Chapter 1

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 20TH, 1889 AT ARUNDEL, THE FORTIER ESTATE

“T hessaly. Five minutes.” Thessaly heard her mother’s comment through the door. The rap on the solid wood had come exactly on time, of course. Sioned Lytton-Powell ran her household as precisely as any general might want. Thessaly knew when she could press her luck and when she couldn’t. Today - this entire week - was decidedly a time when she would do as Mama said, when Mama said.

“Of course, Mama.” Thessaly called out, pitching her voice to carry without moving. Her maid was finishing the last details of her hair, using delicate charms to make sure each strand stayed where it ought. Once Alma finished, Thessaly stood, feeling the dress flow into place evenly, with the bustle settled behind her and the silk of her skirts falling to just above the floor. The weight of the gown was more than she preferred in a day dress, slowing her movement slightly, but today would not call for duelling of the physical sort. She would manage.

They had arrived at Arundel that morning, notable guests in a week of celebration. Thessaly and her parents had been shown to a gem of a guest house. It was not far from the main manor, tucked into gardens that were a tad bare now in March, but stunning in summer.

Her frock - every frock and gown she’d wear this visit - had been precisely chosen to suit not only the occasion, but the setting. She’d had dress fittings every week for months, each bit of silk and velvet and satin and embroidery debated to the finest degree. The result flattered. Of course it flattered, it was not permitted to do anything else.

The green redingote fit perfectly, the colour bringing out her blue eyes and the dark of her hair. It would contrast pleasantly with whatever Childeric wore. The pale golden cashmere dress under it was a princess cut, which felt much lighter, combined with a smaller bustle. It would be easy to sit in the Great Hall, to walk in the garden, to pose and wait politely, all of which would likely be involved this afternoon.

This dress was plain, deceptively so, other than the quality of the material and the fact that getting that kind of glow to the gold of the wool was far easier with magic. The spectacular frock was for Friday, and her betrothal. It was a confection of cream silk, embroidery, and enchantment that made her look stunning, as if she were lit by the perfect light no matter which way she turned.

Part of the debate of her clothing had been about how to dance with that fashion. In two days, well two days and a few hours, the Fortiers would announce the engagement of their eldest son Childeric. There would be toasts and joyous comments about the joining of two great families. Mama would point out that it was three, that it was the Powells - her family - that mattered just as much here as Father’s. But only in absolute private, with all the wards and protections that Aunt Metaia could and would offer.

Certainly not here, where Thessaly could feel the Fortier magics sunk into every stone. It was an ancient estate, of course. This was a family that had its roots in the even more ancient dynasties of France, before the Conquest. They kept their family magics private, much as they were private about many other things.

Thessaly understood that. Mama and Aunt Metaia did, the Powells did. And Father’s people, too, the Lyttons, though Thessaly knew somewhat less of those. Aunt Metaia had taken an interest in her early. Thessaly leaned to the Powell side, and her younger sister, Hermia, was likely to follow Father’s line of things more.

The marriage was a coup, though. Thessaly had known that she’d marry for advantage. This was the expectation of her family, of both families. There were a great many Powells, and even with two of them currently on the Council, their overall influence was not what it had been a century ago. And Father’s family was known for angling for strong magic, generation upon generation.

The Fortiers, on the other hand, had been in ascendency. Revolutions in France and the colonies had brought people needing refuge under their wing. They had turned that to their benefit, building up a vast set of client families and interconnections. And all those families owed them favours to be called in at some later time, bound by oath and magic and not a little blood.

The magic mattered here. In a slightly different world, where Thessaly had made her debut at Queen Victoria’s court, she would certainly have been married already. She’d have had a season for making matches, then been paired off to someone. By now, at twenty-two and a half, she’d likely have a child, perhaps even two.

But Thessaly was a daughter of Albion, and the magical community of Britain ran by slightly different standards. When they’d formalised the marriage agreements over the past few months, each point had been laid out, delineated and specified, just as much as the financial arrangements had been.

Her magic mattered. It was at the heart of what she brought to the marriage. She was a duellist. Her skill and strength at the art had been seen and noted. She would complete an apprenticeship in Illusion magic within the year, before she was properly married. It would demonstrate to the world she was capable magically, and that there was every expectation that her children would have equally potent magic. There were no concerns about recent intermarriage with the Fortiers, just the promise of bounty and plenty.

And if Childeric wasn’t the man she’d have chosen if she had all the choice in the world, she had come to reasonable private agreements with him. He was the golden child of his family and his generation. Thessaly would make sure he shone, by pairing him socially and flattering him magically. Her own apprenticeship in illusion work was a help there.

Not that Childeric actually needed much physical enhancement. He was well-built, with golden hair like his mother’s, and he wore clothing well. But her own skills would indeed be a help with the parties she would throw, the events they would be at, and all the other glittering moments of the Great Families.

Childeric would treat her with all courtesy - in public and in private - and if he did, she would back him up in public and leave him alone in private. Bar, of course, the expected and negotiated children, ideally a boy first. Childeric would inherit the title from his father in due course, and the family must continue and flourish.

What she did with her time, outside of producing suitable heirs, was hers to decide. She could consult as she wished, she could keep up her duelling. She could even take a lover if she wished. The betrothal and marriage agreements held the usual sort of terms for that with the relevant charm precautions to avoid children outside of the marriage. A number of women of their class did, and many of the men. She was fairly sure Childeric would not seek out more time with her than required. Thessaly did not intend to be a solitary queen of ice and snow, all alone on some remote pinnacle.

That was a question she could not solve immediately, certainly not today. She knew that the signs of her betrothal had changed some of her relationships with her schoolmates. The actual announcement would change far more. Thessaly couldn’t really make plans until she saw the way things fell out. Insisting on a duelling strategy that didn’t suit the field of play did no one any good.

Instead, she came back to the feel of the land under her feet. This was a landed estate. Since the making of the Pact in 1484, the great work of magic that had split Albion from non-magical Britain, a Fortier had held the land magic at Arundel. Childeric’s father, Lord Clovis, wielded that power visibly. Thessaly had been to a number of the other landed estates since she’d left Schola four years ago. In some places, the land magic was a delicate layer, a tracework of light and life. Here, at Arundel, it was more like a fortress of stone, if one that had a number of decorative elements.

It was certainly different from the house Thessaly had grown up in. That had a reasonable range of protections and enchantments - that was one of Father’s specialties, after all. But it had very little weight of history, this sort of history. It was not a deep well of stored familiar power. Their house in Northumbria had been granted by the Lyttons, Father’s family, on Mama and Father’s marriage. Before that, it had been the home of a few of Father’s spinster great-aunts and a widower uncle, all people who hadn’t wanted to live in the bustle of Trellech, take a townhouse in London, or to live in rooms on one of the established Lytton estates.

There was one more knock, this one wordless, and Thessaly gave herself a last glance in the mirror, then opened the door. Mama stepped back, getting a good look, brushed one spot on the join at the shoulder, making sure it lay perfectly, then nodded. They walked in silence down the stairs of the guest house, where one of the estate’s maids was waiting to show them across to the manor.

She knew little about how this sort of thing went among the non-magical community. Here, the betrothal was an excuse for an excess of magic on display, in every form and shape. Most of that would be far more on display tomorrow and in the days after, but all the signs of it were here now.

The Great Hall was decorated for the week already, delicate draped garlands combining a mix of seasonal flowers enchanted to hold their perfection for days and charm illusions. Thessaly could feel the warding and protective magics even more strongly here, a net that enclosed the space and made the boundaries almost tangible. And she could feel, even if she couldn’t identify, the number of charmed and talismanic jewellery pieces in the room.

Her own clothing offered none of that. While Mama and Father had been thorough in their spending on her dresses, that largesse had not extended to jewellery. Granted, it was not expected for a young unmarried woman to have much of her own. She wore only a string of simple pearls today. Mama had her wedding parure on, naturally.

Thessaly did not have time to stare, and certainly not to gawk. The family - and certain of their key allies - were all present, with the reigning matriarch seated in state at the far end. She was welcomed first by the younger son of the current generation, Childeric’s uncle Dagobert and his wife Laudine. Their son Garin was only nine. He wasn’t in evidence. Of course, he must be up in the nursery or some such, just as Hermia was at home. Hermia was only barely sixteen. She would not be properly out in society for nearly two years more.

Mama and Father moved on, making polite and respectful greetings to the Landrys. Mama gave Magistra Landry every courtesy. There were rumours about what she could do with her magic, and no one with sense wanted to find out the truth themselves. Magistra Landry was dressed well, her gown of silk, but she was not brightly adorned, as the other women were. Instead, she wore a glowing deep blue, not a shade of mourning, but hard to interpret.

Thessaly’s classmates at school had sometimes giggled over the story, how Henut Landry had met a handsome Frenchman in Egypt, where she’d been born. She had gone with him to France, where they had lived a decade or so until he had been killed fighting valiantly at Versailles in the siege in 1870. Magistra Landry had fled Paris through a portal to Albion and come to the Fortiers, calling on an old connection of her husband’s. She had been enceinte then.

Alexander, that child, was enough younger than Thessaly they’d only overlapped at Schola for one year. He’d finish this June, soon to be launched into his own career. Now, he was standing just behind his mother. He was here because he was on holiday for the fortnight, and because he and his brother and mother still lived on the estate part of the time.

Now, Thessaly just inclined her head to him, letting him bow over her hand, and then his older brother, Philip. The other girls might have pined over the romance of his father, but Thessaly had often thought Philip more interesting. He hadn’t gone to Schola at all, and remained more French than of Albion and Britain’s magical community. Though, of course, he’d made all the proper oaths on the Silence and to the Pact.

Philip had a sense of certainty and mystery that were twined, somehow, not at all like the average boy or man of Albion. Some people talked in hushed whispers about how he couldn’t be trusted, he didn’t understand what was suitable for Albion. And others flocked to that sense of difference, like a moth to flame. Philip, for his part, mostly kept at a distance from anyone outside his family. Thessaly had found him interesting to talk to, well-mannered and considerate, and Alexander even more so. Both of them treated her as a person, interesting in her own right, which was not as common as she wished it were.

That, of course, brought her to Childeric’s parents. Lord Clovis and Lady Maylis were both looking splendid, the sort of confidence that came with knowing that everything was as they wished it. They greeted her parents, offering the proper formal welcome to their lands. It was the same as it had been all the times before. This was the welcome made to honoured guests who were not actually family, delineating in a few particular phrases what was and was not permitted.

It meant Thessaly could use her own magics, so long as they were not against one of the family. Likewise, she had free access to the public spaces of the manor. For her comfort, she could draw on the food, drink, and staff in all the ways expected of her class and station. Of course, they’d know if she made use of those, likely nearly as soon as she did.

Thessaly made her little bob and compliment, then Childeric bowed over her hand, playing up the formality before tucking it into his, a rare public touch. She nodded once at Sigbert, Childeric’s younger brother, before needing to keep her feet and her skirts in order as he escorted her to his grandmother’s chair. “Grand-mère, you remember Thessaly Lytton-Powell, of course.” It had been some months, actually, not since the ball the Fortiers had hosted over Solstice week. The other times she’d seen Childeric had been in Trellech, the show of being seen at suppers and the winter’s festivities.

“Lady Chrodechildis. Madam Fortier.” At least Thessaly did not need to navigate the difference in titles here. She could feel the coiling magic, just as she could feel the weight of her dress and where the fabric fell, or Childeric’s hand under hers. The woman before her had been Lady Fortier for forty-five years until the death of her husband some four years ago. She was a rigid pillar of propriety, determined that her husband’s legacy should not be squandered. And so she kept the courtesy title, but with her forename to distinguish her from Lady Maylis, the current Lady Fortier.

Now, Thessaly bobbed a little deeper, making all the little shows of respect she’d been trained in from the time she could walk. The arch of her hands, showing she was not working magic, her lips together but not tense. She could not help her stance. Even in a formal gown and delicate slippers, she persisted in standing like a duellist, ready to move. Fortunately, the skirts hid many things, and that was one of them.

When she raised her eyes just slightly, Thessaly saw the minute nod. Madam Fortier tapped her fan on her wrist. “You may walk in the gardens. We wish to speak with your parents.” Both sets, presumably, the way Madam Fortier said it.

Childeric might have baulked at the order if it had been his parents or his aunt and uncle. He had more sense than to do so here. He simply smiled and gestured. “This way, then. We’ll have a look at the daffodils, shall we?”

As soon as they were away from the others, he lowered his arm. Admittedly keeping hold of it while navigating doorways was awkward. He utterly ignored the rest of the waiting guests.

Admittedly, most of the people present were a generation older, but Thessaly caught sight of Jacinthe Howard and her husband. Jacinthe, Childeric’s cousin, had married Amalric Howard last year. They’d married as soon as she’d finished at Schola and before starting her apprenticeship. Thessaly enjoyed talking to them both, though she’d wondered about the speed of the wedding.

Neither she nor Childeric spoke further until they were outside. It was mild enough she did not need an additional wrap, at least. And, as she suspected, they were heading not simply for the daffodils, but for one of the estate’s cottages. Some people - parents, for example - might have worried they’d go off and do indecent things in private. But no, Childeric wanted to relax with his friends. Never mind that she couldn’t relax, not wearing what she was right now. She waited until they were well away from the house. “Really, Childeric, today?”

Childeric and Sigbert had taken over the vacant cottage without actually asking permission. Over the last year, it had turned into a spot where they could play cards, gamble, and generally not be bothered. It had a significant lack of regular sweeping, comfortable seating in any sort of structured gown, or other amenities. Also, a distinct lack of books.

“If it weren’t for you and your parents arriving, I could have been riding all afternoon,” Childeric said. “Tomorrow, though...”

It wasn’t as if Thessaly was going to win any arguments. “I can’t sit down there, in this frock. There’ll be dust.” Or other things, even less kind to the fabric than dust. If she stayed with him, she’d be cordially ignored by whatever nearby friend had got free for as long as they played.

“Go for a walk, then, if you like. An hour and a half, shall we say? Enough time for a game or two.” By now they were at the cottage, and he swept off without waiting for an answer from her. Thessaly wondered if anyone back in the Great Hall would realise they’d separated. Albion, at least, did not chaperone her daughters as much as Victorian England did. Especially not when, like Thessaly, they were quite capable of defending their own honour. But they did notice who was where, when, and with whom.

What she wanted to do was find the salle and at least work through some drills on her own. That wasn’t an option. It would require an entire change of wardrobe, the sort of cleansing charms that would disarrange her hair, and everyone in the vicinity knowing Childeric had left her alone. She sighed and resigned herself to a slow and stately walk around the orchards. She’d have chosen different shoes, if Childeric had given her any warning of his plans.