed frame. They would not budge. She tugged at them fruitlessly.
Someone sat down next to her on the bed. A woman spoke.
“Flora. Flora, can you hear me?”
Of course she could, but that meant nothing. She needed to get to the well.
“She’s not going to respond,” said a second voice. “She’s already bound. Her only thoughts will be on completing whatever charge she’s been given, and I think we can safely guess what that is.”
Flora continued to tug against her restraints, heedless of this conversation. The mattress lifted as the person moved away again.
“Charlie, you can’t delay the cure.”
“I’m not delaying. Honestly, I’d think you and Will were trying to scam me if I hadn’t read it myself in that rubbishy bestiary. I’m just saying that there’s got to be another way.”
“There isn’t, and we can’t delay to look for
one. That filth in her body is going to kill her if we don’t purge it.”
“Why can’t we just give her straight magic?”
“Unsealed magic within a revenant? If it does cure her, it’ll likely do so by killing her first. She can’t very well work it into a seal before it does. Or maybe you think she’d enjoy life as a nifara.”
“Why can’t we seal it into her to purge her?”
“You know a purification seal never goes directly on the tainted object, Charlie. We can’t risk the magic itself becoming tainted. I realize this application is a little out of the ordinary, but all those fairy tales you’ve heard got their inspiration from somewhere. It makes sense: it’ll give an immediate shock to her system. You don’t have to be the one to do it, if you’re so against it. I can, though I suspect Viola would object—”
“I wouldn’t,” the woman’s voice interrupted.
“Even if you wouldn’t, darling, I’d like to think you would. We could always fetch Edmund for the job if Charlie doesn’t want it. Between you and me, I think he has something of a crush on Flora anyway.”
“You’re not getting Edmund. He’s asleep in his bed. Besides that, he’d be completely traumatized if he saw her like this.”
“Is that your dilemma? She’s only going to get worse the longer we delay.”
“Charlie, you’re really the best person to do it.”
“I know, Vi. It’s just… It’s all wrong.”
“It’s perfectly natural,” piped up the other man.
“You be quiet. Natural or not, it’s not something I want to do.”
“Well, yeah, under the circumstances. But you can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to at all. I mean, it’s so obvious.”
“Just work the seal so I can get it over with.”
“I know I probably don’t need to remind you, but this isn’t the time to be shy.”
“I officially hate you, Will.”
Tournament of Ruses Page 27
