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Chapter Text

No one who had ever seen Imogen Temult in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine.

That was, of course, before her hair turned the color of sugared violets.

She was about fifteen when it happened. At first, no one thought anything of it; many fair-haired young ladies looked a bit strawberry blond, or even mauve, depending on the light. When the lavender hue became undeniable, the few young ladies in her small social circle complimented her choice of hair powder, and some even sought to emulate it, pastel tones matching their ball gowns. But soon enough the fashion passed, and the young ladies wondered privately at first, then out loud to one another, whether Miss Temult would ever accept that the fashions had moved on.

Then the whispers began: Imogen Temult’s hair was not powdered, but actually sprouted from her scalp that way. Some wondered if the color had something to do with the late Mrs. Temult, who had been rumored to be a witch. They supposed if you fooled with magicks while you were with child, the Lord would see to it that your sins would be known throughout the land, visited even upon the head of your own children after you were dead.

Of course, no one was so ill-bred as to make such observations to Mr. Temult or his daughter, but the village of Taloned Highlands was rather surprised when Miss Temult came out in society that year. Had the town’s censure moved them not toward modesty, but instead toward flaunting the evidence of Mrs. Temult’s unnatural ways? But the town did not see much more of the Temults that year, for they embarked for London early. And even earlier the next year. And the next year, they spent hardly any time at all on their own estate—their rather unkempt estate, where the stables were larger than the main house—electing instead to visit Scarborough, Bath, London, seemingly anywhere else. Even when the Temults were at home, neither she nor her father went out in society, but were seen only from a distance, riding on some horse or other, and never together.

Imogen had, of course, figured out what her father was up to years ago. Bringing her out in society when she was only fifteen; whisking her round to every watering-hole they could afford to frequent; hinting that a friend had recommended a very fine wig-maker whose work looked entirely natural—her father was trying to marry her off to any young gentleman or lady of the appropriate social standing. Even new money was acceptable to him now. They’d only been in Bath a week, and yet she knew why the master of ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms had introduced Imogen to a banker’s son, a steelman’s daughter, and a merchant’s eldest child.

Yet at one-and-twenty, Imogen had never offered marriage to anyone, nor had she received an offer. Whenever any young person displayed warmth or interest, she was cold and dull on purpose until they gave up. Although she did not enjoy living with her father, at least he was just as determined as she was to keep their secret out of sight.

Imogen.

Run.

///

No one who had ever seen Laudna Briarwood in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine.

Then again, no one had seen Laudna Briarwood in her infancy. At least no one Society knew of.

All Society knew was that shortly after losing her husband, Lady Delilah Briarwood of Whitestone Hall had adopted a ward: a pale, bony thing fresh out of a girls’ school. Surely it was a testament to Lady Briarwood’s Christian character, to rescue this delicate creature from her certain fate as a governess. Now the girl, who called herself Laudna, had only the cheerful duty of serving as companion to her widowed benefactress.

Perhaps it was odd that Lady Briarwood and Miss Laudna Briarwood still went about in full mourning four years after the death of Lord Silas Briarwood. At no time were the older lady and the younger seen devoid of black lace, black muslin, black crepe-de-chine, black silk organza, or black wool—relieved, occasionally, by purple or gray trimming. But no one is without foibles, and if Lady Briarwood’s only flaw was an extremity of devotion to her late husband, certainly Society could forgive her.

After all, it was undeniable from looking at Miss Briarwood, that she was not well. Her cheeks had no bloom, and her hair lacked shine. If Lady Briarwood not only looked after this girl so closely, but took time from her abundant social engagements in London to take her ward to partake of Bath’s curative waters—who could find it within themselves to breath a word against Her Ladyship?

///

The stables at the rented house in Bath were much more cramped than those at Gelvaan, their residence in the Taloned Highlands. The city had much less space for horses, and still less patience for genteel young folk who spent their time with the creatures. But Imogen didn’t mind the close quarters. She was happy to be as near as possible to the two carriage-horses while she ran the curry-comb down the coats of the two mares.

Amid the endless tedium of parlors and ballrooms, no place in Bath calmed Imogen like the stables. Away from the constant noise of human minds that the city leached into Imogen’s mind, the sounds and smells of a horse’s stall were heaven: sweet hay, musty horse-sweat, soft breathing, blessedly wordless nickering. Her mind was quiet.

In that quiet, Imogen knew her father was there before she heard his footsteps. She heard his thoughts, the sharp buzz of worry that followed him everywhere. But still, she kept brushing Blythe the chestnut without acknowledging him. It was one of the many games they played. She pretended she could not hear his thoughts, and he pretended he didn’t know she did.

Finally, Relvin Temult said, “Imogen,” and Imogen lowered the brush and half-turned around. She kept one purple lightning-scarred hand on Blythe’s smooth hide.

Relvin continued, “You know we are expected in the Lower Rooms tonight.”

Another game: how long before her stopped hinting and made an outright demand? Sometimes Imogen conformed to his requests without fighting; occasionally she forced him to demand. Today she was cross at the interruption in the stables, so she said: “Who could be expecting us? I thought no one of our acquaintance was yet in Bath.”

“I believe Lord and Lady Faramore arrived last week.”

Lord Faramore was the nearest peer to Gelvaan, and seeing as he and Lady Faramore’s children were already married, Imogen knew that his presence held little value for her father. But she could hardly say so, so she switched tactics. “Last time I danced at the Assembly Rooms, I tore my blue muslin. I thought I told you.”

“I remember. But that was why we missed last week. I thought you would have mended the tear by now.” Relvin’s anxious buzz was rising in pitch. Imogen tried to block out the words, but she caught a few despite herself: “I hate” and “Damned nuisance, these balls.”  But her father was right: two weeks was more than enough time to mend the tear, and she had done it. Her mind ran through the usual stock of excuses. Nervous headache? Twisted ankle?  Spoiled gloves?

 Emboldened by her silence, Relvin added: “I saw in the papers that Miss Kirke wore a turban to the theater. I believe more young people are adding headwear, when they are in evening dress. If you have any extra fabric.”

Imogen fidgeted with the currycomb and refrained from observing that her mother’s purple hair had not stopped her from finding a spouse. “We can go to the Lower Rooms tonight,” she said. “But I shall wear my hair out.”

He nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave.

“And Father?”

Relvin paused in the stable doorway.

Imogen held up the currycomb, showing him the lavender lightning that arced its way up her forearms. He flinched at the sight of it, as he always did whenever Imogen drew attention to her differences. She never brought up his thoughts in her head, her dreams of a red storm, or her mother, unless—like now—she wanted to put him on edge.

“I’ll need a new pair of gloves soon,” said Imogen. “My satin ones don’t cover my marks like they used to.”

///

“What shall I wear to the Assembly Rooms tonight, Pâté? Black… or black?”

Laudna giggled at her own joke and poked her fingers through the bars of her pet rat’s golden cage. Well, Laudna liked to pretend it was golden. It was really brass. Either way, Pâté didn’t seem to mind. He let Laudna scratch his dark fur and made a noise Laudna decided to interpret as the rat sharing her amusement. She stood up and rummaged through her trunk, pulling out a pair of black silk stockings and a black silk dress with a fringed hem.

 Laudna’s limited choice of colors was, in part, due to Lady Briarwood’s obsession with her dead husband, which—as Laudna had confided to Pâté —grew quite morbid at times. She often heard strange wailing sounds coming from her patron’s chambers. Occasionally, Laudna was asked if all the black got hot during the summer, or if she thought green might be more flattering for her complexion.

But the truth was, even if Laudna had not been part of a household in mourning, she would not opt for the rose and powder-blue tones of her contemporaries. She enjoyed standing out, a moth among butterflies, a crow among parakeets. Her conspicuousness made the wrong sort of people avoid her, and even if it hadn’t yet attracted the right sort of people—which, at this point, was just someone who didn’t mind that she had a pet rat—Laudna wasn’t going to give up faith yet.

Perhaps most importantly, mourning dress matched the black ichor that dripped from Laudna’s eyes and hands whenever she tested out her magic in secret. As a little girl, she sometimes dripped when she felt threatened, but after the third exorcism she forced herself to learn to control her powers. Everyone took the lack of freakish ooze as evidence of a demon cast out. But Laudna knew that whatever the matter with her was had only gotten stronger, even more so since she’d lived with Lady Briarwood.

“Laudna, my dear,” said Lady Briarwood when they were in the carriage on the way to the Assembly Rooms. “My feather seems to have come loose. Would you mind terribly?”

Laudna peered at her patron’s hair: the black ostrich plume on Lady Briarwood’s headdress was indeed sagging a bit from the comb to which it was attached. Lady Briarwood could have had her maid fix it, of course, but Laudna knew a test when she met one.

So she checked that the carriage curtains were drawn. “Hold still, if you please,” she said, and drew her fingers across the feather and comb, muttering under her breath. In a puff of inky smoke, the headdress was good as new.

Lady Briarwood slid the comb from her hair and examined Laudna’s handiwork. “Very good, my dear. You’re improving.”

“You’re very kind,” said Laudna. Privately she wished Lady Briarwood would wear an ornament of Laudna’s own creation instead—for Christmas, she had labored over a brooch to fasten a turban with, setting the beads of a broken jet necklace into the shape of a skull. But her guardian had not yet worn the brooch except to dine in their own house. Of course, Laudna could not reproach Lady Briarwood for this, when she had not only taken Laudna in, but also nourished Laudna’s arcane practice when magic was so frowned upon.

When they arrived at the Assembly Rooms, Laudna scrambled from the carriage and helped Lady Briarwood down the carriage steps, as she usually did—the lady’s long trains meant her gown required extra maneuvering. The night was warm, which gave Laudna the perfect excuse to unfurl the fan she had painted with a fanciful image of a rat with a naked raven skull for a head. Pâté had loved the fan, and even if it was not fashionable, she hoped that there were enough appreciators of the picturesque in the Assembly Room for her work to receive some admiration.

Admirers were never wanting when Lady Briarwood was in the room, and although they paid Laudna little attention, Laudna was amused to watch their efforts to convince the lady to dance.

“I fear I haven’t the heart to, Mr. Jamison.” Lady Briarwood shook her head and put a hand to the cameo bracelet that bore the image of her late husband. “I swore that I shall never dance with another till I dance with my Sylas in the life beyond this one. May I offer a substitute, in the person of my ward? Laudna is a very energetic dancer, and I am sure she is a most willing partner.”

In this way, Laudna’s dance card gained several names, and though most of her partners winced at her oddly clammy touch, Laudna enjoyed the dances and reels too much to care. Crystal chandeliers scattered the light of hundreds of candles onto pillars, cravats, shawls, wineglasses. The floorboards thumped in time to the lively string quartet. Spinning in the grand ballroom, Laudna was a planet in a perfect solar system, a tree in a shining forest. She felt altogether alive.

It was thus that Imogen beheld Laudna for the first time: a whirl of midnight skirts and thoughts that rang like carillon bells above the din of Society.

Chapter Text

Imogen had never heard thoughts like the ones of the black-clad girl in the middle of the dance floor.

Just like any ballroom, the Assembly Rooms swarmed with mental energy. To Imogen, it sounded like an orchestra made up only of percussionists, each of whom played in a different time signature. She’d known to expect the noise, the pressure that would build into a migraine when she got home, but expecting the pain barely took off the edge as she and her father sidled through the crowd.

“I believe I might see Mr. Grant, whom you danced with the other night.” Relvin pointed to a young man whose back was turned to them.

“No, Mr. Grant had longer hair.”

Relvin sighed. “Well, if we cannot find anyone we know, perhaps we should try to find Sir Bertrand.”

Sir Bertrand Bell, the self-appointed master of ceremonies of the Assembly Rooms, prided himself on his knack for matching unpartnered young ladies and gentlefolk. Imogen tried not to rely on Bell’s services too much—his strong presence (mental and otherwise) combined with the room’s noise (mental and otherwise) could quite overwhelm her when she wasn’t prepared. But she’d had good luck in the past hovering helplessly near Sir Bertrand until he paired her off with someone. So she nodded and stood on her tiptoes to scan the crowd for the gentleman.

In the center of the room, a country dance had begun. Imogen tried to look past the interweaving figures, and as she did so, she caught something that almost sounded like a strain of music. Yet the notes did not match the string quartet’s. It took her a moment to realize that she was not hearing something out loud, but someone’s thoughts rising from the dance floor.

There it was again—a clear melodic timbre of thought. Imogen craned her neck to get a better look at the dancers. It was definitely one of them, but who? The dancers switched partners, skipped, turned, and switched back. But as soon as Imogen saw the girl in black, Imogen knew this girl’s mind was the melody.

Imogen took a deep breath, steeled herself, and allowed her mental walls to inch lower while keeping her eyes trained on the girl, opening herself to the surface thoughts. The line of dancers carried the girl closer to the Temults, so that the fringed hem of the black skirt nearly caught the sky-blue muslin over Imogen’s ankles, and breathless, Imogen listened:

God, I love dancing! . . . How old-fashioned Sir Bertrand’s powdered wig looks . . . I shall need to catch my breath after this . . . I wish Pâté were here. . . Is that girl staring at me?

Black eyes met Imogen’s, and a polite smile flashed across the pale, drawn face before the tumult of dancers swallowed her again.

Imogen was faintly disappointed. The girl’s thoughts had been quite unremarkable. Then Imogen was ashamed. Why had she broken her strict “no eavesdropping” code? But as the dance ended and the partners bowed to each other, Imogen grew curious. Unremarkable thoughts, yes, but with a pitch and rhythm that could not have been more remarkable. Who was she?

“Imogen,” said her father. “Do you see Sir Bertrand, beside that column to your right?”

Imogen whipped around to face her father. Relvin started at her abruptness, but Imogen was thinking too fast to bother with his peace of mind. She thanked him and set off toward Bertrand Bell, all the while keeping an eye out for the movement of a black-fringed gown.

Sir Bertrand was, as usual, ensconced in a knot would-be dancers, but Imogen was not going to let that stop her getting an introduction to the girl in black.

“So then I said, ‘En garde!’ and slashed the tails right off the knave’s coat!” Sir Bertrand made a swashbuckling gesture with an imaginary sword, then tapped the ornamental rapier at his side. But as his audience laughed at the anecdote, Imogen—in her determination—took the tiniest peek into his mind, barely parting the curtain:

It’s damned hot in here. It’s always damned hot in here. Why did I wear a velvet waistcoat? The starch is going to melt off my damned collar…

“Bravo, Sir Bertrand!” Imogen maneuvered herself into the admiring circle and affected a round of applause.

“Ah, Miss Temult!” He laughed and shook his finger at her. “You were not even here for the best part.”

“I had not the pleasure.” Imogen smiled. “But I have had very similar pleasures practically every time I have encountered you here. Only last time, I believe you only slashed one of the tails off your opponent’s tailcoat.”

His audience found this very funny, and Bell himself laughed no less delightedly. It was the perfect moment to observe that the room was quite warm, and to mention she was thinking of passing by a table for some punch. Would Sir Bertrand like a glass? She had two hands, after all.

In this way, Imogen secured her target, and, upon returning, made sure Sir Bertrand’s mouth was safely engaged in drinking—the one way to keep him from talking—before she remarked:

“I think, sir, I saw a young lady about my own age among the dancers earlier, who was in mourning dress. Has there been a recent death of note in the community, for which my father and I should offer our condolences?”

Having just taken a sip of punch, Sir Bertrand chuckled, causing his cheeks to bulge like a bullfrog. He swallowed and coughed delicately. “Ahem. I see you have taken note of Miss Briarwood, then, Bath’s merriest mourner. No, there has been no recent death. Have you heard of Lady Briarwood, of Whitestone Hall in Oxfordshire?”

Imogen had not.

“Her husband, the Lord Sylas Briarwood, died nearly four years ago now. They say—” Bell lowered his voice— “Her Ladyship went quite mad with grief. Of course she is very respectable, and handsome too, if you’ll pardon my saying so—but Lady Briarwood has sworn she shall never remarry, and although she has begun to reappear in society, she and her ward still wear mourning dress everywhere.

“Miss Briarwood herself, she’s a bit of a wild one. Her Christian name is Laudna—after the medicine laudanum, I suppose. After Lord Sylas died, Lady Briarwood dug that one out of an orphanage and only brought her out in society after she was of age.”

“How curious.” Imogen tried not to sound too interested. “Miss Briarwood seems a spirited dancer, does she not?”

“Lord, yes. Sober in her dress, certainly, but she’s got a pep in her step. Come to think of it, Miss Temult, she strikes me as an excellent match for you. You’re a horsewoman, are you not? Then you must have the constitution to keep up with her. There’s a scotch reel coming up. Why don’t I introduce you?”

“Sir Bertrand, what an excellent idea!”

Sir Bertrand polished off his drink and took Imogen’s elbow, steering her around the edge of the dance floor. He paused to leave his empty glass on a group of strangers’ table, but they did not seem to mind. Imogen let him lead her as she went over what she had just heard. A tragic guardian, a mysterious past, a strange name—Laudna Briarwood was straight out of a Gothic novel. Then again, Sir Bertrand did love to exaggerate and embellish. Either way, Imogen was more eager than ever to meet Miss Briarwood.

///

After the country dance, Laudna found her way back to her guardian, who had set up at a smaller table beside a mirror. Lady Briarwood smiled, patted Laudna’s hand as she sat down, and passed her a glass of champagne. Laudna took a small sip—she did not hold her liquor very well—and opened her fan. Although she herself hardly ever sweated, most young people used their fans after dancing, making now the perfect excuse for Laudna to display her art to the world. Lady Briarwood asked her about the last dance, and Laudna had begun to answer when a loud throat-clearing and a booming voice behind her made her jump.

“Lady Briarwood! How kind of you to grace the Assembly Rooms with your presence again. I am very glad to see you more frequently about town. No—pray keep your seat, my lady.”

Laudna got to her feet as the widow coldly greeted Sir Bertrand Bell. Laudna understood her guardian disliked Sir Bertrand, as he could be abrasive compared to Lady Briarwood’s more reserved charm. But Laudna liked the old bachelor anyway; she could never see his silver pigtail and plum-colored suit without a smile.

“Miss Briarwood, how do you do?” said Sir Bertrand. “Judging by how lively your dancing is tonight, it seems the waters of Bath have done you good.”

“They have indeed, sir.” Laudna returned his bow and fluttered her fan, waiting for him to notice it. She was not disappointed: Sir Bertrand’s eyes widened, and he barked out a laugh.

“Upon my word, Miss Briarwood! What a curiously painted fan. Did you get it abroad? I believe I saw similar articles when I was in Italy and Spain with the Navy—those glum monks with their memento mori’s!”

Laudna blinked modestly. “Oh no, sir, I have never been abroad. I painted this myself.”

“Painted it yourself!” Sir Bertrand laughed again. “I’m quite impressed with the, er, chiaroscuro you have evoked. See, Miss Temult—did I not tell you what a singular young lady Miss Briarwood is?”

Laudna hadn’t noticed the young woman standing slightly behind Sir Bertrand, but as the gentleman moved aside to make room for her to join the conversation, Laudna recognized the freckled girl whose stare had caused her to miss a step in the previous dance. From a distance, Laudna had thought her hair pomaded and powdered white: up close, it was a lovely shade of lilac. Laudna admired the bold choice. She had seen portraits from the 1790s of young ladies with rose-colored hair, and she thought it was about time someone started the trend again.

Sir Bertrand cleared his throat again and drew himself up, as he always did when fulfilling his vocation of making introductions. “Lady Briarwood, Miss Briarwood, may I present to you Miss Imogen Temult, of—” He deflated slightly. “Miss Temult, would you be so good as to remind me—”

“Gelvaan House, in the Taloned Highlands.” Imogen Temult had a soft voice with an unmistakable country lilt. She curtsied.

“Yes, that’s right, the Taloned Highlands. Miss Temult, Lady Briarwood and Miss Laudna Briarwood, of Whitestone Hall in Oxfordshire.”

Laudna extended a bony hand to Miss Temult. “Charmed.” She watched carefully as Miss Temult shook her hand, and was surprised to note that the other young woman did not appear to react to her cold grip. Perhaps this was due to Miss Temult’s gloves.

“Delighted.” Lady Briarwood inclined her head. “How pretty you are, Miss Temult.”

Miss Temult accepted the compliment with a distracted nod and turned back to Sir Bertrand. The gentleman exchanged glances with her before addressing Laudna:

“Miss Temult has only just arrived, and has not yet had the opportunity of finding a dance partner. Are you still unpartnered for the scotch reel, Miss Briarwood?”

As if on cue, the quartet began tuning their instruments, and couples began making their way again to the ballroom’s center. Laudna checked her dance card and confirmed she was free, and before she knew it, Sir Bertrand had joined her hand with Miss Temult’s and sent them off to join the group. As they jostled for a place in the line of dancers, Miss Temult asked: “Would you like to lead, or shall I?”

“Oh! I think you had better lead, if you don’t mind. I don’t know the scotch reel very well. I usually get muddled and end up making things up, and I would hate to muddle us both.”

Miss Temult laughed. “All right. By the way, I think your fan is splendid.”

“Do you!” Laudna peered at her partner, trying to figure out if she was making fun.

“Of course. I think it’s wonderful that no-one else has anything like it. Did you copy the skull from a picture?”

“Oh, no. My guardian has a whole collection of bones and things, and she lets me take them out to draw whenever I like.”

Miss Temult laughed again—not mean-spiritedly or mockingly, but delightedly, as if she couldn’t believe her luck in talking to someone who painted bones. Even if Miss Temult was making fun, Laudna decided, she did not particularly care so long as Miss Temult continued to show interest in her artwork. Embolded, Laudna went on: “The rat himself was a live model. His name is Pâté, and he’s my pet.”

 “A pet rat! So you like live animals just as much as dead ones, then?”

“Who does not?”

Miss Temult shrugged. “Well, I must often stop the stablehands from killing mice and rats they find in the stables—unless the creatures are injured or ill, and it would be a mercy.”

“So you don’t think it’s silly, or strange, that I have a rat?”

“Perhaps strange—but not silly. I have heard rats can be quite intelligent.”

“Pâté certainly is,” Laudna assured her. “Sometimes I could swear he can understand what I’m saying.”

“I often feel that way about our horses,” Miss Temult began, but she was cut off by a swell of music. She and Laudna hurriedly took their places in the line. The reel had a bit too much bouncing to permit conversation, but Laudna did learn that Miss Temult’s father kept horses, and even when travelling, Miss Temult insisted on seeing to the horses herself as far as it was possible. Laudna longed to hear more about horses, as she had not had much opportunity to observe them while she was at the girls’ school. Their conversation resumed after the dance was over, and Laudna was pleased to find Miss Temult as eager to offer information as to listen to it. Laudna was so wrapped up in hearing about Miss Temult’s own riding horse, a mare named Flora, that she scarcely paid attention to where she was following her partner, and ended up seated for tea with a taciturn man who turned out to be Miss Temult’s father. Miss Temult seemed quite comfortable ignoring him, as she poured tea for the table, and asked Laudna if Lady Briarwood kept many riding horses in Oxfordshire?

“I do not know,” said Laudna. “I have never been to her country estate.”

Miss Temult looked surprised for a moment, but her face soon resumed a polite neutrality, and she did not press the matter. Laudna so appreciated the lack of nosiness that she felt obliged to continue.

“It is a bit odd, is it not? I have been her ward for four years, yet I have only been at Lady Briarwood’s London residence, her lodgings in Bath and Scarborough, and the estates of her friends. The truth is, I believe that Lady Briarwood adopted me after her husband died to have someone else to look after, to distract from her grief. And I think she feels that to return to where it happened would open the wound again.”

“It is very difficult to lose one’s spouse,” said Miss Temult. “My father is a widower himself.”

“Are you, sir? I am very sorry. I do not remember a thing about my parents myself.” Laudna picked up her teacup and let out a giggle—she knew it was inappropriate, but she couldn’t stop herself. To her surprise, Miss Temult did not look embarrassed, but bit back a smile herself.

“It is rather funny, talking about death among all this.” With a sweep of her hand, Miss Temult indicated the shining, bustling room. “And all before I have paid you the proper attentions of a partner here!”

“And what are those?” said Laudna. “You’ve very kindly poured the tea already.”

Miss Temult smiled archly. “I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether.”

Laudna put her teacup down quickly so as not to spill and scald herself in her merriment. “You are correct, Miss Temult; in all our talk of rats and horses and mortality, you have been very negligent. However, I am now at leisure to answer you in these particulars, if you are as well.”

Miss Temult nodded, mock-seriously, and cleared her throat. “Ahem. How long have you been in Bath, madam?”

The effect was so like Sir Bertrand that Laudna had to fight to keep a straight face. “About a fortnight, madam.”

“Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”

“Yes, I was there last Monday.”

“Have you been to the theatre?”

“Yes, I was at the play on Tuesday.”

“To the concert?”

“Yes, on Wednesday.”

“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”

“Yes—I like it very well.”

“Ahem. Upon my word, Miss Briarwood, remarkable!”

As Laudna dissolved into laughter, Miss Temult’s hearty masculine air dissolved as well. They were so noisy that they drew the stares of several neighboring tables, and Mr. Temult shifted in his chair.

“God!” exclaimed Laudna, despite knowing such language was not ladylike. “I shall wake up sore tomorrow, with all you’re making my sides ache, Miss Temult.”

“Imogen,” said Miss Temult, and her lavender gaze was so earnest that Laudna, without thinking, repeated her name:

“Imogen. Oh—then I suppose you must call me Laudna.”

“Laudna,” said Imogen. “Pardon my boldness, but I do prefer to use friends’ Christian names. Please do not give Pâté a poor report of me and my impudence.”

“I shouldn’t have to, if he could meet you at your earliest convenience, and form his own opinion.”

Imogen agreed this was an excellent idea.

///

Sir Bertrand saw Miss Temult and Miss Briarwood leave the ballroom arm in arm, with Mr. Temult and Lady Briarwood in conversation behind them. That night in his chambers, he treated himself to an extra snifter of brandy and posed with it in front of his mirror. Despite his age, he made a distinguished figure still, if he did say so himself. He raised the glass and muttered:

“To a match well made. You old fox, you ought introduce the strange ones to one another more often.”

Chapter Text

The progress of the friendship between Imogen and Laudna was quick as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every gradation of increasing affection that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their acquaintanceship or themselves. Bath was quick to notice that the two oddballs called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.

Laudna had a penchant for anything macabre, and owned the whole of Mrs. Radcliffe’s authorship. Imogen read the novels to please her, and even enjoyed them, although her own taste inclined more in the direction of Mrs. Burney, whose plots free of magic served as an escape from Imogen’s own secrets.

For despite their growing friendship, neither young lady had yet confided her secret to the other. If Imogen noticed Laudna unwilling to talk about her past, she supposed it was only natural for an orphan not to dwell on painful experiences; and if Laudna often wondered why such a pretty, engaging young woman as Imogen had so few friends, she did not wonder too long, having given up long ago on understanding the ways of Society.

Mr. Temult did all he could to encourage the friendship, and Lady Briarwood did not seem inclined to prevent it. So when six weeks had passed, and the Briarwoods made ready to return to their London residence, no-one was surprised when Imogen Temult went with them. Imogen wondered who was more relieved, herself or her father, as the Briarwoods’ carriage pulled away early one morning with Imogen’s trunk atop and Imogen within.

“If you are much fatigued by our early start, Miss Temult,” said Lady Briarwood, “please do not hesitate to rest your eyes. As Laudna knows, I am a very placid traveler, and I shall not take offense.”

Laudna assured Imogen this was true and leaned over the small wicker cage in her lap. “Pâté shall be quiet as well, won’t you, you silly animal?”

The rat responded with a squeak and a scrabbling. Laudna laughed in her hiccoughing way. “Pâté, you mustn’t make such noise while Imogen sleeps.”

“I’m quite awake,” Imogen protested, but as the carriage rattled away from Bath and onto the turnpike, she found her body relaxing. Even at dawn, snatches of thought-noise caught at Imogen as they drove through the town, but out on the road, Imogen’s head cleared. Instead, Laudna’s thoughts sang over the muted ostinato of Lady Briarwood’s maid and footmen perched on the outside of the coach. With only these rhythms for a mental backdrop, it was no wonder that Imogen began to doze.

In fact, when Imogen started awake, it was not because of the noise, but rather the strange lack of it. Imogen did not mean to open up her mind. But her guard slipped with her alertness. As a bit more mental sound flooded in, she realized that although there were two other women inside the coach, Imogen could only hear Laudna’s thoughts.  Nary a murmur escaped the confines of Lady Briarwood’s widow’s cap. Imogen had never heard—or rather, not heard—anything like it.

She did her best not to stare at Lady Briarwood, but she could hardly help it. Imogen had already known the lady was formidable; everyone knew that after five minutes’ acquaintance with her. And in Imogen’s experience, some people did have quieter thoughts than others. Long-suffering, downtrodden folk who hardly recognized themselves sometimes had whispering thoughts. Occasionally, an especially skillful fortune-hunter might have mastered their performance such that their mind was quiet with confidence. But never had Imogen detected no thoughts whatsoever.

She was tempted to delve into Lady Briarwood’s mind without warning, but she knew there was nothing to be gained by such a betrayal of trust. Perhaps Lady Briarwood’s aplomb extended within as well as without. Perhaps she had mastered meditative practices, contemplation like the clerics Julian of Norwich or St. Teresa of Avila, until her mind had ascended to the divine.

Or—the realization hit Imogen with a jolt—perhaps Lady Briarwood was a magic user, of the same sort as herself. Or as her mother, Liliana Temult.

Perhaps Lady Briarwood knew of Liliana. Knew Liliana.

It was a remote possibility, Imogen chided herself. She had jumped to half a dozen conclusions in as many seconds. But it was a possibility nonetheless. And with that glimpse of a chance to find her mother, a longing welled up inside Imogen, a longing she had not allowed herself to feel for years. What if she did find her? What if Imogen could hear that voice say something other than Run? She shivered.

“Imogen,” said Laudna, “are you cold? Would you like my tippet?”

“No, my dear.” Lady Briarwood shook her head at Laudna. “You shall take cold yourself. Miss Temult should wear my shawl instead.”

Imogen insisted she was not cold and hazarded a glance at Lady Briarwood. The lady’s acid-green eyes were alert and lively. Surely her muted mind was not of the downtrodden sort.

The day passed pleasantly enough, with few delays, so that they arrived at their coaching inn by the early evening to change horses, eat supper, and rest. Their suite had two bedrooms, and though Lady Briarwood offered Imogen a room of her own, Imogen felt it would not be proper to accept. Certainly if Imogen had taken a room to herself, she wouldn’t need to worry about her nightmares awaking Laudna; but it would appear monstrously selfish for a young unmarried woman to take the room from an older widow. When Imogen demurred, Laudna’s face lit up, and Imogen thought perhaps her friend’s cheerful presence would scare away her nightmares.

Imogen and Laudna’s room had two smaller beds, instead of the one larger bed that was usual for such establishments. As relieved as Imogen was—now she was less likely to wake Laudna—she couldn’t help but smirk at the careful modesty of the situation. Unmarried people of the same gender might travel together without impropriety, but heaven forbid they share a bed! Society’s rules were rather inconsistent when it came to couples whose dalliances would not result in offspring and thus would not compromise an inheritance.

The night brought no terrors for Imogen; nor did the next night at the next inn. Already they were almost at London, and Laudna told Imogen she was certain they would reach Briarwood House by nightfall. There, Imogen knew she would have her own room, and there was little danger of waking Laudna with her nightmares there. She was relieved that she had managed to get through the journey with her secret intact.

But her relief did not last, for around mid-morning, the air grew muggy; charcoal clouds overtook the coach; and by noon, rain had ruined the road so that it resembled molasses. The coachman had no choice but to slow the horses to a crawl, and still that did not help, for a few hours later, the carriage became stuck and would not budge.

Imogen, Laudna, and Lady Briarwood were obliged to disembark to lighten the carriage. Rain poured off their bonnets and soaked their clothes.

“This is exciting, isn’t it?” said Laudna. She was getting wetter than all of them, for she insisted on using most of her cloak to shield Pâté from the rain. But although her stringy black hair was plastered to her forehead and her shoes sunk into the mire, her smile only widened. “Perhaps someone will come along to rescue us.”

“I think there is little chance of that, my dear.” Lady Briarwood tightened her black-gloved grip on her carpetbag. Her green gaze had latched onto the coachman, two footmen, and maid who were tugging at the horses and pushing the carriage from behind, with little success. She was clearly impatience, yet Imogen detected none of the agitation she usually picked up from people under stress. The mental silence was still eerie.

Rain pounded. The servants groaned with effort, and the horses strained and shuddered. After a few minutes, Imogen shoved her reticule at Laudna, hiked up her skirts, and trekked over to the horses. The coachman caught sight of her and sighed.

“Please, ma’am. We’re doing all we can.”

“I haven’t come to scold you.” Imogen stepped up next to him and took the lead horse’s bridle, running her hands over its nose. She murmured to the horses to calm them down, and as she did, she noticed that they were straining unevenly. From this angle, she could see it was mainly the back right wheel that was stuck—the others were turning, however gradually.

She could not pick up the whole coach with her telekinetic abilities—it was far too heavy. But if only she could displace the mud around just that wheel—

“I need you to let me try something,” Imogen told the coachman.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am—”

“I need everyone except you and I to go to the back and lift the carriage up instead of pushing it forward and down. On my signal, we shall drive the horses forward.”

“That’s what we’ve been doing, ma’am.”

“Sir, I’m very good with horses.”

“Do as she says, Otham,” called Lady Briarwood.

Imogen turned toward the widow, and even through the curtains of rain, those bright green eyes ate at her with curiosity almost like hunger.

“Good luck, Imogen!” shouted Laudna.

Imogen positioned herself on the right so she had a clear line of sight to the wheel she needed, but was hidden from the footmen and maid at the back. “Keep an eye on the bay,” she told the coachman, hoping to distract him somewhat from her. “He seems a bit jumpy still.”

“That he is.” The coachman nodded grudgingly.

“On my signal.” Imogen tensed herself, readying her hand over the horse’s rump. “Ready—”

She closed her eyes, gathering all the force of her sorcery, feeling it prickle along the lightning scars under her sleeves.

“Now!”

With one hand, she slapped the horse’s haunches. She whipped her other arm at the mud in the carriage wheel. In a blink of purple, teakettle-sized clumps of clay blasted from the wheels. The carriage lurched forward. The horses hurtled along, spraying mud with their hooves. Now, at last, the carriage was free.

As the coachman whoa-ed the horses and the footmen whooped, Imogen picked up her soiled skirts and made her way back to Laudna, who danced back and forth.

“Imogen, that was splendid!” she gasped. “Oh, if I weren’t holding Pâté right now, I should embrace you!”

“Very impressive indeed, Miss Temult.” Lady Briarwood inclined her head to Imogen. “I wondered if you had something up your sleeves.”

Involuntarily, Imogen clutched at her forearms. Surely Lady Briarwood had not meant her literal sleeves. But the lady’s gaze was still exacting and her mind silent, and again, Imogen could not help but wonder what Lady Briarwood knew.

///

The Briarwood carriage stopped at the nearest inn. With the rain, they would not reach Briarwood House until the morrow, so why make themselves and the horses miserable by pushing on?

Laudna was not upset. Traveling with Imogen was quite pleasant, and it was much more exciting than making social calls in London. The damp did not bother her too much, either. She could magically clean and dry their clothes easily enough—and she did so while Lady Briarwood and Imogen were distracted searching for brandy among their luggage.

Lady Briarwood retired to her room early, pleading a headache, so Imogen and Laudna spent a cozy afternoon by the fire taking turns reading aloud from The Mysteries of Udolpho. Laudna delighted in performing different voices for each character, and Imogen seemed to enjoy them just as much. They read until the light was gone.

“I am certain,” Laudna said, when they had changed into their nightgowns, “that I shall have horrid dreams of the skeleton behind the black veil.” She grinned at Imogen, who was brushing her hair by the light of the one candle they had left lit.

Imogen said drily, “You do not seem too distressed by that possibility.”

“Why should I be? It’s not really frightening, after all—it’s the fun sort of frightening. Besides, the girls at school used to say I looked like a skeleton. So it would not be so bad to have some company.”

Laudna broke off. Had she said too much? Imogen put down the hairbrush and said, “You don’t look like a skeleton, Laud, but if you dream of skeletons, you must tell me.”

“But I should hate to wake you.”

Imogen said, “I can’t sleep when it’s stormy, anyway.”

///

The pastures of Gelvaan trembled, each blade of grass quivering. Beyond their fences, a groundswell of grassland met the red sky.

Shit, thought dream-Imogen.

The wind picked up, as it always did, throbbing clouds racing, grasses rippling.

Imogen, said the woman’s voice.

I know, thought Imogen.

Imogen, run.

Fat raindrops pelted the pasture. They bent the stalks of plant life, spotted Imogen’s gown. She sighed, bunched her skirt in one fist—

Run.

“I was about to.” She knew she sounded sulky, but it was difficult to care. She broke into a stride, then a sprint, pushing herself forward, testing the limits of her dream-balance.

The rain drove her onward. The clouds rumbled and spun, herding her like a sheepdog toward the silhouette of Gelvaan House. Imogen ran, as she’d done in every dream before, taking gulps of the iron-scented air, until she reached the farmhouse—but just as the soles of her boots thudded on the porch steps, she stopped and turned around.

The storm was closing in. All those tattered, furious clouds.

But what if Imogen hadn’t run?

In her waking life that day, she had weathered a storm and come out the victor.

Thunder boomed. Imogen gasped and jumped backwards, onto the safety of the porch—

///

A strangled cry from the other side of the room. Laudna’s eyes flew open.

Had she imagined the sound? No—she could hear Imogen shuddering and gasping.

Oh, God. It was her fault. Imogen had had a nightmare, and all because Laudna had insisted on reading Udolpho right before bed.

“Damn me,” she muttered. She sat upright and whispered loudly, “Imogen!”

The other girl’s breath caught, but there was no response. With Laudna’s keen darkvision, she could see Imogen bent double and shivering.

“Imogen, did you have skeleton nightmares? God, I’m sorry. It’s all right, I’m here.” As she spoke, Laudna felt around on the nightstand, struck a match, and lit the candle—although she didn’t need it, she thought perhaps Imogen might find the light comforting. As the small flame guttered to life, her friend’s form appeared again, her lavender head clutched in bared forearms.

Imogen’s nightgown had bunched up above the elbows. Scars branched across Imogen’s hands and forearms like lightning. Laudna stared.

Imogen’s head lifted. Her eyes shone like an animal’s. She flinched and threw a blanket across her shoulders.

“Please forgive me. I did not mean for you to—to see me like this.”

Laudna swung her legs over the side of the bed. “No, Imogen, you must forgive me. It was I who made you read such horrid things right before bed. Of course you had a bad dream. Would you like to talk about it?”

Imogen half-laughed, half-choked, and shook her head. “It’s not about that.”

“Is it about your mother, then?”

Imogen started violently. Her eyes grew wilder. “Is it—oh God—how much do you know? How long have you—”

Laudna placed the candle down and rushed to sit on Imogen’s bed. “Goodness, I only meant that—you see, at the girls’ school, many of us were orphans, and most nights somebody would cry about it. You see I am quite used to all this. You told me, remember, the first night we met, that your mother was dead.”

The wild eyes squeezed shut.

“She’s—not dead?” Tentatively, Laudna reached out and took her friend’s hand. The blanket slipped, and this close, Laudna saw the raised lightning scars again. They were lavender, the same hue as Imogen’s hair.

Imogen opened her eyes and saw what Laudna had noticed. She took a deep, shuddery breath and cursed.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I do not know if she is dead. But I have these dreams.”

She withdrew back under the blanket.

“You needn’t be bashful about your scars,” said Laudna, as gently as possible. “I’ve got a scar, too. Would you like to see?”

Imogen raised her eyes again. Laudna drew aside the neck of her dressing-gown to show Imogen the blackened remnant of a stab wound over her heart. She watched, almost pleased, as an expression of fascinated horror stole across Imogen’s face, just like when she listened to Laudna reading Udolpho.

“You see,” said Laudna, “I can tell your scars are magic. Aren’t they? I know because of the color. And I think my scar must have been magic, too, because of its color—and because I think it killed me.”

Imogen shook her head. “But you’re—”

“Alive? Well, mostly. Feel.” Laudna took Imogen’s hand again and flattened the purple-scarred fingers against her paper-white sternum. They both felt Laudna’s pulse thump. A long moment—too long—and it thumped again.

“Laudna,” whispered Imogen.

“It’s all right.” Laudna kept a hold of Imogen’s hand as she drew it away from her cold chest. “I feel fine. Mostly it amuses me. Every body thinks I must be an invalid because of how I look, but imagine if they knew what I really was!”

“Laudna, you’re not a what.”

“I’m undead,” said Laudna. “But you’re not, are you? Are you cursed?”

Imogen made a wry face. “Some of the folk in the Taloned Highlands used to say I was marked because my mother was a witch. But it is not so simple.” She buried her face in her hands again. “Laudna—if I tell you—you must promise not to change what you think of me, nor to tell anyone what I am about to—”

“Are you a witch, too, then?”

Imogen froze, tensed, nodded. Laudna clapped a hand over her mouth to keep a delighted squeal from escaping.

“Imogen, how wonderful! I’m a witch! Look, look.”

She extended her fingertips over the candle. Black ichor dripped from them, and the candle went out, then burst back to life brighter than before.

“Oh my—” murmured Imogen.

Laudna cleared the black drips with a wave of her hand. “And I can make myself look quite frightening, like a goblin or a fey. But I shan’t do that now, for it might alarm you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Imogen’s lip. She snapped her fingers. Four glowing globules of purple lightning blinked to life, one after the other, between her and Laudna.

“Oh, lovely!”

Imogen smirked, and her voice clearly spoke into Laudna’s mind, though her lips did not move. I knew there must be some reason I liked you.

Laudna’s jaw dropped, nearly dislocating. “How are you—”

Imogen tapped the side of her head. Think back at me.

Like this?

Just so.

EEK!

Ow!

I’m sorry. It’s only that this so thrilling, I feel that I should burst if I don’t shriek, but I of course mustn’t wake my guardian.

Imogen frowned. She doesn’t know?

“Oh no, she does.” Laudna forgot to think it instead of whispering. “I think that’s why she adopted me—she could tell. And she helps me practice. She’s taught me—”

Imogen tightened her grip on Laudna’s hand. Laudna, please, do not tell her about me.

Of course I shan’t, if you don’t wish me to. But she is usually very understanding.

I myself do not even understand the nature of my magic. But my dreams—may I tell you of them later? Tomorrow, perhaps? They lead me to believe that something dangerous may happen. And I know how protective your guardian is. If she knew about me—

Laudna nodded and squeezed her hand back. I shan’t say a word. And I, at least, am not afraid of danger. After all—she fidgeted with the neck of her nightgown. The worst thing to happen to me has already happened.

Chapter Text

Although Imogen longed to know how Laudna had died, and Laudna was impatient to hear about the dreams, both young witches slept soundly the rest of the night, for there is nothing so comforting as a friend who understands one’s most terrifying secret.

There was time enough, in London, to tell each other of her past; for if the friends had been close in Bath, they were inseparable in London. Soon Imogen knew all about how Laudna remembered practically nothing, before she had been settled in a girls’ school at age ten, with a stab wound over her heart, no parents, and an anonymous benefactress who paid her tuition and lodgings; how Laudna had labored over her magic in secret; how Lady Briarwood had appeared on her eighteenth birthday to make her Laudna Briarwood instead of Laudna Bradbury, and had already known about her magic, and fostered it.

And Laudna learned of Imogen’s mother, Imogen’s dreams, Imogen’s markings, Imogen’s telekinesis and telepathy, the whispers in the Taloned Highlands and the distant melancholy of Relvin Temult. Imogen saw Laudna’s other dreadful form, shadowy and elongated, and Laudna saw how Imogen’s eyes flashed white when she extended her consciousness into her environs.

One afternoon, as Imogen held Pâté still so Laudna could take his measurements (she was making him an evening outfit, complete with tails and a top hat), Laudna said: “You know, my guardian has a library in this house.”

“I know.” Imogen gave her a quizzical look. “She spends enough time there.”

“Yes, but I don’t believe it is an ordinary library. She has often lent me some volume or other, so I may read of other shadow-magic warlocks.”

“But surely those books are banned!”

Laudna nodded. “My point exactly. If she has those books, who can say what else she has?” She raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps something about your magic, or your mother’s?”

Just then, Pâté gave a squeak and a wriggle, obliging Imogen to fight for control of the rodent.

“For goodness’s sake, Pâté, hold still!” Laudna brandished the tape measure. “I’m almost finished.”

“Laudna,” Imogen said, once Pâté was safely ensconced within his brass cage. You know I do not wish to tell Lady Briarwood about my mother.

I had not planned to. Laudna’s eyes sparkled like jet. My guardian goes out and leaves us here, often enough.

Imogen snorted. You intend subterfuge, then? You have been reading too many of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.

We shan’t be in London forever—and if I find something promising in my guardian’s study, we could follow the lead to the British Library. We mustn’t waste this opportunity. Laudna’s smile stretched almost painfully wide—a sure indicator that she was determined to execute her plan.

Imogen was not so sure. Despite all she had confided in Laudna, she still had not told her friend of the cold silence of Lady Briarwood’s mind. How could Imogen dissuade Laudna without wounding her feelings?

“Good afternoon, girls!”

Imogen jumped. Standing at the door to Laudna’s chamber was Lady Briarwood herself. She wished to know if the young ladies were willing to accompany her to the haberdasher’s. Laudna got to her feet, eager to replenish her supply of ribbon and silk flowers; so of course Imogen agreed to go with them. As the three ladies walked to the shops, Imogen took Laudna’s arm.

You are very brave, she told Laudna, but I can’t have you deceive your guardian on my account.

I would not be deceiving—merely taking a peek and protecting your privacy. It is perfectly harmless. And she is hardly ever cross with me, no matter how foolish I am.

Imogen let the matter go, for Lady Briarwood was asking them if they should like to attend the theatre to-morrow night. Once at the haberdasher’s, she allowed Laudna to lead her among endless trims and buttons, and helped her select crimson poppies for herself and Pâté. As they stood at the counter waiting for Lady Briarwood to complete her purchases, the haberdasher remarked that the ladies looked remarkably well, and inquired if Lady Briarwood’s other ward, Lady Cassandra, was well?

Lady Briarwood’s smile froze.

“I have not had the pleasure of meeting with Lady Cassandra,” she said coldly, “since she came of age.”

The haberdasher gulped. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I had only thought—”

“Last I heard, Lady Cassandra was on a tour of the Continent.”

“Of course, my lady. Forgive my ignorance.”

Imogen and Laudna exchanged glances. Imogen reached along their mental tether. Did you know—

I haven’t any idea of what he means! Lady Briarwood has no children, and never mentioned another ward aside from me.

Never had Imogen been more eager to hear Lady Briarwood’s thoughts, nor more vexed with the shield that shut her out from them.

///

“Laudna, did I really never tell you of my goddaughter, Lady Cassandra?”

On the walk back to Briarwood House, Lady Briarwood’s tone was light. She spoke over her shoulder to Imogen and Laudna.

Laudna glanced at Imogen over the parcels she was carrying. “I do not recall the name, ma’am.”

“Come here, darling.” Lady Briarwood crooked a finger, beckoning Laudna to her side. “If I may, Miss Temult?”

“Of course, Lady Briarwood.” Imogen prodded Laudna forward. Laudna fell into step beside her guardian and allowed her to take her arm.

“Lady Cassandra de Rolo,” said Lady Briarwood, “was my goddaughter, and my husband’s as well. When her parents passed away, we were charged with her upbringing at Whitestone. However, the same year she came of age was the year my Sylas fell asleep in the Lord. Very sadly, our misfortunes did not bring us together, instead driving us apart.

“Cassandra has a handsome allowance from her parents’ will, and she has elected to spend it in taking herself as far away as possible from the scene of her godfather’s death. Darling, I hope you do not think I concealed this fact from you, that you might have had a sister—”

“Not at all!” Laudna would have patted her guardian’s arm, had her own arms not been filled with her guardian’s parcels. “I know how painful those memories are for you, Lady Briarwood. I should never be so ungrateful, as to demand that you dwell on them for my benefit.”

“Such an understanding girl.” Lady Briarwood released her ward and waved her back toward Imogen. “Miss Temult, I hope you will excuse the liberty of discussing family matters before you.”

“Not at all, Lady Briarwood.”

But as soon as Lady Briarwood’s back was turned again, Imogen shot Laudna a troubled look, but would not explain why—not even mentally—until they were back in Laudna’s chambers.

“I did not wish to say anything before,” she began, “but I believe your guardian is hiding something from you.”

Laudna laughed. “Is that all, Imogen? Of course she is! She is very private. As I told her, I should never be so ungrateful as to—”

“Laudna, you are too good.” Imogen shook her head. “For a moment, imagine that gratitude is of no consequence, that you were her natural daughter and not her ward. Would it not be strange, that she had not mentioned this Cassandra earlier, or that you have never seen her estate?”

Laudna paused to imagine. The prospect was so odd that she almost laughed again—but, catching sight of Imogen’s serious face, she frowned. “But I am not her natural daughter. But for Lady Briarwood’s protection, I should be a governess, worked to the bone—or worse. There was no reason she should have taken me in, other than Christian charity.”

I thought you said, that your guardian was not particularly pious. If you still do not even know why she adopted you, then surely you agree there is much you do not know about Lady Briarwood—”

“Imogen,” Laudna interrupted her friend. She nervously began picking at a hangnail. “I am not certain what you are trying to tell me. What does it matter, if my guardian wishes to keep her private business to herself, when she has treated me with nothing but kindness? Who else would want such a person as me—an orphan, in poor health and ill looks, with few accomplishments and a most inconvenient proclivity for magic? Who else should have adopted a girl of eighteen, who shall probably never marry, and continue to burden her household until she dies again?”

Imogen was silent for a long moment. Abruptly, she stood from her armchair, turned her back on Laudna, and rushed to the window. Almost frightened, Laudna watched Imogen’s shoulders rise and fall as she heaved a sigh.

Finally Imogen said, in a low voice: “You do not think you shall marry?”

Laudna looked down at her hands, the skin so pale as to be translucent, her fingers long and spidery—grotesque. “Who would have me?”

“Have you such a low opinion of yourself?” Imogen whirled round to face her again, and Laudna was so shocked to see something like anger in her friend’s face, that she could not say a word, and dropped her gaze again.

“Laudna Bradbury Briarwood, you are the most lovely, kind-hearted, and fascinating individual I have ever met. Lady Briarwood has given you nothing more than you deserve—rather less than that, in my opinion, for she does not tell you the truth, that you are exceptional, not as a witch, but as a person.” Imogen took a step forward. “Laudna, please, look at me. Do you believe me?”

Imogen’s face was so earnest, so affectionate, so searing that when Laudna raised her eyes, she had to fight not to look away. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out, and when she saw Imogen’s face fall, she sprang up and embraced her friend, clutching Imogen’s back and head.

I can be nothing but honest with you, Laudna said along their mental tether. I cannot believe I am exceptional. But—I almost believe you believe it.

Imogen patted Laudna’s back and slowly extricated herself from Laudna’s grip.

“That will do for now,” she said—aloud, but softly. “What I have been trying to say, all along, and what I should have said instead of asking profitless questions—is that I cannot hear Lady Briarwood’s thoughts.”

Laudna blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have told you, how the thoughts of other people, are continually pressing upon my mind, like whispers in a quiet room. I hear no whispers from your guardian—she is completely silent, as if she has no thoughts at all.”

Laudna frowned. “But that would mean—”

“Either she has no mind whatsoever, which is impossible, or she has done something—” Imogen swallowed. Through magical means. I am not certain—but I must wonder, if she practices the same sort of magic as I do.

Laudna was silent for a long moment as she endeavored to take in this new information. Lady Briarwood was private, secretive, interested in esoterica—but never had it occurred to Laudna that her guardian was, herself, a practitioner of magic. A handsome, well-liked, respectable widow—a witch? Such a thing was unthinkable.

Perhaps she is not a magic user, Laudna suggested, but has instead benefitted from some sort of enchantment.

That is a possibility as well. But that would mean—

“That she may be in contact with others like you!” In her excitement, Laudna blurted out what her friend was thinking. “Like your mother! Oh, Imogen, you must let me look—”

Imogen stopped Laudna with her finger to Laudna’s lips. Hush! I did not wish to tell you earlier, to excite any needless suspicion, but now I think it is necessary for you to know, so you might see how dangerous it would be to delve into her library without her knowledge.

Laudna giggled. “So you wished to frighten me out of my plans? That was your resolve?”

Her grin spread as she watched Imogen’s eyes widen.

“You have only made me more eager than ever to delve.” Laudna whispered the last word. “Goodness, Imogen, did you think it was possible to excite my curiosity so and tell me not to act on it? You mustn’t pretend you do not long to know what is in all those books.”

Imogen was trying to look stern, but Laudna knew she was moments from crumbling. In a flash, Laudna hoisted Pate from his cage and thrust him toward Imogen. “Listen, Pâté agrees with me! Oi, Imogen, you know you want to let Laudner take a looksie, dontcha?”

“I surrender!” Imogen buried her face in her hands, her voice betraying her smile. “But you must be careful.”

“Laudner’s never noffin’ but careful, sweet’eart!”

Imogen broke down into laughter, and, emboldened, Laudna dangled Pâté over Imogen—but in the hilarity that ensued, Pâté escaped, and Imogen was obliged to telekinetically remove him back to his cage. Soon it was time to dress for dinner. But though Laudna was pleased with her triumph and eager to sleuth in the library, she could not help but fidget a bit more that night, at table before her guardian.

///

Laudna had been correct, in surmising that it would not be long before Lady Briarwood left the younger women in the house on their own. Only a few days after Imogen and Laudna had resolved to embark upon their investigation, the widow set out on some social calls; the housekeeper went to market; and Laudna told Lady Briarwood’s maid that there was no harm, if she wished to spend a pleasant hour with the footman, for surely no-one would call while Lady Briarwood was out.

The young witches had already decided on a plan. Laudna, who had occasionally handled the library’s volumes, would serve as the main researcher. She had a pencil and several sheets of drawing-paper tucked into her stays so she could take down any information she found. Imogen, posted in the hallway, would straighten the mirrors and rearrange the bouquets as long as it took for Laudna to find a lead; if anyone passed by, she would creatively redirect them.

Best of all, they no longer only relied on Imogen alone for telepathy.

“Imogen!” Imogen heard Laudna’s voice as if her friend were speaking directly into her ear—with the added background of hoarse, guttural whispers. “I shall start at Lady Briarwood’s desk. Is there anything I should look up in an index, if I find one?”

“Red storms.” Imogen spoke aloud, but in a low voice, knowing Laudna would hear her clearly. “Or storms in general.”

“Right. Here I go.”

Inside the study, Laudna tucked the piece of copper wire she’d used to cast her Message into her thick, tightly wound black hair. Lady Briarwood’s desk squatted in front of her like a general flanked by an army of books. Laudna suppressed a giggle, wiggled her fingers, and descended upon the desk.

Atop the desk were a flurry of invitations and half-written letters. Laudna glanced through these quickly but could find nothing remarkable. Careful to replace each paper exactly where she found them, she then opened the first drawer. A bottle and a half of laudanum; writing implements; a fat sheaf of letters bound with dark purple ribbon, that Laudna knew to be Sylas’s. She knew better than to disturb those. The next drawer contained even more of the late Lord Briarwood’s correspondence, as well as a portrait of a young woman containing a lock of white-sprinkled black hair. She tried the third drawer, cursed, and reached for the copper wire.

“Imogen, one of her desk drawers is locked.”

“Is there a key? Look under the blotting-paper for a key.”

Laudna did so. “Nothing.”

“I don’t suppose you know how to pick a lock with a hairpin.”

“I’m not really one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s characters, you know.”

“We could always come back to it later,” said Imogen. “If I were you, I should move on to what I could easily reach.”

Laudna nodded and turned to the shelf just above the desk that contained Lady Briarwood’s most frequently consulted volumes: A Bible, Johnson’s Dictionary, and two copies of the Peerage, one from the 1790s and another more recent. On a whim, Laudna took up the older, and flicked through the pages to look for the name Briarwood. But where the name should have been, there was nothing—the list of names and estates proceeded from the B’s to the C’s without a Briarwood to be seen.

Laudna lay the book flat on its back, reached for the newer Peerage, and with very little trouble found the page headed by “BRIARWOOD OF WHITESTONE HALL.” The page listed the birthdates and birthplaces of Lord Sylas and Lady Delilah Briarwood, but unlike the other noble families listed, no mention was made of their relations. However, Laudna recognized Lady Briarwood’s own handwritten addition: “One ward, Lady Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, born 1789.”

Laudna’s own name was nowhere, neither in type nor in script. Then again, this was clearly an older volume, as Lord Briarwood’s death was not recorded. Perhaps Lady Briarwood had not taken up the Peerage since then, finding it too painful.

But here again was the mysterious Lady Cassandra. She must have come to the Briarwoods with her title, as Laudna was not a lady, but merely had “The Hon.” written in front of her name on envelopes. Her name sounded foreign—was she a foreign lady, then, or only the daughter of one? Laudna frantically turned the pages of the newer Peerage, nearly tearing one in her curiosity. No de Rolos. She turned to the older copy:

“DE ROLO OF WHITESTONE HALL. Marquis Frederick de Rolo, born 1750, married Johanna von Musel, of Prussia, by which lady he had issue Julius, born 1778; Vesper, born 1780; Percival, born 1783; Oliver and Whitney, born 1786; Ludwig, born 1787; and Cassandra, born 1789.”

Laudna re-read the paragraph three times, trying to make sense of what it meant. De Rolo, of Whitestone Hall? Had the Briarwoods really only occupied Whitestone for less than two decades? If Cassandra was the youngest of seven, and the parents had died, where were the other six, and why did none of them raise her instead of the Briarwoods? And if Whitestone Hall had belonged to the de Rolos, how had the Briarwoods come into its possession?

The copper wire trembled between her fingers. “Imogen,” she whispered, “I’ve found our Lady Cassandra.”

“How do you mean?” Imogen sounded breathless. “Is there anything you can copy down?”

“Yes, yes. It’s in the Peerage.” Mechanically, Laudna got out her pencil and paper and began to copy all the relevant entries. She scarcely knew what to say. “I’ll explain later.”

“Brilliant.” From the sound of her voice, Laudna knew Imogen was smiling. “Anything about magic, yet, or—?”

The sound of the front door opening and shutting cut her off. Though muffled, both Imogen and Laudna could both hear the voice of the butler, as well as—

“Is she back already?” gasped Laudna.

“Oh, shit.”

“Imogen!” Laudna couldn’t help but giggle at the foul language.

“Now is not the time for propriety! Quick—open the door so I can get our silent tether up.”

Laudna crumpled the papers in her hands, strode to the door of the study, and cracked it. The unmistakable click of Lady Briarwood’s footsteps grew louder as she and Imogen stared at one another through the door, mirroring one another’s anxious expressions.

“Plan to be out in five minutes,” Imogen hissed. “I’ll tell you if you have longer, or if I can’t hold her for that long.”

With a snap, the door shut, and Laudna heard Imogen calling Lady Briarwood’s name.

Chapter Text

“Miss Temult.” Lady Briarwood’s tone was as guarded as her mind. “It is very attentive of you to meet me at my own door, but I assure you, no such formalities are necessary. Or were you expecting someone else?”

Imogen had met Lady Briarwood at the corner of the entrance hall, just before it turned to admit the entrances to the parlor, dining room, and library into view. She met the widow’s cold gaze, ignoring the thumping in her chest.

“Oh—no, Lady Briarwood.” She could not keep a waver out of her voice. Lady Briarwood raised an eyebrow. Imogen gulped, her mind racing. “I—I beg your pardon for running into you like this. It’s—I am worried about Laudna.”

“Laudna?” Lady Briarwood’s expression softened. “Why? Where is she?”

“She is—she is at church.” The lie spilled out of Imogen’s mouth before she had time to think.

“Church?” Lady Briarwood looked dumbfounded. “I have never known my ward to attend church on a weekday. Why, pray tell, the outburst of piety, and why are you not accompanying her?”

So Imogen’s mistrust of Lady Briarwood was mutual. Imogen allowed her own composure to slip a little, as if she were blinking back tears.

“I am not certain, Lady Briarwood. I believe she—she may have been missing her parents, and wished to pray for their souls. She wanted to go alone, and insisted that I not go with her. I convinced her to at least take your maid with her. She was doubtful that you would permit it, but I did not wish her to go about unchaperoned. I beg you forgive me for the liberty—I did not think you would be coming home so soon.”

Imogen had, by now, worked up a bit of moisture in her eyes, and was considering letting a few drops escape; but Lady Briarwood was not paying attention to her.

“How curious,” the widow murmured, “that she misses her parents, when she never knew them.”

“I think, Lady Briarwood,” Imogen offered, “it is precisely for that reason that she misses them. I never knew my mother, but I feel much the same.”

“I suppose. Regardless, Miss Temult, you did the right thing, in sending my maid with her. My luncheon appointment was cancelled, but I shall not want Ellen until later.” She regarded Imogen over her nose. “Would you be so kind, Miss Temult, as to send for Smith, and tell her I shall take my midday meal in my study?”

“I believe Mrs. Smith is at market, Lady Briarwood.” Imogen sidestepped to keep Lady Briarwood from nearing her study. “But might I suggest—”

Lady Briarwood barely concealed an exasperated sigh. Despite her nerves, Imogen was almost pleased—any frustration directed at her, meant that Laudna was safer from suspicion.

“Laudna cannot be gone for much longer, and I think it would be a great comfort to her, to dine with you after such a trying morning.”

“Tell Mr. Smith to bring my meal to my study, and to send Laudna to me when she arrives.” Lady Briarwood smiled sweetly. “Now, have you any other ideas for my ward, Miss Temult?”

Imogen knew Lady Briarwood was being sarcastic, but she had just been handed a perfect opportunity to play the ingenue and stall. She smiled tearfully. “How kind of you to ask, Lady Briarwood! As it happens, I am working on a handkerchief for Laudna, and since you know her so much better than I do, I have been longing to ask your opinion on what colors she would like best. My work-basket is in the parlor—if I may trouble you to step this way with me for a moment—”

Imogen didn’t need to read Lady Briarwood’s thoughts to feel the annoyance boiling off her. But Lady Briarwood was following her into the parlor, so she took the chance to fire a message to Laudna.

She’s coming, any moment. I told her you were at church with Ellen because you were sad about your parents. Go get Ellen and act like you came through the back door. And if it isn’t too difficult, could you take your lunch with Lady Briarwood in the study, and have her comfort you?

Imogen, you marvelous girl! came the response. Of course I shall play my role, as you’ve played yours. You are a wonder.

Lady Briarwood grew increasingly irate with each of Imogen’s questions about embroidery knots, silk colors, and floral motifs, but Imogen could not care. Laudna’s voice still rang in her mind, just as musical as it had been upon their first meeting.

Imogen, you are a wonder.

///

“Hail the conquering hero!” Imogen crowed.

Laudna staggered into her chamber, her eyes blown wide. She looked at the clock on her mantelpiece and sighed. “Has it only been an hour? It’s felt like days.” She allowed Imogen to scoop her into her arms and support her to her writing-desk.

“Are you all right?” Imogen fluttered nervously behind her.

Laudna gave her friend a wicked grin. “Never mind that. I know what you are really dying to see.” She reached into her stays, produced the papers, and smoothed them out on the desk. Two of the papers were copied from the Peerage in Laudna’s hurried pencil writing. The other was a pamphlet with yellowing edges. Imogen covered her mouth, whether in horror or delight, Laudna could not tell.

“Laudna, you didn’t really take something?”

“What else could I have done? I hadn’t time to copy them.” Laudna sighed. “It was stuck between the pages of the Inferno, and judging by how it has aged, my guardian has scarcely ever removed it.”

“Of course,” said Imogen soothingly. Her hands moved to Laudna’s shoulders. “You did what you must.”

The young witches remained there, Laudna seated, Imogen rubbing the tension from Laudna’s shoulders and hanging on her every word as they compared the different entries in the Peerage.

“So, to summarize,” said Imogen. “Whitestone Hall used to be the seat of the de Rolo family, of which Lady Cassandra was the youngest member. According to Lady Briarwood, Cassandra’s parents died, but she has mentioned nothing about the six siblings who surely would have inherited Whitestone in their parents’ absence. But the Briarwoods came into possession of Whitestone, not the de Rolos—how?” Her fingers dug into Laudna’s bony shoulders. “God, I wish I were a lawyer!”

Laudna batted her hands away and turned around in her chair to look up at Imogen. “I am no expert in land and law, of course, but let us suppose that Lady Cassandra is the only surviving de Rolo. Lady Briarwood said that she and her husband brought up Cassandra, meaning she must have been quite young when her parents died. In such cases, is it not customary for the will to appoint a trustee, or some other advisor, to manage the young heiress’s affairs?”

“And Lady Briarwood was the godmother!” Imogen said. “So she would be the trustee—"

“And would she not, then, be in the perfect position to claim Whitestone as her own—either by purchasing it, or—?”

The words died on Laudna’s lips, and she trailed off, her triumph melting into confusion and fear.

“You’re certain,” said Imogen, “that the Briarwoods were not listed in the older Peerage?”

“No-one of that name,” said Laudna. “I always assumed their title was old, but perhaps it was newly created, due to success in business or battle. It has happened, upon occasion."

Imogen paced to the window and paced back. “If I were in possession of a newly created title, I should want nothing more than to acquire a county seat, to lend gravitas to my position.”

“Of course you would.” Laudna giggled. “And you should find one with the largest stables in England, and raise a legion of horses.”

“Guilty as charged, your honor! But we are not discussing my motives. What would Lord and Lady Briarwood want?”

Laudna tilted her head to one side. “Of course, I did not know Lord Briarwood, but if he was anything like his lady, he must have taken a keen interest in magic. And Whitestone is in Oxfordshire—perhaps they perused the libraries at the university?”

Imogen paced back to Laudna’s desk and perched on the side of it. “And you still have not visited Whitestone.”

“Never.”

A breeze sent the curtains rustling, and Imogen watched the fabric billowing as she thought. With a jolt, she jumped off the desk and took up the yellowed pamphlet. “All this from the Peerage alone! God, Laudna, you have not even shown me the contraband! What am I looking at?”

Laudna took the pamphlet and read the title aloud: “A List of the Factions of Hereticks, Traitors, Seditionists, Covens, and Other Such Infidels, Whose Existence Offends the Lord Our God and His Majesty the King. Delightful, no?” She spread the pages open. “I believe it’s a bit antiquated, from the last century, but helpful nonetheless.”

As Laudna’s finger traveled down the margins, Imogen followed it, scanning the headings. “‘Methodists’? ‘Anabaptists’? ‘Pirates’? ‘Catholicks’? None of these groups is magical.”

“Wait,” said Laudna. She tapped the next set of columns. “This is where it gets good.”

Imogen bent over the page to read on as the author wished damnation on various groups of druids and other pagans; witches who consummated nuptials with Satan; astrologers and fortune-tellers. At the end of the tirade was written:

“THE GRIM VERITY. This Consortium is perhaps the wickedest of all, for they live their lives by Planetary Movements, like the Manichees of old; and it is even said, that certain of their Practitioners, derive Power from the bodies of the Heavens, and are able to hear the innermost thoughts of their innocent fellows, and can move great objects with naught but the force of their own evil Minds. They worship the Heavenly Bodies, instead of Him in Heaven who made them, and verily their work is the fruit of the Devil.”

As she read the last line, Imogen’s voice faltered. She straightened, bit her lip, and avoided Laudna’s gaze.

“You know that’s rot, don’t you?” said Laudna softly. “Who-ever wrote this, thinks practically every body is the fruit of the Devil.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that—maybe it is a curse, then, just as every-one in Gelvaan said. I have not studied the planets at all, and yet I still have these powers.”

“We do not know for certain, what this author’s sources are, so we cannot know if he is correct about the source of your powers.” Laudna frowned. “What matters, is that we have a lead, even if it is only a rumor. And we are going to chase the lead to—”

“To the British Library. I remember.” Imogen offered a half-smile. “But the museum premises are nearly five miles from here, and even then, is not access to the Library restricted to students and researchers?”

“I have lived with Lady Briarwood long enough to know that nothing is off-limits to her charm.” Laudna arched an eyebrow. “Now all that remains is to charm the charmer.”

///

Imogen was quite impressed, and nearly frightened, with the shows of affection Laudna lavished on her guardian for the next few days. Whatever task Lady Briarwood needed done, Laudna was quick to anticipate: she answered correspondence, lit fires, passed dishes, poured tea, played the pianoforte.  Furthermore, Laudna allowed Lady Briarwood to isolate her in the study for hours on end as they practiced spells together.  So devoted to Lady Briarwood was Laudna, that she quite appeared to be snubbing Imogen. And on Laudna’s instructions, Imogen hinted at jealousy of her friend’s time with her guardian.

Lady Briarwood was all smiles.

“Your directorial debut,” Imogen told Laudna, “is a tour-de-force.”

“We’ll see how the encore goes,” said Laudna.

The encore, was, of course, the final request, the purpose of the whole charade: the trip to the British Museum and Library. Laudna worried audibly about Pâté’s health for several days before asking if Lady Briarwood had any books on rodent physiology. When the answer was no, Laudna asked if the British Library would not certainly hold the definitive sources on the matter. As it happened, Lady Briarwood was desirous of conducting some of her own research, and she knew a very charming curator, a specialist in ziggurats, who could allow them access to the archives.

At the Library, Lady Briarwood was as eager for privacy, as her young charges. She deposited them with a young assistant librarian and swept off with the curator. After she had disappeared behind the tall shelves, Laudna and Imogen stared at each other, bemused and trying not to look so pleased; they had planned elaborate distraction maneuvers, and here was the assistant directing them to a reading table of darkly-finished wood and asking if he could help them find anything.

“My friend and I,” said Imogen, settling herself into a leather-upholstered chair, “are curious about some, er, heretic and separatist groups. We have lately heard of one such group, that we would like to know more about. Have you any writings on the Grim Verity?”

The assistant gave them a quizzical look, taking in Imogen’s lavender hair and Laudna’s gaunt, skeletal frame. He swallowed. “Well, miss, separatists are one thing, but I am not certain young ladies like you ought to concern yourselves with witchcraft.”

Annoyance prickled at Imogen. She might have said something sharp, had Laudna not jumped in. “Oh, no, sir, of course we do not wish to concern ourselves with such horrid things—not for our own sakes! It is only at the behest of our parish’s vicar, that we are here at all. He has such little time, you see, that he has charged us with researching this group, so that he might understand how to reach the poor souls trapped under its influence.”

The assistant shifted on his feet and glanced worriedly at the tall bookshelves. Before she had time to second-guess herself, Imogen pushed into his mind, just enough so that he would not notice. Thoughts surfaced for Imogen to read: What odd-looking young ladies. Why do they ask after such morbid matters? And the thin girl and her guardian are both in mourning. Ladies do strange things when they’re in mourning—that’s why we’ve witches in England, in the first place. I don’t like the look of this, I don’t.

Imogen yanked her consciousness back and shot it into Laudna’s. He doesn’t trust us.

The assistant cleared his throat. “May I ask after the name of the vicar in question?”

“Of course,” said Imogen. “His name is Mr.—”

“Bell,” Laudna said. “Mr. Bell.” She leaned forward over the table. “But certainly, you are well-acquainted with all the notable men of the city, being a man of learning, yourself?”

Imogen balked at the flattery, so blatant and syrupy. Laud, she thought, are you certain it is wise to—

Laudna turned her head toward Imogen. Black smoke had clouded her sclera, and a puff of smoke escaped her mouth. She winked.

Imogen’s cheeks bloomed.

But before she even had time to wonder why, or to be embarrassed, Laudna had jerked her head toward the assistant. The young man’s face scrunched up in momentary confusion. He blinked, relaxed, and gazed at Laudna as if he had never seen her before.

“I apologize,” he said in a changed tone. “The Reverend Mr. Bell. Of course. But I’m afraid I did not hear your name?”

“Laudna Briarwood.” Laudna batted her ink-black eyelashes and extended her hand. “And this is my friend Imogen—”

“Relvin,” Imogen interrupted. “I’m Imogen Relvin.”

The assistant shook their hands and assured them he was at their service; everything the library had on the Grim Verity, was theirs to peruse. Just before he left to find the books, Laudna suggested that he not involve his supervisor in the research, to which terms he readily agreed.

When he had gone, Imogen smiled uncertainly at Laudna. “What did you—”

“I Charmed him.” Laudna’s eyes flashed with mischief. “I told you Lady Briarwood taught me some new spells.” The last word sounded in Imogen’s mind.

How long does it last?

An hour. Oh, and after the hour is over, he’ll know what I did.

Imogen’s eyes widened. Laudna! And you did not even give him a false name!

Laudna’s impish grin faded as Imogen’s look of horror intensified.

It’s all right, Imogen. You mustn’t worry. We shall think of something.

The assistant returned bearing a stack of musty volumes. Laudna and Imogen devoured each one, sending the assistant back for new books. Their gleanings were sparse and inconsistent, but they transcribed all they could.

Whispers of psychic astrologists peppered tomes from the Renaissance. Records from the reign of King James announced the burnings of witches who cast thoughts into the minds of others. Enlightenment-era monographs spoke of the Verity Grim, a secret organization that sought to bring the new rigor of science to the old forbidden magics. Throughout each account, one word recurred: Ruidusborn.

Imogen and Laudna read faster and faster, casting aside books, jotting down scarcely-legible notes, as a picture began to form: a secret society, made up of people born under a particular planetary conjunction called the Ruidus that gave them telepathic and telekinetic abilities. Their thoughts poured into one another along their mental tether as they shared their findings.

When an hour had passed with no sign of Lady Briarwood, Laudna Charmed the young assistant again, and asked if he had anything on the Ruidusborn or planetary alignments. Their next hour was less profitable, as many of the new sources were religious tirades against witches, with little to offer in new information. But just as their pace flagged and Laudna had taken to studying the coffered ceilings rather than the papers, Imogen jabbed her with the elbow and pointed to a record of a lecture from the Royal Society:

“On this 18 of September, 1801, Professor Kadija Sumal of Merton College will present her findings on the effects of moonlight on patients at Omen Sanatorium, those whose prognosis, verily, is grim.

“The Professor shall be accompanied by a patient upon whom her work has had a beneficial effect:

Mrs Liliana Temult.”

Chapter Text

Laudna raised her eyes from the papers and looked at Imogen. Her friend was staring in disbelief, as if she needed Laudna to confirm what she saw to prove that what was printed there in black and white was, in fact, her mother’s name.

Mrs Liliana Temult.

“That’s my mother,” Imogen whispered. “It must be she.”

Laudna threw an arm around Imogen’s shoulders and squeezed. “Oh, Imogen! I knew she couldn’t be dead!”

“Well, she wasn’t in 1801, at least.” Imogen pursed her lips in an effort not to smile. “That was over a decade ago. Who knows what—I mustn’t—”

Laudna released Imogen and began copying the lecture notice into her notes. “Merton College. Imogen, that’s in Oxford—a mere half-a-day’s travel from Whitestone, if what my guardian has said is true!”

“But it does not say where the Omen Sanatorium is,” said Imogen. “It could be in another part of the country.”

“You are determined to be a pessimist, then. My good spirits shall have to do for the both of us.” Laudna scribbled the last of the notes and beamed. “If this Professor Sumal was studying patients at a sanatorium, the sanatorium must not lie too far from where she spends most of her time—the college.”

“It has been twelve years. Surely my mother cannot still—”

“All right!” Laudna held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You are correct. There is a chance that your mother may have moved on from Oxfordshire. But we have a start, Imogen—we have somewhere to go, and someone to speak to. You cannot deny that.”

A smile stole across Imogen’s lips. “No, I suppose I cannot. Oh, Laudna!”

Giddy with their find, Imogen and Laudna did their best to apply themselves to the rest of their research. After uncovering little else, Imogen was about to suggest that they sort and compile their notes, when the unmistakable timbre of Lady Briarwood’s voice sent a jolt through both the young witches. Imogen and Laudna were obliged to pack up their notes without much method and to dispatch the young librarian with armfuls of the most suspicious-looking material, so that when Lady Briarwood emerged from the stacks, trailed by the curator with a journal stuffed with papers, she found them giggling and flushed with their effort.

She arched an eyebrow. “My, my. You appear to have enjoyed yourselves, hm, girls?”

Imogen’s first impulse was to stop laughing, but she realized that would only make it look as if they had something to hide, so she instead gasped and wheezed—“Oh, Laudna, what an amusing story!”

Laudna jumped to her feet and kissed her guardian on the cheek. “There you are, Lady Briarwood! I was just telling Imogen about the time Pâté smelled a lady rat and—well, I’m not certain I should say, in present company.”

“You had better not, my dear.” Lady Briarwood signaled to the curator, who handed her the journal. She refused Laudna’s offer to carry it for her, and clutched it close as she herded Imogen and Laudna toward the exit.

In her final glance over the vast library, Imogen noticed the young librarian leaning against a bookshelf with a dazed expression.

Did the Charm end? she asked Laudna.

Yes, came Laudna’s voice into her mind. I was going to try to scare him into keeping quiet, but we hadn’t a chance after Lady Briarwood arrived.

One moment. Imogen broke the mental tether and instead sent her voice to echo at the young librarian, sounding as much like Lady Briarwood as she could:

By the way, my dear young man, if I were you, I should not publicize what either I or my wards were reading today. You do not wish to make baseless accusations against a gentlewoman, much less implicate yourself in my reading habits, do you?

The young man’s stifled yelp cut off with the slam of the library doors.

///

They started with hints, again. At the breakfast table, in Lady Briarwood’s hearing, Imogen asked an artless question about Whitestone; Laudna admitted she had never been. They allowed the conversation to taper off awkwardly. At night, in Lady Briarwood’s study, Laudna suggested outings they could take “when I see Whitestone.” Lady Briarwood demurred and steered the conversation elsewhere.

Imogen and Laudna redoubled their efforts. Laudna wondered aloud about her old companions and teachers at her alma mater, and observed that the school was in Oxfordshire, and could not be too difficult to visit when they were again at Whitestone. She wished nothing more than for her new friend Imogen to see where she had spent such a happy adolescence—the cellar where she had found Pâté, the garden where she had first encountered her guardian. How far, exactly, was the girls’ school from Whitestone? She was not too familiar with the geography, having traveled little in while she was at school, other than to and from Oxford for educational excursions with the other girls. What fun it would be, to revisit the Botanical Gardens and the libraries there!

But even to such pointed questions, Lady Briarwood managed to give muddled answers.

“You must ask her, directly,” said Imogen, and Laudna agreed. She spent several days making herself useful to her guardian, in search of the right moment; but one evening, as she crept around the study lighting candles so Lady Briarwood could go on reading in her winged armchair as night fell, Lady Briarwood closed her book, and called Laudna to her side.

“Sit down, my dear,” she said, and Laudna perched on the ottoman. She could not read minds like Imogen, but she had a sense of foreboding as to what her guardian was about to ask.

“Laudna, why do you suddenly wish to go to Whitestone?”

Laudna avoided Lady Briarwood’s gaze, but a hand underneath her chin forced her to meet the acid-green eyes. She swallowed. “Whatever gave you that idea, Lady Briarwood?”

Lady Briarwood’s laugh was a low hum. “You know I know you well enough, to understand your wishes, even when you do not express them outright. You have talked of little else, lately. So I ask you, why the sudden interest in my county seat?”

For the first time she could remember, Laudna wished Lady Briarwood would let go of her, but she steeled herself and did not jerk away. “I am sorry it seems sudden to you, ma’am. I have always been interested in any place that concerns your family—our family.”

“Interested for my sake?” Lady Briarwood tutted. “You know how it pains me to recollect anything of my Sylas’s life—what anguish it would cause me to revisit the halls he once walked.” Her grip tightened. “No—your interest is new, my dear, and your friend Miss Temult has planted it within you.”

“Imogen?”

Lady Briarwood’s voice did not raise in volume, but her eyes told her urgency. “I wondered, perhaps, if I should prepare you for this possibility, before bringing you out in society. I had thought Miss Temult quite a ladylike person—but such brazen questions, about the estate you are meant to inherit! She barely tries to conceal her motives.”

Laudna’s brow furrowed. “I am to inherit Whitestone?”

“Certainly that is what Miss Temult believes.” Lady Briarwood sighed deeply and stroked Laudna’s cheek with her thumb. “I must blame myself, for not cautioning you sufficiently against the ways of fortune-hunters.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I do not believe Imogen is a fortune hunter. I assure you, she has not influenced me at all, to ask about Whitestone.”

“Then, you persist in asking about Whitestone, when you know it hurts me?”

Laudna’s hand moved to cover her guardian’s. “No, Lady Briarwood, please do not suppose anything I do is to hurt you. The last thing in the world I want—”

“Then you shall never ask me again to go to Whitestone, and never mention it again, unless I speak of it.” Lady Briarwood’s voice choked on the last words, and Laudna was dismayed to see her eyes brimming with tears.

“Of course I shan’t. I beg your pardon, for all the distress I have caused!”

Lady Briarwood pinched Laudna’s cheek, released her, and dried her own eyes with a prim flick of her fingers. “You know I can deny you nothing, sweet child, least of all my forgiveness. Now, I believe a small glass of brandy will be just the thing to steady my nerves.”

Laudna was halfway to the door to comply with the implicit request, when she realized Lady Briarwood had cornered her into apologizing for answering a question Lady Briarwood herself had asked. A glance back at her guardian showed that Lady Briarwood’s composure had never been more unruffled: her tears had not lasted long. By the time Laudna had deposited a snifter of brandy on the widow’s desk and been dismissed from the study, any trace of guilt she felt had disappeared. But still, what Lady Briarwood had said needled at her, as she made the walk back to her chambers to inform Imogen of her failure:

Was Laudna really going to inherit Whitestone? And did Imogen—no—could Imogen ever wish to marry her?

///

“She hates you,” said Laudna. “She thinks you are trying to manipulate me.”

“We shall get to Oxfordshire, somehow,” said Imogen. “Perhaps you could return with me to Gelvaan, and we could convince my father I wish to further my education there.”

Nevertheless, they agreed it would be unwise to broach the question of Laudna traveling with Imogen for a while longer. For now, Imogen ought to avoid Lady Briarwood, and Laudna ought to attach herself to the widow further. So a week passed with either Imogen or Lady Briarwood pleading a headache to escape social calls, nights at the theatre, walks in Kensington Gardens, so that Laudna was always with one or the other, but hardly ever both, shuttled between them like a tennis ball.

Although Laudna was relentlessly cheerful, Imogen could not help but notice the cloud hanging over her friend, the strain that did not leave even when they were alone in Laudna’s chambers. She asked Laudna, one night as they played cards, if she was all right. Laudna changed the subject. But later, as she held Pâté close to her chest and stroked his fur, she mused:

“It is so strange, Imogen, to be out with Lady Briarwood during the day, and see her stop to speak courteously with our neighbors, knowing what we know about her. I know we have proof that she has concealed matters from me, and that her dealings with her goddaughter likely put her in the wrong—but I cannot help but hope, while we walk together in daylight, that everything has been a terrible misunderstanding. Sometimes I think—I think it would be easier, if she were horribly cruel to me. At least then, I should know her true character, instead of continually guessing, and wondering—”

Laudna broke off. Imogen opened her mouth to reply but found she could not. She wanted to say that she did not want Laudna to feel caught between them, that Laudna need not choose a side, but deep down, Imogen knew this was false. She did want Laudna to see past her trusting nature. She wanted Laudna to choose a side—to choose Imogen.

But to say so would merely play into Lady Briarwood’s narrative, that Imogen was trying to poison Laudna against her benefactress.

So Imogen cleared her throat. “I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you, Laudna, not to know how to feel toward your guardian. I wish I could offer you certainty, myself—but you remember, I cannot hear her thoughts at all, not even the usual murmurs.”

Laudna turned away from Imogen. Shadows swallowed her face and dress, so that all Imogen could see of her friend was her thin white fingers on Pâté’s black fur.

Laudna said, “Have you ever tried to probe deeper?”

///

“Will she know you are trying to gain access?” Laudna asked.

“No,” said Imogen.

It was only partially a lie. Imogen had hardly ever forced her way into someone’s mind. On the rare occasions she had tried, she had succeeded, leaving her targets none the wiser. So what would happen if Imogen failed to breach Lady Briarwood’s mental walls? Would the widow know? Imogen sincerely hoped not, but the answer was uncertain.

But Imogen was certain that she hated the furtive person Laudna became around her patroness. She hated seeing the bright young woman, her best friend, reduced to the role of grateful orphan tiptoeing around her guardian’s foul moods.

And she was certain that if Laudna knew the risk, she would not let Imogen try.

So the next night at table, as the ladies finished their glasses of after-dinner port, Imogen reminisced about her childhood in Gelvaan—“But that was, of course, after my dear mother passed on. I wonder if you ever encountered her, Lady Briarwood, in society? Her name was Liliana Temult.”

Imogen’s wineglass trembled in her hand. She set it down, met Lady Briarwood’s eyes, and dove.

Silence.

Then, the merest ghosts of words, deep below the surface.

The ghosts chattered—they swelled like a choir—almost forming words and then—

Pain seared Imogen’s skull. A flashbulb burst between her temples. Lady Briarwood’s eyes bit into her, and her voice echoed, though her lips were sealed:

Curious, Miss Temult, very curious. But I do not take kindly to trespassers.

Imogen’s head rang with pain and noise. She scarcely noticed as Lady Briarwood rose to her full height and said: “My apologies, girls, but this pesky headache has returned. Laudna, accompany me to my study—I shall want you there.”

Laudna hesitated. Imogen was clutching her head. But Imogen mouthed “Go, please,” so Laudna scurried after Lady Briarwood and supported her all the way to the settee in the library. As soon Laudna shut the door, Lady Briarwood’s weakness disappeared. She stood upright as a colonel and ordered Laudna to sit.

Laudna sat, clasping her hands together to keep them steady. Lady Briarwood paced.

“I have just recollected an engagement, this next Tuesday, in Brighton, with Lady E----.”

“In Brighton?” Laudna echoed. She thought back to Imogen’s gasp of pain and wondered dimly what Brighton had to do with anything.

“Yes. I promised last month, that you and I would visit her.”

“Well, that should be all right,” said Laudna. “Travel there is quite convenient, and I am certain Imogen will not mind packing quickly.”

“Miss Temult will not accompany us. There is no room at Lady E-----‘s cottage.” Lady Briarwood stopped before the fire so that Laudna could only see her silhouette. “She will return home on the seven o’clock mail-coach tomorrow.”

“Seven o’clock in the morning? But Lady Briarwood, is not Thomas’s day off tomorrow? How will he be able to escort Imogen—”

“Miss Temult will be offered no escort. She has proved herself quite a capable young woman.” The disgust in Lady Briarwood’s voice was palpable.

“Dear Lady Briarwood!” Laudna fought to keep her voice from shaking. “Has Imogen done something to offend you? Is there no reason that, for the sake of her safety and our friendship, this trip to Brighton may not be postponed, so that we may spare a footman to accompany her—if indeed she must go?”

Lady Briarwood whirled around, her heavy skirts swishing, and strode over to loom over Laudna. Her voice softened. “My sweet one, I suppose this must all sound very sudden to you, but I assure you I do nothing unnecessarily, nothing for myself, but only out of the highest regard for your safety. Miss Temult has discovered our secret. She knows you are a magic user.”

Imogen’s faith in Laudna’s acting ability knew no bounds, but Laudna knew she had reached her limit as an actress. After the façade she had worn for days, she simply could not muster up a convincing air of surprise at this revelation. Lady Briarwood balked. Laudna swallowed.

She said, “Yes, I know. I told her myself.”

Lady Briarwood lunged forward so quickly that Laudna flinched, but she had only flung herself onto the settee. In a flash, she took Laudna’s face in both her hands.

“Is this true?” hissed Lady Briarwood. “You told the Temult girl of your gift?”

The black lace covering Lady Briarwood’s fingers scratched Laudna’s cheeks. It took every ounce of Laudna’s willpower not to move.

“You foolish, foolish girl!” Lady Briarwood spat. “What on earth possessed you to—Have you any idea what this could—”

“She was kind to me.”

“Kind to you! And has my kindness meant nothing to you? Was your education, your home, my love for you, nothing but pearls before swine? Insolent girl! Answer me!”

“No, Lady Briarwood.”

“We are in grave danger. She plots against us as we speak, and if you will not believe me, I have proof.” Lady Briarwood swept over to her desk, extracted a ribbon from her neck, held up a key, and unlocked the bottom drawer. She whipped out a sheaf of papers and shoved it at Laudna. “I should have shown you this last week when I found it. Look at this. Do you know what it is?”

Laudna blinked at the papers drifting before her. She recognized Imogen’s handwriting—it was a page of notes she had taken as they tried one night to piece together the de Rolo-Briarwood-Whitestone affair. With horror, Laudna realized that although their notes from Lady Briarwood’s study and the British Library had been safely stashed deep in Laudna’s linen-closet, they must not have secured these less significant notes.

Maybe if Laudna played dumb, there would still be a chance to save them both.

Laudna said, “It is Imogen’s penmanship, Lady Briarwood, but I know not what it means.”

Lady Briarwood laughed bitterly. “No, you do not, child, because I have taken great pains to conceal from you, certain matters of litigation of which it would be in your best interest to be ignorant. But your Miss Temult has been snooping in my personal documents, it seems, trying to find information that would put me at risk of losing Whitestone Hall—where my husband is buried—forever.”

Laudna did not have time to absorb this new information and evaluate its veracity. So she merely said: “I beg your pardon, Lady Briarwood, but if you found these notes, would it not appear, then, that you were snooping in Imogen’s personal documents?”

Now Laudna was afraid, for Lady Briarwood’s face had turned the violet of the ribbons that trimmed her veil. The widow loomed over Laudna, took a fistful of Laudna’s hair, and forced Laudna’s gaze upward.

“I thought you were clever, but it appears you are so simple that I must tell you something, as plain as I can make it. I have gone to great lengths to keep you safe, sheltered, and respectable, as well as to develop your gift in secret. Now, child, is there anyone else in England who would do that?”

Laudna was silent.

“Answer me.”

“No, Lady Briarwood.”

“And everything I have done since I took you in—every decision I have made—has been for your protection. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Lady Briarwood.”

“I will not let anyone threaten you. In fact, I am being merciful merely by sending Miss Temult away. After this conversation is over, you will ring for Mr. Smith so I may tell him to order the mail-coach. Then you will go to Miss Temult and tell her that if she values her well-being and her sanity, she will go back to her backwater home, and never tell anyone what she knows of you, and never bandy about the name of Briarwood again. Bewitch her if you must. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lady Briarwood. I am so sorry, Lady Briarwood.” The tears stealing into Laudna’s eyes were entirely real. “I shall never disobey you again.”

“No, you shall not.” Lady Briarwood let go of Laudna, turned her back, and composed herself at her desk. The documents lay crumpled on the floor. “Now, dear girl. This conversation is over.”

///

Upstairs, alone, biting her fingernails raw, Imogen heard Laudna’s voice carry into her head, beautiful and haunting as a pipe organ:

Imogen, you must go. But I shall go with you.

Chapter Text

Lady Briarwood’s butler, Mr. Smith, was the only member of the household awake the next morning when Miss Temult departed. Well, that was not entirely correct. Miss Briarwood herself ran downstairs, half-dressed, just before the mail-coach arrived, and the tears shed by both young ladies upon their parting created a very affecting scene.

Privately, Mr Smith thought it a pity that such a civil young lady as Miss Temult, had quarreled with her Ladyship, when her presence so obviously allowed poor sickly Miss Briarwood take more of an interest in life; but he was not employed to understand her Ladyship’s motives, only to enact her will. Nevertheless, he was not a man without feeling. So when Miss Briarwood announced she was taking a walk, he allowed her the decency of an early-morning stroll in private, to clear her head.

He did not notice the carpet-bag Laudna held under her cloak, nor the squeaking that sounded from inside.

And it was so early that no-one noticed the black-cloaked figure that ducked into the nearest churchyard, nor the young lady who emerged from its fog in a too-large blue muslin dress, holding a carpet-bag and a wicker cage containing a black rat.

The young lady threaded through the streets, westward, toward the Bath road, as the city stirred slowly to life. She passed a stopped mail-coach where a coachman and a wheelwright were attempting to assess damage on a hubcap. A freckled young lady with covered hair stood on the pavement, tapping her foot.

“If the delay will be much longer, gentlemen,” she said, “I pray you tell me, that I may move my things to an inn, and take the next post-chaise.”

“I’m afraid we’ll need to replace the whole wheel, miss.” The coachman stood and brushed his hands on his trousers. “I’m awfully sorry. I can refund your fee if you’d like—”

“You may keep it, if you will carry my trunk to the nearest inn with a stable. Oh, and do you know where I may procure a map of the surrounding counties?”

So it was that Imogen and Laudna found themselves, within the hour, in the back of a post-chaise heading northwest, with one trunk between them on the back among the sacks of mail and parcels—just as, back in Kensington, Lady Briarwood’s housekeeper knocked on the door to Laudna’s chambers, and said that her ladyship desired her presence at the breakfast-table.

“That was nearly too easy,” murmured Imogen. She threaded her hand through Laudna’s arm and rested her cheek against her shoulder. “I hardly had to try to displace the cobblestones in the road.”

“You must be getting stronger,” said Laudna. She squeezed her arm, drawing Imogen closer to her, and with her other hand balanced Pâté’s covered cage.

“How long do you think we have until she sends someone after us?”

“For all they know, we are still on the road to Bath, not to Oxford. They must track down the coachman, then the innkeeper, before they can even tell that. And if they wish to identify me by my mourning-clothes, or you by your hair—” Laudna plucked at the blue muslin sagging over her frame. “You thought of everything, Imogen, because you are brilliant.”

Imogen laughed quietly into Laudna’s shoulder. “We must get you a sash for your frock.”

 Laudna shrugged. “It’s not my color. Washes me out, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s lovely. You’re lovely.”

Laudna glanced down at the girl burrowed into her side and couldn’t stop the giggle that rose to her lips. Was she really alone in a carriage with Imogen with Briarwood House growing farther away by the moment? She had the urge to undo Imogen’s bonnet so that Imogen might lie more comfortably, and her hand hovered near Imogen’s face. But they were in a post-chaise, with windows on both the front and on the sides, so Imogen’s distinctive hair might be seen if she uncovered her head. Carefully, Laudna laid her hand again on Pate’s cage, and tried to remain as motionless as possible, so as not to disturb her companion.

The buildings thinned out. Imogen dozed. On the turnpike, Laudna was amazed to see the countryside fly past at nearly nine miles an hour! Every couple of hours, the post-chaise stopped to change horses, and at every stop, Laudna’s senses were on high alert for a glimpse of Lady Briarwood or one of her followers. But no-one showed any interest in the post-chaise’s passengers. The weather was fair, with luminous clouds billowing across the sky, the wheat and hay crops gleaming green. Laudna couldn’t help it: her spirits rose with every mile between the post-chaise and the city.

In fact, the day passed so smoothly that, at their penultimate stop, the coachman informed them that they would reach Oxford in time for their afternoon tea. Imogen was awake now, showing Pâté the view out of the window, so Laudna allowed herself to let the rhythm of the wheels lull her to sleep.

The next thing she was aware of was Imogen’s hand shaking her shoulder.

“Laud, wake up!” hissed Imogen, and then telepathically: I think I hear someone.

Laudna started and blearily looked around. The sun was lower in the sky, and they were no longer in the countryside, but on a street of buildings of honey-colored stone. She listened: church bells sounded nearby, and the coachman and grooms chatted as they unfastened the horses.

“You mean them?” Laudna said.

No—I hear thoughts, of someone I recognize. Imogen pointed. Look there. Isn’t that Lady Briarwood’s coachman?

Laudna leaned over Imogen to peer out the window. Outside the inn that was Imogen and Laudna’s final stop, a fair-skinned skinny man with dark circles under his eyes sat atop a horse Laudna had never seen before. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes darted about, scanning every passerby.

Shit! That’s Otham, all right.

Imogen grinned. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear!

Does it count if it’s not out loud?

For us, it does. I’ve been a bad influence on you.

The driver of the post-chaise unlatched the door to their compartment and addressed Imogen. “All right, miss, we’re here in Oxford, now. Shall we carry your trunk inside the inn?”

Laudna watched in horror as Otham’s pale eyes trained on the open carriage door. He must have ridden like the wind to not only catch up with them, but overtake them. Lady Briarwood was clever. She had probably guessed that if they were not returning to the Bath road, they would set their sights on Whitestone.

Nevertheless, Laudna and Imogen had assumed Lady Briarwood would hire a goon to track them down, not send one of her own servants. Surely Otham would see through their rudimentary disguises.

“One moment, sir, we haven’t even paid you yet!” Imogen extracted her purse from her skirts. “Now, if you’d be so kind, I should like to see a full cost breakdown.”

“If you please, miss, I’m happy to provide the receipts, if only you’ll step down—”

Imogen, said Laudna, it’s all right. Let’s get out. If you keep stalling, I’ll handle Otham.

Imogen gave Laudna a nearly imperceptible nod and, without missing a beat, allowed the coachman to help her from the carriage. “Certainly, sir, and in addition, could I trouble you to tell us the most convenient way to the Omen Sanatorium?”

As Imogen plied him with questions, Laudna slipped from the carriage and handed off Pâté’s cage to Imogen. She watched, amused, as Otham scrutinized them, then as his eyes widened to see Laudna calmly crossing the street.

“Yoo-hoo!” Laudna sang out.

He dismounted. “Miss Briarwood, I see Lady Briarwood was correct about your destination. I have been instructed to take you home.” He detached a pouch from his belt. “And her Ladyship has provided me with the funds to arrange your immediate travel.”

From what Laudna and Imogen had just spent on the post-chaise, Laudna knew that the pouch likely contained at least a year’s worth of wages for someone like Otham. She smiled winsomely. “My dear Otham, I imagine you have just had a most uncomfortable journey. Don’t you think you deserve to keep that handsome fee?”

Otham smirked. “Her Ladyship has promised me twice this amount, if I return you to her.”

Shit. “Well, you will not be returning with me, so had you not better cut your losses?”

“Her Ladyship was most insistent, Miss Briarwood. She has authorized the use of any means necessary.”

Otham looked past Laudna. Whirling around, Laudna saw a small knot of well-built individuals exchange nods with Otham. So her guardian had procured goons.

“Begging your pardon, miss, but I ought to give it to you plainly.” Otham’s voice lowered. “If the lads and I can’t bring you home, Lady Briarwood plans to warn every constable in the kingdom that your Miss Temult there has abducted you. If you keep running, you’d only be signing a warrant for your girl’s arrest. So why don’t you come with me without a fuss so both you girls can go home and forget this ever happened?”

Laudna faltered. “Imogen could be imprisoned?”

“Lady Briarwood’s got your pencil-portrait of her, all ready to print and post.”

The emotion building in Laudna’s chest was so foreign to her that it took her a moment to recognize it.

It was anger. No—fury. White-hot.

She balled her skirt in her hand and took off into the nearest alley.

“Miss Briarwood! Miss Briarwood, please! Lads!”

As Laudna has hoped, Otham left his horse to follow her, walking just slow enough to avoid making a scene. She led him deeper into the alley, past buckets of swill and broken ale-bottles. Then she closed her eyes.

When she opened them, they were black and smoky all over.

A toothy grin split her face. Smoke poured out of her mouth. She turned on Otham and watched him recoil, stumble backward, trip over the uneven cobblestones into the arms of one of the “lads” who had just rounded the corner.

“I don’t take kindly to threats.” Laudna’s voice was deep and discordant. She advanced on them as ichor trickled down her cheeks.

The goons shrank back, Otham with them.

“A witch!” one cried. “Lord save us!”

“You can save yourselves,” Laudna rasped, “if you leave now.” She closed her eyes, mustering her arcane power, and aimed at Otham—

But when she opened them, Imogen stood behind the goons, framed in the alley’s opening, backlit by the brighter street.

Laudna immediately dropped her dreadful form. The ichor cleared, her face unstretched, the whites of her eyes returned. “Imogen?”

But if Imogen was disturbed that her companion had been dripping with black goo moments ago, she didn’t show it. Instead she gasped theatrically. “Oh my! What are you horrid men doing, accosting a defenseless young lady?”

Otham propped himself up with one hand on a grimy wall. “She was—didn’t you see—she was a monster!”

“Whatever do you mean? I’ve never seen a more ordinary young lady in my life. Monster, indeed! Look at her!”

One of the goons rubbed his eyes. Another shook his head vigorously. Laudna offered a wan smile.

“It’s rather early in the day to be drinking,” said Imogen. “Surely your employer would not want to hear you were drunk and delusional at your work.”

The men exchanged glances.

“We all saw that, didn’t we, lads?”

“Witches, both of them! God bless us!”

Imogen shrugged. “Oh well, you had your chance.” She shook back her sleeves and extended her arms so that her purple lightning-marks flashed. “Laudna, shall we?”

///

A few minutes later, Imogen and Laudna exited the alley by themselves. Laudna straightened her bonnet. Imogen tied the coachman’s coin-pouch to her belt.

“I still don’t think we should have left them the sovereign,” said Imogen. “I used all my money on that post-chaise.”

“They deserve a visit to the doctor, at least, when they come to.”

“I have said it before, but you are too kind.”

“Hardly. That ice spell was quite nasty, in my opinion. I’ve never tried it on a person before.”

The young women made their way back to the front of the inn, where the porter was warily eyeing the rat atop Imogen’s trunk. It did not take too large a tip to convince him to show them to the Omen Sanatorium, and soon enough they were standing in front of an unassuming structure in Merton-Street.

“This is it?” murmured Imogen.

Laudna shifted Pâté’s cage under one arm and reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Are you ready?”

“I just thought, if they are with these Grim Verity people, this place might look a bit—different.”

“Different how? Astrological symbols in the crown moulding?” Laudna teased. “I’m going to ring the bell, all right?”

After about a minute, the door opened a crack, and a woman’s voice asked—not without apprehension—if she could help them.

Imogen cleared her throat and gripped Laudna’s hand for courage. “I apologize, I know it is later in the afternoon, but my name is Imogen Temult, and we have come from London to look for Professor Kadija Sumal. Is she within?”

The door opened wider to reveal a woman clad in a sober dark gray suit, with a rich brown complexion and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She studied Imogen’s face. Imogen pushed back her bonnet, and her lilac tresses tumbled out. The woman gasped.

“You’re Liliana’s girl,” she said.

Imogen nodded. “Is she—”

“She’s not here. Hasn’t been for years. If you’re here, though, your secret must be out, then, Imogen? I may call you, Imogen, mayn’t I—I’ve only ever heard of you as a little girl. But we mustn’t talk here. You must come in. Let me help you with that.” She reached out for the trunk, and Imogen silently took up the other end of the trunk while Laudna followed with Pâté.

Nothing about the Sanatorium seemed especially clinical—there were no chemists’ supplies, no surgeon’s contraptions. Aside from the seven locks on the front door, it appeared to be an ordinary house. They deposited the trunk at the foot of a white-painted staircase, and from there, the woman led them into an airy parlor with simple cherrywood furniture and colorful cushions.

This person, they soon discovered, was Professor Sumal herself, the director of the Sanatorium. Imogen was truly amazed by the frantic pace of the Professor’s mind and movement. She had managed to introduce herself, run to the kitchens to ask the cook to bring tea for the travelers, and ascertained that Laudna was an ally of theirs, before Imogen had even decided what questions to ask. But after a long day of travel and a close call with Lady Briarwood’s men, it was comforting, for Imogen to lean back and allow Professor Sumal to explain matters.

“Your mother came here about, oh, eighteen or twenty years ago, a couple years after she allowed your village to think she’d passed on.” Professor Sumal sipped from her teacup. “She’d realized that certain folks in university centers tended to be more interested than frightened of strange phenomena. I was a young don at the time, working to establish myself as an astronomer; and though such subjects were taboo, I had begun to study the impacts of planetary conjunctions on persons born under them. That was how I first heard of the Ruidusborn.”

The Professor went on to explain that the word “Ruidus” was an English corruption of the Latin rugitus, which meant “noisy.” Medieval monks used the word to describe the planetary arrangement that marked the birthdays of those beset by thought-noise. These strange individuals came to be known as the Ruidusborn, and in the last century, the Grim Verity secretly organized to study and protect them.

As Professor Sumal studied the Ruidus, she fell in with the Grim Verity, and with them, she founded the Omen Sanatorium. On paper, the Sanatorium’s purpose was to help patients of a nervous or melancholic disposition, by calming their minds with the rational study of the stars. But in truth, the Sanatorium was a place to study and develop the magic of the Ruidusborn, as well as probe deeper into the secrets of the Ruidus itself. Liliana Temult had been one such patient.

Imogen fidgeted with a chip in her tea-saucer. “But if she is not here now, Professor, then where is she?”

Professor Sumal heaved a sigh. “I wish I could say. You see, your mother was here for several years, and grew quite advanced in her powers. One night she flew all the way to the top of the Radcliffe Camera! But we’ve got many enemies here, we do—on one side, the Church wants to think it has a monopoly on the supernatural; and on the other, there are certain factions at the University, who hate anything that can’t be rationally explained. We must be careful.” She gestured to the locks on the door.

“So which was it?” Laudna asked. “The clergy or the skeptics?”

“The latter, in Liliana’s case. A lecture of ours attracted the attention of a senior academic—my colleague at the time, Ludinus Da’leth, who hates anything he calls ‘superstition’ or ‘jiggery-pokery.’ Now, I don’t mind atheists—I’m not particularly religious myself—but this man won’t live and let live. He’s taken advantage of the college’s C. of E. stance to try to oust my Jewish and Catholic colleagues, and when Liliana was here, I was his target. He was convinced I would try to turn my students Hindu.” Professor Sumal snorted. “Anyway, something Liliana or I said at that lecture tipped him off that we’re not exactly a bastion of orthodoxy over here, and he was getting nosier by the day. We were worried he’d try to involve the bishops in investigating us, so Liliana left to take the heat off my back. The Verity has some contacts in Finland—last we heard, she’d made it there, but she has been less communicative in the last few years.”

There followed some warm words from all parties about the hypocrisy of those who partner with powerful enemies when it suits them; praise for the noble courage of Liliana; and dismay upon the revelation that Da’leth was now Provost of Balmoral. But now that the Professor had satisfied Imogen’s curiosity as far as she was able, she was eager to know what had brought the young witches to her doorstep. So it became necessary to explain Imogen’s powers, and Laudna’s, and Lady Briarwood’s shadowed dealings in Whitestone—the discussion of which lasted so long that the housekeeper asked if she had not better bring them their evening meal, if they persisted in sitting there.

Professor Sumal knew little of Whitestone, except to confirm that the De Rolo family indeed lived there, and that it was situated a few miles north of Oxford. Laudna considered bringing up Lady Briarwood’s cryptic promise, that Laudna herself might be the heir of Whitestone—for although she did not believe it, she wondered if it was commonly believed in Society, as Lady Briarwood had intimated.

For if it was believed—Laudna stole a glance at Imogen—then had their friendship begun under false pretenses?

Professor Sumal caught Laudna’s troubled expression and smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, Miss Briarwood. We shall get you to Whitestone first thing tomorrow, if you’d like—it will be the easiest thing in the world, to hire a wagon headed that way. And of course you will both stay the night, will you not?”

Laudna opened her mouth to thank her, when suddenly, a voice echoed into her mind—a voice not Imogen’s, but steely, honeyed, and unwelcome—

Poor dear, I see Miss Temult has kept you from my coachman. Has she really turned you so thoroughly against me? But I thank heaven for our wonderful postal system, for by tomorrow morning, Miss Temult’s face will be known to the constabulary, and it will only be a matter of time before she is apprehended. Do not worry, my child. I am not angry with you. If you will only return to me, you may yet see Miss Temult unharmed--if she understands she shall never have you.

Chapter Text

“Get out!” Laudna cried. Tea splashed down her front as her teacup jumped out of her hand and shattered on the floor.

“Laudna!” Imogen gripped her companion’s forearms. “Laud, what’s wrong?”

Laudna shook her head so hard her hair tumbled out of her ribbon. “Oh, God! She’s in my head!”

“Lady Briarwood? Tell me, darl—Laud!”

Had Imogen really nearly called Laudna “darlin’”? Had anyone noticed? Luckily for Imogen, this was not the moment for analyzing her word choice. Professor Sumal had joined Laudna’s side and put a comforting hand on her back.

“Don’t worry about the teacup, Miss Briarwood. Would you mind telling us what happened?”

Laudna nodded and drew a shaky breath. “She was in my head—my guardian, Lady Briarwood—like when Imogen speaks to me telepathically. Except it felt—wrong.”

“Wrong, how?” said Professor Sumal.

“It was almost as if—” Laudna shuddered. “As if she was already in there—instead of reaching out from somewhere else.”

Imogen did not let go of Laudna, but addressed the Professor. “If Lady Briarwood can communicate across great distances, and if her mind has been guarded from mine since the moment we met—do you think, Professor, there is a chance that Lady Briarwood is Ruidusborn, like me?”

“Well, not necessarily. There are other spells, or enchanted items, that may achieve the same effects. A Ring of Mind Shielding, for instance, might cause the mental silence.” Professor Sumal frowned. “And as part of my research, my assistants and I have combed through census data, to compile a list of persons who may have been born under the Ruidus. There are precious few titled gentry on that list. I’m certain I would have remembered a Lady Briarwood.”

“I don’t understand,” Laudna said. “I have never seen Lady Briarwood cast a spell, or practice magic of any kind. I thought she was unable to do such things, and that was why she took such an interest in my powers.”

“Perhaps her interest was not purely theoretical, then,” said Professor Sumal. “If she has trained you in magic, it is possible that the magical benefits of the arrangement were not entirely one-sided. Have either of you ever heard of a warlock?”

Laudna shook her head. Imogen shrugged.

Professor Sumal sketched out the particulars of a warlock-patron relationship: how one party might receive magical benefits as the result of a bargain; how a warlock exercising those benefits, might strengthen the patron themselves. “Miss Briarwood, it is entirely possible that your guardian saw your innate aptitude for magic as an opportunity to strengthen herself, and coerced you somehow into a bargain.”

Privately, Imogen could not repress a twinge of satisfaction at the revelation. She had known all along, that Lady Briarwood’s interest in Laudna had not been as altruistic as everyone around her seemed to believe. But immediately she felt ashamed, that she was indulging in such self-centered satisfaction, when her friend needed her help!

And Laudna looked troubled indeed. “If Lady Briarwood is my warlock patroness, then does that mean she always lives in my head? How did she know that Imogen and I had eluded the men she sent after us? Information cannot travel that fast, even by post-chaise.”

“There are magical means of scrying on someone’s location, without the patron-warlock link, and it is likely that this is what Lady Briarwood used. You needn’t worry too much, Miss Briarwood. Every patron-warlock bargain is different, but because this one was engineered without your knowledge, its power over you is limited.”

“Wait!” Imogen snapped her fingers. “Professor, you said that Lady Briarwood probably had a Ring of Mind Shielding? If Laudna had such a Ring, would it create a—a sort of blockade between Laudna’s head and Lady Briarwood’s?”

“It’s possible. But you realize enchanted items like that are very rare indeed. You would need a highly advanced mage to create one—and if such a soul lives in England, I haven’t met them.”

Imogen tilted her head at Laudna, grinned, and raised her eyebrows. “Well, we know where one such artifact is, don’t we?”

Laudna stared back. Her eyes widened. “I may not read minds, but I believe I know what is on yours, Imogen.”

Professor Sumal cackled in glee. “You want to take it off her? Oh, you’re a Temult, all right! Foolhardy as Liliana!”

Laudna said, “I am afraid you do not understand, Imogen. Lady Briarwood has threatened to send the law after you. If you continued with me, you would be in more danger than I.”

Whether it was a trick of the light, or Imogen’s innate arcane force, Laudna was not certain—but she saw, plain as anything, that Imogen’s eyes flashed. When Imogen spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“I’m more afraid of what she’d do to you if you went back, than a gaggle of village constables with more power than sense. She shall never frighten me away from you.”

Professor Sumal applauded the sentiment, and Laudna’s cheeks rose with the color of an ordinarily pale complexion, rather than her usual death-mask hue. Had Imogen just made her blush? The thought filled Imogen with something like pride, and she felt her own face warm.

///

Mere hours later, Imogen lay flat on her back, excruciatingly conscious of Laudna’s body huddled next to hers. As grateful as she was that Professor Sumal had provided them with the Sanatorium’s guest bedroom for the night, Imogen was not at all certain that she would sleep. Her usual terror of the night was only magnified by the stress of the day, the worry that a nightmare of hers might wake Laudna, and the knowledge that she had expended most of her arcane power and would need to sleep to regain her abilities for the next day.

And as kind as Professor Sumal had been, and as reassuring as she’d been about the arcane protection glyphs previous residents had placed on the Sanatorium, the academic hadn’t been able to resist conjecture about the possibility that Lady Briarwood might have instantaneous arcane travel at her disposal, or the observation that if she traveled overnight and changed horses enough times, morning might dawn with Lady Briarwood back in Oxfordshire.

Worst of all, Imogen was close enough to Laudna, that it took all her might not to let her companion’s thoughts bleed into her own mind. If the buzzing pitch of Laudna’s mind was any indication, Laudna had not fallen asleep yet, either.

As if brought to life by Imogen’s thoughts, Laudna rolled over and propped her chin in her hand. “Imogen?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

Imogen sighed. “I thought I was being quiet.”

“It was uncanny. You were scarcely breathing at all.” The cap sleeve of Laudna’s dove-gray nightgown had slipped, leaving one bony shoulder exposed. “I can’t sleep, either.”

The hum of Laudna’s thoughts had changed somehow. It was just as melodious, but something was different—the tempo? The volume? Imogen had heard something similar before, but she couldn’t place it.

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you awake,” Imogen said. “I’m unused to sharing my bedroom. It’s harder to sleep with another mind in the room.”

Laudna stiffened. “God, I hadn’t thought of that. Does that mean you can hear—what I’m thinking right now?”

“I could, if I let myself. But with effort, I can hear only—” Imogen switched to telepathy. Well, it’s not music, but I call it music.

Laudna scrunched her nose in confusion. Thoughts sound like music?

Yours do. Haven’t I told you? When Mr Bell first introduced us—I had asked him to, because you sounded so lovely.

There was no doubt about it now. Laudna was blushing, and her thoughts sang like a viola. Imogen had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep the mental floodgates from collapsing. And she realized where she recognized the sound.

She had heard it many times before, at balls, at weddings, in conversation with couples who cared for one another deeply, between people who would do anything for one another.

Certainly Imogen would do anything for Laudna. Here they were, after all. Imogen delighted in Laudna’s presence, that was undeniable. Any time they were alone together, Imogen could scarcely think, she was so happy. But how far did her love for Laudna really go? Imogen had resolutely kept her mind away from such a question—if she entertained it, who knows how long she could go without peeking into Laudna’s mind, and thus having her answer, but betraying her in the process—and anyway, things could never be fair between them—how could Laudna ever trust her, if she knew that at any moment, Imogen could strip back the curtain and dive into her thoughts—

“Imogen, you really don’t look well,” said Laudna. “Are you afraid of having a nightmare?”

Imogen nodded. It wasn’t a lie—she was—but it was the least of her fears at the moment.

“If you have a nightmare, I want you to wake me up.”

“I can’t—”

Laudna put a finger to Imogen’s lips. “Not another word. If you don’t, then I shall stay awake all night waiting to comfort you.”

And her friend was so unbearably lovely that Imogen couldn’t help herself—she grabbed Laudna’s hand and didn’t let go. “You can’t do that. You’d fall asleep.”

“No, I shouldn’t. You don’t know what I can do!” Laudna tried to tug her hand free, but Imogen held on, and Laudna tugged again, and Imogen held tight, and the tug-of-war lasted until, breathless with giggles, they each collapsed, clamping their hands over their mouths, shaking silently, with the lavender and jet eyes trained on each other until they fluttered closed in exhaustion.

///

Imogen had no nightmares. Perhaps fatigue had sent her into a deep unbroken sleep. Or—as Laudna claimed, despite Professor Sumal’s explanations of Ruidusborn dreams—perhaps Laudna’s frightening presence had scared off any malicious influences. Whatever the reason, the instant Imogen awoke, she felt refreshed and invigorated, and knew her powers for the day had grown strong again.

They left Pâté with the professor—Laudna did not want to risk his injury—and, scarcely after dawn, the witches found themselves on the back of a cart on the Whitestone road. Professor Sumal had advised them to see if any farmer or tradesman could offer a wagon ride, and they had not had to wait too long before a farrier on his way to shoe the Whitestone estate’s horses had passed by. Imogen had allowed herself to listen to his thoughts to make sure he was not a Briarwood agent in disguise. Once satisfied he was harmless, the journey passed pleasantly enough, as he and Imogen discussed matters equestrian—or would have passed pleasantly, had not every rustling hedge, every passing traveler, plucked at Imogen’s nerves, as she expected Lady Briarwood to burst out at any moment.

But no Lady Briarwood accosted them, and between the young ladies’ smart appearances and non-local accents, the farrier was happy to believe that they were, indeed, acquaintances of the de Rolos, who had met them in London, and were calling upon them now that they were in the countryside. The sun was considerably higher in the sky by the time they reached the village of Whitestone, beyond which laid its namesake. The village was, as English villages went, ordinary—a green with a majestic beech, a graystone church, a neat high street—but the churchyard was rather less crowded, than the age of the church seemed to suggest it should be. Many of the trees, even the beautiful beech, had blackened patches on their trunks, where healthy boughs had sloughed off. And several of the older buildings bore signs of destruction and repair in recent years.

Imogen turned to Laudna, wondering if she had also noticed the village’s scars. But Imogen would not have needed her telepathy to perceive Laudna’s unease—her face was even paler than usual, and she picked at her long fingernails.

Laud, is everything all right?

I can’t say. Something about this place feels—oh, I don’t understand.

Instinctively Imogen reached for Laudna’s hand, but something arrested her, and she dropped her hands in her lap. The rode in uneasy silence to the gates of the Whitestone, and even if they attracted some curious glances from the gardener as the farrier left them before the Hall, no one stopped Imogen and Laudna from knocking on the front door. But the butler’s face went cold when Imogen asked to if Lady Cassandra de Rolo was at home.

“Lady Cassandra is not expecting visitors.” His eyes slid from Laudna’s baggy borrowed clothes, to Imogen’s escaping strands of purple hair. “Especially not so early.”

“We are sorry to come unannounced,” said Imogen. “I assure you, sir, we would not be here if the matter was not most urgent.”

“What is that matter, then?”

“We must tell Lady Cassandra in confidence,” said Laudna.

The butler looked again at Laudna, and his eyes narrowed, as if something about her was familiar. “I am sorry, miss, but for the family’s safety, I cannot allow you inside without her ladyship’s permission.”

“Sir, my friend is in danger,” said Imogen. “Please—we’ve come all the way from London to seek Lady Cassandra’s guidance. I am certain we have a common enemy, and we have information that may be of use to her.”

The butler frowned and hesitated. “Well, I shall need a name to give Lady Cassandra.”

Laudna, should we give him our real—

“This is my friend Imogen Temult,” said Laudna firmly. “And I am Laudna—Laudna Briarwood. Laudna Bradbury Briarwood.”

At the name Briarwood, the butler’s scowl deepened, but at Bradbury, he audibly gasped. Before Imogen had a chance to decide if she was curious enough to read his mind, the butler mumbled that he would speak with Lady Cassandra right away, and shut the door.

Imogen turned to Laudna, astounded. “Bradbury?”

“I know that was my surname, before I was adopted,” said Laudna. “It was in the girls’ school records. Imogen, I think—I think I have been here before.”

Moments later, footsteps pounded from inside the Hall; the door flew open; and a woman in a crimson damask dressing-gown, holding a rapier, stared out at them. Her close-cropped hair was dark brown, save a shock of white in her fringe.

“By God, you were right,” she said, so low Imogen strained to hear it. “She does look just like her. You’re Miss Bradbury?”

“Yes?” said Laudna.

“Cassandra.” The woman extended her non-sword hand. “So is she after you?”

Laudna did not need to be a telepath to understand what Cassandra meant. She nodded.

“Well, she’ll not have you. She’ll not have either of us.” Cassandra stepped aside and gestured for the witches to enter. Addressing Imogen, she asked, “You’re with Miss Bradbury? Companion? Betrothed?”

“Oh, no, she’s not,” said Laudna quickly. “That is—”

“I’m with her,” said Imogen. “I’m a friend.”

Cassandra nodded and set off on a brisk walk. “Fairfax, you were right to tell me. Breakfast in the parlor, please. This way, if you please, Miss Bradbury and Miss—what was it? Forgive the weapon—it’s a precaution. Percy doesn’t like me to be unarmed.” Her manner was as brusque as her voice was soft; a contrast, Laudna reflected, not unlike her gleaming rapier and silky robe. The directness and purposeful walk suggested a woman practiced in giving orders, almost military in nature.

“I’m glad you came back to Whitestone, Miss Bradbury. I can’t imagine what it must have taken for that to happen. You must be very tired from your journey. Pardon the question, but if you are here unannounced, I take it you have no kin left in the village who could have introduced you?”

Laudna sank onto the chair Cassandra indicated with the sword. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Are there—were there Bradburies in Whitestone?”

Cassandra balanced the rapier against the legs of her chair and leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “You don’t remember anything, do you?”

Laudna glanced toward Imogen to share her bewilderment—but Imogen was distracted by something on the wall behind Lady Cassandra. Involuntarily, Laudna followed her line of sight.

In a gilt frame hung a portrait of a married couple, and judging by the clothing, it had been painted only a few years before. A young man a little older than Cassandra sat in the foreground. His similar features were similar to Cassandra's, but his hair was wholly white. Standing behind him, with a hand on the gentleman’s shoulder, was a tall woman whose black curly hair was upswept with blue feathers.

Now Laudna knew why the butler and Cassandra had looked at her so closely. This woman and Laudna were eerily alike. In fact, if Laudna had had a brighter complexion and a fuller figure--perhaps they could have passed as doubles.