Chapter 18

C HAPTER 18

Cordelia was calm.

She had been washing her face when Alice burst in and told her the dreadful news. She was still holding the damp washcloth as she sank down in her chair, while the guilt and horror grew inside her head with every word. You failed. All your hand-wringing and hoping and dithering didn't change anything. Mrs. Green died like Ellen died and you did nothing to stop it.

You heard what they think of sorcerers! No one would have believed me if I'd tried to warn them! And if Mother had found out what I said, she would have… would have…

The voice in her head whispered, But you didn't even try. She wrung the washcloth between her fingers, feeling tepid water drip down her wrists.

"It's awful," said Alice, in unconscious echo of her thoughts. "No one can believe it."

Cordelia could believe it. Mother could make me obedient. Mother could make me stab you while I was obedient, and afterward everyone would say they didn't believe it. And there is nothing that I could do to stop her.

There is nothing that I can do to stop my mother from killing anyone who gets in her way.

Something inside her snapped. She could feel it like a physical blow, like a bone breaking. The weight of dread on her chest crashed down and the scaffolding that had held it up was crushed underneath.

And suddenly she was calm.

It was the calm of a burned-out house or a ravaged field, the calm that comes where there is no longer anything to lose. It was almost like being invincible. The endless frantic fluttering of her thoughts had stilled. She knew what she needed to do.

If Mother finds out…

Cordelia ignored the fearful whisper. If her mother found out, she would do something terrible. If she didn't find out, she would still eventually do something terrible. There would be no difference at all, except that perhaps no one else would die like Penelope and Ellen's family.

"I need to speak to Lady Hester at once," she said, standing up and tossing the cloth aside. Her hands did not tremble and she did not stammer when she spoke.

"She—she may still be with the constables—" said Alice, startled.

"Then I will speak to them, too."

She pulled the blue shawl around her shoulders and went out.

Cordelia knew, even now, that the calm would not last. It would crack and fall apart and all the horror would come rushing back in. Certainly it would not survive an encounter with her mother. So she walked to the family wing of the house as quickly as she could, praying that no one would see her.

Luck was on her side. A surprised maid pointed out Hester's door, but other than that, she saw no one on the way. She tapped on the door and went in.

When she announced that her mother had killed Mrs. Green, Hester's mouth fell open, but she recovered quickly enough.

"My dear, I was there," the older woman said. "I saw Penelope…" She stopped and put her hand to her mouth. Cordelia watched it all from a little distance, unsurprised.

"I know how it sounds," she said. "Let me explain. My mother is a sorceress, and she can make people obedient."

She expected disbelief or lack of comprehension, but Hester sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing. "Wait. What do you mean by that?"

Cordelia told her. When she described what it felt like, a sliver of panic tried to lodge itself in her chest. She examined it dispassionately and set it aside. Later. When I have done what I need to do. Then I can panic. It was no different than learning not to scream when she came up out of being obedient.

"And you think…" Hester swallowed hard. "You think that your mother may have done this to Penelope?"

Cordelia nodded.

"This is mad," said Hester. She tried to pour herself some tea, but her hands shook too badly. Cordelia took the teapot away and poured, then pressed the cup into Hester's hands. "This is utterly mad. It can't be possible. Sorcerers can't do things like that. They—you heard Imogene—they cheat at cards. They make old horses look young. It's all just—just flimflam and trickery!"

"Hers isn't. She did it to Ellen's father, too. Mr. Parker, I mean. He killed his entire family with an axe. The article in the paper that the Squire read that morning, when I fainted. That's why. I knew her. She was my friend." She almost added that her father had probably died the same way, but she didn't know for certain, and it seemed like too much all at once.

Hester took a gulp of tea. Her eyes were fixed forward, but not on anything that Cordelia could see. "Penelope didn't look right," she said softly. "I knew she didn't look right. It was her eyes. She looked like she was fighting something. And when she went over, Richard said it looked like she was walking against the wind. She did. She did look like that." Her cup clattered in the saucer and she cursed softly and dropped it back on the table.

"She must have been very strong, to fight it," said Cordelia. "I never could."

Hester's eyes snapped to her. "Why are you telling me all this now? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"You wouldn't have believed me."

"I don't believe you now!" Hester clutched her head. "This—no, this isn't possible. I want to believe it because I love Penelope and I hate your mother—I'm sorry, but I do—"

"So do I," said Cordelia, and the calm rippled a little, as if something massive had shifted beneath the surface.

"But I shouldn't believe it just because I want to believe it. I shouldn't. I…" Hester took a deep breath. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because she won't stop. It doesn't matter if I do what she wants. It doesn't matter who I marry or if I learn to be charming." Cordelia felt as if she were gazing down a long, long tunnel, into the future. "She'll never stop, and I will never be free."

Hester felt as if her mind were coming undone. She did not believe the story that Cordelia had just poured out. It was unbelievable. Sorcerers simply didn't have that kind of power. They swindled the unsuspecting and cheated at cards, and even then, it was generally felt that the victims should have known better. A sorcerer with the power to actually take over someone's body was simply absurd.

There were stories, of course. But they were old stories, all mixed up with fairy tales and giants and the Devil holding court at the crossroads. If anyone had ever had that power, they were comfortably dead.

It couldn't be true, and that was all there was to it. This was no more than a panicked young girl trying to make sense of a heinous act. That was all.

Except.

Except that she had looked into Penelope's eyes.

Didn't it remind you, even then, of Cordelia after that dinner? The one where she says she was made obedient ? Eyes like an animal in a trap?

Penelope Green had not been a frightened rabbit but a wily old fox, and yet… and yet…

Cordelia's absolute calm reminded Hester of a rabbit, still—one in shock, who sits and watches the predator's approach. It should have been heartbreaking, but Hester was forced to be glad of it. She could not handle wailing and tears right now. She was too close to the edge herself.

But if she was wailing and babbling about sorcery, you could just dismiss her out of hand. Tell her that she was overwrought. Instead you're listening, even though you know it's completely mad.

Evangeline, a sorceress?

It was too easy. It tied everything up so elegantly and put the blame on a hated villain, not on her dead friend. Hester was suspicious of easy answers.

Her first thought was to send for Richard and have Cordelia tell him her story. Get a second opinion, one that she knew would be rational and fair. But she dismissed it almost at once. He will be fair, and he'll tell me that it's absurd. Because it is absurd. Sorcerers don't do things like that. You know that.

But if it is true…

On some level, she wanted it to be true. If it was true, then Penelope was still the woman that Hester had believed her to be, her friend who told ridiculous stories and made stirring speeches about the importance of style. She had not stabbed someone and then taken her own life. She had been a victim of a terrible spell and she had fought it, valiant to the end.

If it was true, then Hester's sense of doom had a cause, not merely the panic of an old lady seeing her comfortable life slip away.

"Proof," she muttered aloud. "I need proof. This is too much." She gripped the head of her cane, anchoring herself in the smooth polish of the handle, the solidity of the wood.

Cordelia frowned. She was perched on the edge of the old gold velvet sofa, sitting up very straight. Her gown was a deep, exquisite sapphire that brought out the color of her faded blue eyes. Faded blue eyes, faded brown hair, a washed-out copy of her mother. "I don't know how to prove something like that. The horse trader in town, he'll remember, maybe? The way the ward went off when Falada walked through?"

"Which would only prove that there was a glamour on the horse," said Hester, trying to assemble her thoughts. "Which is a far cry from this obedience."

"If I knew anyone else who had been obedient, you could ask them," said Cordelia slowly, "but…" She trailed off, suddenly thoughtful.

"What?"

"Mr. Parker," she said slowly. "At the manor house in Little Haw. I don't know what Mother did to him. Something like that, I think. She made him do it. If you talked to him…" She frowned. "I don't know. I don't know if there's anything left of him. She said she broke him."

Hester seized on the suggestion like a lifeline. "Nor do I, but I know who can find out." She leaned over and yanked on the bellpull. "We'll send Richard."