by Zen Cho
“Put it away!” said the spirit. “Here she comes!”
“Who?” said Henrietta, but the polong was already dissolving in a swirl of red smoke.
The door blew open on a burst of magic, sending Muna and Henrietta staggering backwards. With its wild red hair and burning eyes, the creature that entered the room was scarcely recognisable as human—it resembled more than anything else a furious djinn.
“Thief!” screamed Clarissa Midsomer.
“Are you well, Muna?” said Henrietta anxiously.
Muna gulped. “Quite well!”
Her eyes were wet, her voice hoarse, but Miss Midsomer’s spectacular appearance had achieved what her own efforts could not. In her surprise she had swallowed the Virtu.
* * *
• • •
“YOU wicked hussy!” cried Clarissa, advancing on Muna. “I know it was you that took my pendant. Where is it? Give it to me!”
Miss Midsomer’s left hand hung by her side, clenched into a fist. A voice in Muna’s head said, The mortal is devising a curse.
Muna was surprised to realise the voice was her own, though it hissed rather more than she habitually did. And the voice was right—in her hand Clarissa was weaving an enchantment, a curse bristling with malice and ill intention.
Swallowing the Virtu had wrought no great change in Muna herself, save for the Great Serpent’s memories rustling at the back of her mind. It was the world—that wore a new aspect. It was as though Muna had for a time forgotten how to smell. Now that magic was restored to her she wondered that it had ever seemed mysterious.
Miss Midsomer’s enchantment did not worry her; it was only a little mortal spell. She could have undone it with a thought, but it scarcely seemed worth the effort. She had other business to tend to, of rather more importance.
She reached for Saktimuna’s powers. They surged to her hand, the air growing thick with the numberless imps of which magic was made up. She could see them with much more clarity than when she had called upon the fine ones in Henrietta’s class—a multitude of faces, as insubstantial as smoke, but each individual.
If she had been the Serpent she might have rapped out a peremptory command, but she was still mostly Muna, who knew what it was to be insignificant and disregarded. She said to the fine ones, I should be obliged if you would bring my sister to me. Will you?
The fine ones were only too ready to assist—they seemed overwhelmed by receiving such courtesy from a great spirit. Once the spirits were dispatched on their errand, Muna returned her attention to the scene playing out around her.
“Clarissa!” Henrietta was saying, pink-cheeked. “What do you mean by charging in, in this ill-bred manner? You forget that Miss Muna is our guest!”
“She is nothing more than a thief!” Clarissa jabbed a bony finger at Muna. “You will stand my witness, Henrietta Stapleton! The native witch employed black magic to rob me. My pendant has been taken, and the spell I cast to discover where it had gone showed me her creature, making away with it!”
Henrietta folded her arms. “Do you say it was your pendant, then?”
“What do you mean?” said Clarissa. “Of course it was my pendant.”
“Only that if you had come into possession of a valuable amulet—one for which the Fairy Court had been searching—you would have reported it to the Society at once, wouldn’t you?” said Henrietta deliberately. “You would not be so disloyal as to keep such a secret when the Sorceress Royal was being accused of the theft—when the Fairy Queen was threatening war on Britain in consequence!”
The colour drained out of Clarissa’s cheeks, leaving her white to the lips. “I—I do not know what you mean.”
To Muna, with her new eyes, Clarissa looked very young: no villainess, but a mere girl, caught up in schemes and machinations beyond her understanding. Perhaps the same thought occurred to Henrietta, for she said gently:
“Clarissa, there is more at stake here than you know! Will not you trust us? Prunella agreed that you might join the Academy because we thought we could help you.”
“Because she wished to keep an eye on me, you mean!” Clarissa flashed out. Abandoning her pretence of ignorance, she went on, “You need not read me any sermons on what is at stake, Henrietta Stapleton! You know nothing of the matter. You had no right to take the Virtu. I was holding it in trust for another, and he has grave need of it.”
“If the Fairy Queen turns against Britain,” said Henrietta, “your brother will suffer as much as any of us!”
Clarissa blinked. “My brother? What has my brother to do with it? He will be perfectly well whatever comes to pass.”
Nonplussed, Henrietta said, “When you spoke of holding the Virtu in trust for another, were not you speaking of your brother?”
“No,” said an unexpected voice. “She held it for me.”
The Duke of the Navel of the Seas shut the door behind him, putting his back against it.
“Florian!” gasped Clarissa, in a tone that made Muna look at her sharply.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said the Duke. “You will have taken the greatest care of the article, I know. My luck turned, that is all. But there is always another throw of the dice!”
He smiled at Henrietta. “Now, ma’am, where is the Virtu?”
Muna was still looking at Miss Midsomer. It was plain that the Duke had laid himself out to win Clarissa over upon discovering that she held the missing half of the Virtu. The way Clarissa gazed at him proved his attentions had not been in vain.
“It is wrong!” said Muna, indignant. She turned on the Duke. “It was very wrong in you to trifle with a young girl for your own ends. If you desired her half of the Virtu, you could have stolen it from her. That would have been dishonourable, but better than stealing her heart!”
Clarissa drew herself up, outraged.
“Thank you, but I do not need defending by the likes of you!”
The Duke patted her hand with the air of one soothing an excitable pet. “I have trifled with no one’s affections,” he declared, “but even if I were the greatest philanderer in the thirty-one worlds, that would be none of your business. Will not you surrender the Virtu to me and save the need for a quarrel? You should know that I am capable of being very disagreeable!”
“You will not find the Virtu here, sir,” said Henrietta, for the Duke had chiefly addressed his remarks to her. “I would advise you to leave and seek refuge where you can from the Fairy Queen’s vengeance—if, indeed, there is anywhere in the world that will serve! I cannot conceive what can have possessed you to deprive Her Majesty of her most valued treasure.”
“What did you mean to do with the Virtu?” said Muna. “Did you think of taking the throne?”
“No, no!” said the Duke, in sincere horror. “That would be endless trouble. All I desired was a quiet life. You do not know what it is like to be a courtier in the Fairy Court,” he continued, with feeling. “The ceaseless intrigues—the tests of one’s loyalty—the wearying gossip! All of it trivial beyond belief, and yet a single error could doom a spirit to endless torment. I was obliged to endure it for hundreds of years!
“It made me willing to risk what might come of stealing the Virtu.” The Duke’s eyes gleamed. “And I am willing to risk a great deal more to recover it. Come, now, where is it?”
“I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but it is as Henrietta said,” said Muna. “We cannot return the Virtu.”
“Because you want it for your own!” Clarissa burst out. The curse in her hand was fairly sparking, ready to be loosed. “You do not care that it will mean a life of subjugation for Florian! Well, I am not having it. Prunella Gentleman has ruined my life once before, by causing Geoffrey to be sent away and bringing disgrace upon my family. You shall not do the same, Henrietta Stapleton!”
“My soul!” exclaimed the Duke, but Clarissa lobbed her hex at t
hem.
“Muna!” cried Henrietta.
She readied herself to dive in front of Muna, but fortunately there was no need for any such dramatics. Muna caught the curse out of the air and closed her hand around it, snuffing it out. It stung like raw chilli—a stronger spell than she had supposed. Clarissa must be a magicienne of considerable natural talent, though she was untrained.
“You ought not to play around with such spells,” said Muna to Clarissa, in reproof. “You might have scalded yourself, and then wouldn’t you have felt silly?”
The Duke looked at Muna as though he noticed her for the first time. “Who are you?”
“I am not altogether certain,” said Muna truthfully. “Whoever it is, I have only been her for a short time. I expect you know her, sir, better than me.”
Recognition dawned in the Duke’s eyes.
“No,” he said, just as Georgiana of Threlfall had done. “No, you cannot be her!”
There was something niggling at Muna. Memories were heaped up behind her eyes, thick as leaves on a jungle floor. To rifle through them for any particular recollection was like searching for a brooch dropped in the undergrowth. And yet . . .
“Florian,” she said aloud. “There was a page boy who attended on my sixth parent, who went by that name. Was that you?”
The Duke fell on his face. “Have mercy on an erring sprite, gracious Saktimuna!”
“You have the Great Serpent’s memories, then?” said Henrietta. She gave Muna a searching look, but she must have found what she was looking for, for relief softened her face. “It is plain you have her magic!”
Muna nodded. “I remember.”
It was not quite that the memories were her own. The Serpent slumbered at the back of her mind, as it had slumbered in the watery deeps for uncounted years. Now that its heart had been freed from the Virtu, Saktimuna would gain strength. Muna did not doubt it would overpower her in time—and then it was Muna who would be nothing more than a fleeting voice at the back of the Serpent’s mind.
But she would not think of that now. It would not be long before her self, as she knew it, was consumed, but she still had time enough for what she wished to encompass.
His face pressed against the floor, the Duke was murmuring incoherent platitudes regarding their long acquaintance and the Serpent’s great generosity. “You will forgive me, mistress, knowing how miserable I have been under your sister’s tyranny. I have misled her for a time, but I cannot put her off forever. She will realise who must have taken the Virtu—she will pursue me here. It may only be a matter of weeks!”
“Oh, we shan’t have to wait so long,” said Muna. “I have called her here. I expect she will be along as soon as she can get away.”
“What?” said the Duke, Henrietta and Clarissa.
“I have asked the fine ones for my sister,” explained Muna. “If Sakti still survives, that will draw her to me. But if she does not, it ought to bring me the Queen.”
“But, Muna, what can you want with the Queen?” said Henrietta. She looked appalled.
“What I have always wanted.” And for once Muna and the Serpent spoke in one voice. “What she took from me.”
25
The next day
The Stapletons’ residence, England
AMELIA
ALL SEEMED TO augur well for Amelia’s coming-out ball. Even Mrs. Stapleton, a woman easily fluttered by minor adversities, looked forward to the party with pleasurable anticipation. The revelation that Henrietta’s friend, the native sorceress, was to make an appearance at her ball had put Mrs. Stapleton in good humour with the world, and she bore the ordeals of being a hostess with uncommon fortitude.
Amelia did not share her good spirits. Though Henrietta’s inexplicable absence had finally ended with her return the day before, she had convened a conference that morning to inform her three sisters that she was going on a journey—a long journey. They must keep it a secret, but she wished them to know that she would be perfectly well. They might receive concerning reports of her, but they must not allow these to worry them.
“But where are you going?” cried Charlotte. “I think it is cruel, when you have only just been—”
Amelia squashed her before she could reveal all they knew of Henrietta’s secret life, for she foresaw the hubbub that would ensue—explanations, tears, reproaches. They had only a little time before they were bound to be interrupted by a parent or servant, and what they needed from Henrietta was answers.
“When will you come back?” said Amelia.
Henrietta coloured, casting her eyes down; she was a pitiably bad liar. “I do not yet know. But I shall find a way to send you a message when I can.”
“What of Papa and Mamma?” said Louisa, thinking of the trials they would endure in attempting to conceal Henrietta’s absence from their parents.
“They shall know of my departure before anyone else,” said Henrietta. “I know it will distress them, but you will be able to reassure them without giving me away.”
“This is all very mysterious,” said Amelia. “Cannot you tell us more? We would never betray your confidence, you know, Henny.” She thought of Henrietta’s engagement. “If it is to do with—with Mr. Hobday, I am sure Papa could be reasoned with. Nobody wishes you to be unhappy.”
She had expected Henrietta to blush and disclaim any unhappiness at the prospect of being joined with Mr. Hobday. But her sister only blinked, as though she had forgotten all about her betrothed.
“Oh, Mr. Hobday!” said Henrietta. “We need not be in any haste to tell him. He will hear of my departure by some means or other. I hope he will not be too vexed with Papa, but I do not expect it will upset him unduly. You know, ’Melia, I am not sure Mr. Hobday was ever particularly attached to me!”
Henrietta’s sisters were obliged to be content with this, for the conference was broken up by the entrance of Mrs. Stapleton. Their mother had heard from her maid that Lady Burrow’s niece would wear a pink gown that evening. Henrietta’s dress, too, was pink. Did Henrietta think it wise to wear her blue dress instead? But Mr. Hobday had declared himself fond of pink. Mrs. Stapleton did not know what was to be done.
When this dilemma had been resolved, a dozen more presented themselves for Amelia’s attention, so that it was impossible to question Henrietta further. For of course she promptly vanished, leaving Not Henrietta in her place.
“I wonder if Henny will even bestir herself to attend the ball!” Amelia said bitterly to her sisters. “It is only my debut. Why should she consider it of any importance, compared to her magic?”
“Oh, don’t speak so, ’Melia,” said Charlotte, distressed. “What if Henrietta should never return? She looked so solemn this morning, and she would not be drawn on how long she would be gone.”
Amelia had not seriously considered this possibility, but now that Charlotte had raised it, she was obliged to acknowledge that it seemed likely.
“It is provoking,” said Louisa, “but we do not know what business takes her away. I hope it is nothing dangerous.” She raised worried eyes to Amelia. “Ought we to say something? I fear we do wrong in not telling Papa!”
Amelia deliberated, but finally shook her head. “Papa is so burdened with care that if we can save him any worry, we should—and he would be so cross with Henny! We must speak to her again before we do anything. If we tell her we know all, surely she will confide in us.”
“If Henrietta goes away forever, what will Papa do?” said Charlotte. “Perhaps Mr. Hobday would have you instead, ’Melia.”
“Oh no!” said Louisa. “Bad enough that Henny was to marry him, but Amelia . . . !”
“I would never rub along with Mr. Hobday,” agreed Amelia. “No, Charlotte, we shall have to find another way. I must find another wealthy gentleman, though,” she added with feeling, “it will not be a thaumaturge! Just think if we had magical daughte
rs! It is bad enough having a sister with magic.”
“But so long as you could persuade your husband to allow it, there would be no difficulty,” argued Charlotte. “It is not Henrietta having magic that is the trouble. It is Papa and Mamma’s not being sympathetic.”
But Amelia was in no humour to be sympathetic with her sister’s inconvenient thaumaturgical leanings.
“I am not so certain!” she said grimly.
When Amelia descended to the ballroom that evening they had still seen neither hide nor hair of Henrietta. Her vexation began to be threaded through with apprehension. Perhaps Louisa was right. Everyone said the practice of magic was fraught with peril, even for gentlemen. How much more hazardous must be it for a female? Henrietta would never tell them if she was in danger.
Despite her anxiety, Amelia was determined to do her duty as a debutante. She was conscious of the expense that had been incurred on her account and knew that with but a little effort she might recoup it. She was in good looks and the reception from the gentlemen in attendance—a mix of thaumaturges and the laity, including several eligible bachelors with respectable fortunes—was encouraging.
Yet as the evening wore on, her conviction grew that something was amiss—something more than the substitution of the wholly inadequate Not Henrietta for the original. There was a strange note in the conversations Amelia had—a certain constraint, explained only when Emily Villiers came to press her hand.
“You look a very angel, Amelia,” she declared. Emily was more Henrietta’s friend than Amelia’s, for she had been a schoolfellow of Henrietta’s, but the families had been acquainted for many years.
She fixed a soulful gaze on Amelia. “We will not speak of it tonight—the night of your triumph! I only wished to assure you that your friends will stand by you, whatever comes.”
