Phoenix and Ashes

anything. She was dreadfully stubborn that way.

Then again, she had every right to be.

'I've always said that the big house and the village haven't got much of anything to say to each other,' Sarah replied sourly, still staring down at her stones. 'Still, I knew it was an Air Master that chased off the revenants; I knew it couldn't be a local witch, no matter how powerful, when you told me about it, and I was right. It turns out she's a guest up there at Longacre, though, and it seems that she's staying the summer. And that changes everything.'

'An Air Master?' Eleanor said, catching her breath. Oh, granted, it wasn't her Element, but any Master could help her—

More to the point, unlike, say, a constable or any other authority figure, any Elemental Master would know she was telling the truth about Alison and what Alison had done to her. She wouldn't have to try and convince an Elemental Master that she wasn't mad because she was talking about magic.

'That's what we've needed, what you've needed, to see if you can't get cut free of your stepmother and her wicked magic. And now, I've asked the cards, the bones, and the stones, and they're all saying you need to go up there and meet with that Air Master. In fact, they say if you don't, well—' she shook her head. 'It'll be bad, that's all. Not just bad for you, either. The stones reckon Alison's got some wicked mischief going that's going to be a trouble no matter what steps are taken to stop her, but horrible bad if she isn't stopped.' Sarah looked up, her face full of fear. 'I can't tell what it is, but at a guess, she's let loose some kind of sickness; she's Earth, and that's the sort of thing they do when they go to the bad. Pestilence and plague.' Sarah bit her lip. 'Well, the stones say that if you work with that Air Master and get yourself cut free, Alison will fall, but if you don't, she'll use you somehow and put more power into whatever it is she's done, and the stones don't say how much worse it will be, but they're all showing their bad sides.'

She felt as if hope and fear were at war inside her. Hope, because here was exactly what she needed. Fear, because how could she ever get what she needed with Alison's hearth-binding still holding her? 'But—I can't get as far as Longacre,' she protested. 'And even if I could, I can't just stroll up to even the tradesman's entrance and ask to be introduced to the Air Master!' Even if she knew the Air Master's real name. Especially not looking like a servant. She knew better than to go to the front door—she'd be turned away in a heartbeat.

'Well, now, that's not necessarily true . . . because you only need to get inside those walls once and talk to her. After that, if she's worth anything, and the stones say she is, she'll come to you.' Sarah gathered up the stones and poured them into a little leather bag. 'And there is one night, coming up, when you can walk in the front door and be presented like you were to the manor born. Provided you're wearing a fancy dress.' She tilted her head to one side. 'Think about it. The night of that fancy dress ball. If your stepsisters are good enough to be invited, you surely are as well.'

Eleanor's hand flew to her mouth. 'Good gad!' she cried. 'You're right, you're exactly right! But—' As quickly as her hopes rose, they dropped again. 'Where am I going to get an invitation? Or a costume? Especially one that will look as if it belongs among people like that?'

'Ah, now, what about that attic of yours?' Sarah replied, with a lift of her brow. 'I think we ought to take a look up there, first, before we think about any other possibilities. As for the invitation, you leave that up to me. I'll find a way to get you invited.'

Eleanor wanted to protest that she'd been through all of the chests and had salvaged the only usable garments up there, but Sarah was already on her feet and marching towards the steps. With a sigh of resignation, Eleanor followed.

It was easier to move the chests with two of them, but it was rather disheartening to see what the moths and time had done to some of the once-beautiful gowns that had been inside them. Silk shattered and tore like wet tissue as they lifted gowns out; the satins had mostly discolored, beadwork fell off the bodices. But just as Eleanor turned away, even though there were older chests and clothes-presses waiting, certain that they had completely eliminated any possibility of finding anything, Sarah let out an exclamation of satisfaction.

'What?' Eleanor blurted, turning back.

Sarah held up a froth of flounces and lace. 'I knew there should be one of these still good!' she exclaimed with satisfaction. 'It's still a tale in the village, how the three girls from Broom went up to London and were the belles of the ball. The fellow who owned The Arrows before your father bought it was just as well-off; the wool- trade, d'ye see, that and The Arrows had been in his family since Great Harry's day. This is a ball-gown from the time of Victoria's coronation; all three of the daughters here went down to London on account of some aunt married a title got them all manner of invitations. She got them into all the right circles and chaperoned them about for three weeks. It must have worked, since two of them got husbands out of the journey, and but the third never could settle on anyone, and ended up back here, taking care of her parents when they got old. That's who your father bought the house of, the daughter who never married.'

Curious now, Eleanor made her way back to where Sarah was unpacking the petticoats that went with the gown. They, remarkably, were also still sound. The gown was stupefying to one used to the current narrow skirts and minimal (or in Eleanor's case, nonexistent) corseting. She couldn't imagine how much Venice lace had gone into trimming the row after row of flounces on the skirt. Twenty yards? Thirty? The neckline was low enough to make her blush; the puffy little flounced sleeves were as tiny as the skirt was huge. It was made of some sort of flounces of netting or gauzy stuff in a dark ivory tone over a slightly heavier skirt. Maybe it had once been pure white, and had aged to this color, but if so, it had done so uniformly.

'You'll look a rare treat,' Sarah said, giving the gown a good shake. 'This is Indian cotton, from back in the day when it was dearer than silk.'