Chapter 9

C HAPTER 9

Dinner that night was horrible.

Hester had been slightly late to supper, and as she took her seat next to Cordelia, the girl turned to smile at her and dread had risen up and grabbed her in a now-familiar embrace.

Cordelia was different. Terribly, dreadfully different, as if fainting had allowed some stranger to sneak in and take over her body. She was smiling and warm and assured. She used the silverware as if she had done so all her life, instead of shooting nervous glances at Hester to make certain that she had picked up the proper spoon. And she prattled.

There was really no other word for it. She prattled to the Squire about horses and how beautiful her horse was and did the Squire have a favorite horse and weren't they the most marvelous creatures and surely he had many exciting stories about jumps he had taken on horses and races he had seen? Which he did, of course, and was gratified to tell them all at garrulous length, while Cordelia watched with her lips slightly parted in delight.

Men! thought Hester, disgusted. If she were being honest, though, most of her disgust was for herself. She'd been taken in completely by the terrified-rabbit act, and here Doom's daughter was, clearly cut from the same cloth as Doom herself. More the fool me, falling for such an act. No, the sooner the pair of them are gone, the better.

Evangeline made a few comments, but seemed rather quiet this evening. Her daughter was obviously making up for it. Hester ignored everyone else at the table resolutely and had a second glass of wine.

It was not until they had risen from the table and she was about to plead a headache and retire to her rooms that something caught her attention.

Evangeline was making her apologies to the Squire for not joining him for an after-dinner drink, but they were having dress-fitting tomorrow, and she should make an early night of it. She did look a bit weary, her face slightly more drawn than Hester would have expected.

That was not the odd thing. It was when Hester left the room, and found Cordelia standing outside the door. Her face was slack and her arms dangled loosely at her sides. But the eyes that met Hester's were wild with panic, no longer a frightened rabbit, but one in a snare that, in a few more moments, would tighten and end its life.

"And now you're upset with me," said her mother, as Cordelia drew in a great shuddering breath and sat up on the bed. Her body felt like a stranger's and her throat was dry and sore. Her mother had made her eat but had forgotten to have her drink anything. There was a little tea table on the opposite side of the bed that always contained a ewer of water and a glass. Were her legs strong enough to get to it? They were. She got to her feet, swaying, and made her way around the foot of the bed, holding on to the carved footboard for support.

"Really, Cordelia," her mother said, sounding annoyed. "You might at least have made an effort. It's not as if I enjoy doing that, but what else can I do when you sit there like a lump of wood?"

The water struck her throat feeling almost solid, and she choked a little as she swallowed. It hurt, but at least choking gave her an excuse not to answer right away. She's in my room. She brought me here while Alice wasn't here to keep her out, and now she's in the room. Two doors didn't stop her.

No amount of doors will ever stop her.

"And if I'm having to talk for you, I can't say much of anything for myself, now can I? Why, the Squire even asked if I was feeling all right!" Evangeline folded her arms and pressed her lips together.

"Yes, Mother," whispered Cordelia, taking another long drink of water.

"You are going to marry a rich man someday quite soon, and to do that, I expect you to be charming. Rich husbands are not exactly thick on the ground, you know, and there are plenty of far more beautiful girls who are going to be competing for the same ones." Evangeline's perfect lips twisted into a frown.

Cordelia's head was pounding and her throat still burned. "We never practiced being charming in school," she said hoarsely. If she phrased it like that, it sounded like she was blaming the school, not her mother. It was the safest way.

Evangeline's frown grew to a scowl. "Worthless teachers," she said. "What is the point of teaching you geometry and not conversation?"

It hadn't been a finishing school. It had just been a little schoolhouse with two teachers, one for older children and one for younger. Cordelia knew that her mother was being unreasonable, because Ellen had told her all about her deportment tutor and how her sisters had been sent to a school for young ladies and how Ellen herself would attend one soon. Learning to be a young lady was a full-time class schedule, according to Ellen.

Oh god, thought Cordelia, staring into the empty water ewer. Oh god, let Ellen be alive. Let her have gone off riding or gone to the school for young ladies. Let her not be one of the five family members her father killed. Please, god. Let her even be injured, but let her recover.

Her mother might have kept going, but Alice slipped into the room and curtsied. "Apologies, miss," she said. "I didn't know you'd come up from dinner so soon. Will you be wanting a bath?"

Cordelia shook her head. She wanted to curl into a ball and shake, but she could not do that. She certainly could not ask Alice to stand up to her mother. It was much too dangerous for her and Cordelia both.

"I have a headache," she said instead. "May I have headache powders, please? If it's not too much trouble."

"Of course, miss. And I'll have Cook send up one of her teas. Miraculous, they are."

She stepped out of the room and Evangeline eyed the door with mild dislike. "So many servants," she muttered. "I'd forgotten how many servants you have to deal with in a great pile like this."

Cordelia said nothing.

"At any rate," said her mother, rising, "get some rest. We've the dress fitting tomorrow, and you may not plead headache or fall into a faint at it."

"Yes, Mother."

"I'm doing this all for you, you know."

"Yes, Mother. I know."

She waited until her mother had gone, and until Alice had returned with a cup of something strong and herbal. She drank it dutifully, and let herself be put into the great curtained bed.

When the door had opened and closed again and she no longer heard Alice moving around in the next room, Cordelia slipped out from under the covers, moved the curtains aside, and went to the enormous wardrobe that stood in the corner. Her dresses took up a tiny sliver of the space and the floor was bare.

She climbed into it and curled up into the smallest possible ball on the boards. They smelled of cedar, which was too close to wormwood, but there were lavender sachets tucked into the drawers and that changed the scent to something different. Something safer. She pulled the wardrobe door closed. It was solid wood and it was between Cordelia and the room that her mother had been in. It was not enough but it was something, and eventually, in the cedar-and-lavender-scented darkness, she fell asleep.

Alice had found her in the wardrobe that morning. She had opened the door and reached for a gown and then she had frozen with her hand outstretched, while Cordelia stared up at her in horror.

Their eyes met and held for a long few seconds and what Cordelia read there reminded her of Ellen, the same sadness and pity. She was not proud enough to reject the pity, but she feared it nonetheless, because something terrible had happened to Ellen and she knew that she was not strong enough to keep it from happening to Alice.

The other girl reached down and took her arm and helped her to her feet. Cordelia's back ached from sleeping in such a small space and she made a small sound of pain.

"It'll be all right," said Alice, and Cordelia knew that she wasn't talking about the backache. The maid's hand gripped hers, and it felt almost like a friend's hand, not like someone who was being paid to care for her. "It will."

"It won't," whispered Cordelia. Ellen had said the same thing, and look what had happened to her. "She can do such terrible things and I can't stop her."

Alice squeezed her fingers. "It will come out right in the end," she said firmly. Then she released Cordelia's hand and said, as calmly as if all respectable young ladies slept on the floor of their wardrobe, "Will you be wanting tea or hot chocolate this morning, miss?"

And Cordelia had said, "Tea, please," and had gotten dressed and was ready when her mother came looking for her.

It was a long drive into the city, though not as long as the one to the Squire's house had been. Falada was a bright, treacherous light between the carriage shafts. Cordelia looked out across the cold gray fields and pulled the borrowed shawl more tightly around her shoulders, her face as still and calm as practice could make it. She felt as if everyone should be able to tell that the coach was stolen, and furthermore, what had happened to the rightful owner. It seemed like blood should drip from the seats or the wheels should shriek or something equally dramatic.

But nothing happened. Cordelia watched the landscape go by, the fields turning to houses, the great smudge of the city growing on the horizon, and no one came after them screaming, "Stop, thief!"

They rode in silence for a time, and finally Evangeline sighed and said, "Are you still sulking about last night? Really, Cordelia, you'd think that you were five years old."

"No!" That came out much too explosively. "No, I… I'm cold, that's all." That was true enough and not a dangerous observation.

"Oh, is that all? Well, it's chilly out this morning, that's true."

"It is," said Cordelia, determined to speak and shed the accusation of sulking.

"You'll be warmer soon," said her mother cheerfully. "A new coat and muff, I think, lined with fur. You'll like that, won't you?"

"That sounds very nice," said Cordelia. This was also true. It sounded nice. She had not had a new coat in years, and did not particularly expect that to change, but it did sound nice.

Traffic going into the city picked up as they approached. First it was assorted farm carts loaded with produce, then a mail coach, then enclosed carriages that presumably carried passengers. The birdsong of the countryside was replaced with shouting and grumbling and the creak of wheels.

A young man in another cabriolet pulled alongside them and cracked his whip overhead, calling something. Evangeline lifted her chin derisively. Cordelia wondered if he had said something insulting, when suddenly Falada went from a trot to a canter, threading his way between the heavier farm carts with contemptuous ease. Cordelia looked over her shoulder and saw the young man frantically wielding his whip, but his bay horse could not compete with Falada's speed.

"Fool," said Evangeline, pleased. "Thinking he could race me with a mortal horse."

She was not so pleased once they had swung around the outer edge of the city and reached the broad stretch of stableyards that sold carts and carriages and horseflesh. The one that she made toward had an archway over the entrance, with HOWARD'S written across it in spiky metal lettering. The yard was already full of people, working on axles and wheels, touching up paint, and Cordelia could hear the sounds of a blacksmith hammering somewhere in the background.

They had barely pulled in when something over the archway flashed with green light and the air suddenly stank of burning hair. Everyone in the stableyard froze and Cordelia could feel dozens of eyes turning toward them. Cordelia's mother cursed softly under her breath.

"Back, back, get back, you gapeseeds," snapped a voice, and a man pushed his way forward. He was short and stocky and his clothing was worn, but he carried himself with absolute authority. Is this Howard?

He eyed Falada and snorted loudly, then turned to Evangeline. "I'll not be buying that horse, ma'am."

"Indeed you won't," said Evangeline in crisp tones, "because he's not for sale. I was told you offered a fair price for carriages as well."

Howard gave her a frankly skeptical look. "You were told correctly, but I don't deal in enchantments."

"The carriage is as plain as you are, my good man." Cordelia's mother set the reins aside and stepped down from the seat. The stableman did not offer her his hand.

Cordelia scrambled down on the other side, hoping no one was looking at her. Oh please, let her not do something horrible in front of all these people. She didn't know if she was afraid that all the onlookers would be hurt, or simply that they would see it happen and then… then… well, presumably something would happen.

It struck Cordelia suddenly that she did not know what would happen if someone found out that her mother was a sorceress. Was it illegal? The preacher in church had preached against magic folk, but he didn't say it was a crime, just that it was immoral. But surely you can't enchant people like Ellen's father and have him murder his family and get away with it, can you? If anyone found out, they'd punish her. That's murder, isn't it? They hang people for murder.

And I knew about it and I haven't told anyone and we're riding in a stolen coach right now, so I'd be an accomplice.

This thought was so horrifying that she missed most of the negotiations between Howard and her mother. After Falada had been removed from the shafts, another horse went in and drove the cabriolet back and forth under the archway. There was no smell or flash of light, so that must have proved that the carriage was perfectly ordinary. Apparently this was enough to satisfy Howard, because her mother went into a building with him and came out a few minutes later, tucking something into her bag.

"Come, Cordelia," she said, leading the way from the yard. She nodded to Falada, who whickered, turned, and set off at a jog down the road.

One of the stablehands crossed himself as they passed. Cordelia's mother ignored him and swept grandly on, her head held high, walking into the heart of the city.