baskets, and bottles of scent, glaring at her.
“In the garden in a week,” she whispered, as she closed the door tightly on him.
He heard her straighten and then he heard the door unlock. There were murmured apologies, sniffs of disdain, and after an ominous silence, the most horrid sound Syrus had ever heard.
The noble lady had unleashed a gigantic fart.
The smell came next, washing over him in an eye-watering, throat-gagging wave. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t breathe!
He crawled out from the under the cabinet. The lady, still enthroned, screamed. The wight moved to apprehend him, but Syrus scrambled away and out the door.
He ran back to the kitchens, gulping fresh air like water. Next week couldn’t come soon enough.
CHAPTER 21
Over the course of the next week, there is much fluttering and consternation. I can’t find a single moment to steal away and the looks Syrus gives over the dinner table have gone from hopeful to terrified. I’m caught up in the middle of everything as Lucy’s Companion, from planning the wedding banquet to soothing her nerves nearly every night. At last, the day comes when the Imperial Matchmaker and the Grimgorns will arrive for what will hopefully end in a successful matchmaking party. The Matchmaker must approve the marriage based on the Church star charts and with the Empress’s input, since every noble match must receive her blessing before it can proceed.
It is also my birthday. But since the mention of it when Charles arrived, no one else has remembered. Perhaps that’s just as well. I am up to my eyebrows in a seating chart, the nuances of which will all depend on the Matchmaker’s final pronouncement. Not to mention steeling myself as to how I will react when I see Bayne for the first time in weeks. Or Lord Grimgorn, I should say. My mistress’s fiancé.
I’m getting a headache from thinking about all of it. Or perhaps it’s because I tried opening the magic books and still couldn’t read them. They resist my opening them, and when I manage to force them open, everything is gibberish. I feel immediately nauseated just glancing at the strangely slanting letters. Furthermore, there’s no sense of power anymore. It’s as if it’s all drained away, leaving the world dull and gray and familiar as it was before. It’s as if now that I’ve finally accepted I’m a witch and am willing to live with it, the power has been completely taken away.
I set the plan aside and try the books again, to no avail.
I’m feeling rather desperate, because Charles is frightening me. If what Bayne and Syrus said is true, then I need to be able to protect myself. Every night once Lucy has released me, I lay in my bed wondering what to do if he comes to kill me. There’s no one to help me now. Lately, Charles has been very kind—too kind. He’s often not at dinner, and if he is, he’s unusually respectful and quiet. This Charles is almost more disturbing than the openly hostile one I’d gotten used to at the Museum.
Piskel is watching me, clucking softly and trying to hold the pages down for me.
I try to focus. For one second the letters resolve into something familiar and then melt away.
“It’s not working!”
Piskel sighs, his little face drooping.
Lucy bursts into my parlor.
“I’ve been searching high and low—where have you been?” she says.
I frown. Piskel dives under a pillow on the settee.
“I told the maid I would work here on the seating chart. My apologies if you weren’t informed,” I say.
“Oh, seating chart be hanged!” she says. Her dark eyes are wild and her usually well-coiffed hair looks rather disheveled, like she’s been out in a windstorm.
She starts pacing back and forth in front of the fire. She rings the bell by the door for service.
We’ve been through this routine nearly every day for the past two weeks. It’s gotten monotonous, but at least I know what to do. Or I think I do, anyway.
“Lucy, whatever is the matter?”
She paces back and forth between settee and hearth for a few moments.
“Assure me again that this will work,” she says finally.
Every day I’ve reassured her, again and again. But today, my own confidence is wavering. I feel that it’s only fair she knows my fears, that magic isn’t as easy to summon as it may seem.
“I can’t,” I say, before I can stop myself.
She stops her pacing and stares. “What?”
A maid enters with the tea tray. We’re silent until she deposits it on the table by the settee. I pour her a cup, but make no move to have any myself.
“I just don’t know how this will go. I can’t turn people’s minds to my every whim.”
“But you’re a witch!” she nearly shouts.
“I . . .”
“What?” she asks. Her tone is dangerous. I’ve seen her angry off and on again this week, but never directly at me. I’d take back my sudden desire to confess, except that I can’t.
“I seem to be having trouble with the magic,” I say. “Something’s wrong and I don’t know what.”
“Well, you had better figure it out before dinnertime,” she snaps. “This match must go forward or all these pretty little things you see around you will go away in a flash. As will you! How’s that for magic?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Miss Lucy is a witch herself. Of the very unpleasant, baby-eating variety.
I swallow. So much for truthfulness.
“I understand,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “I expect you to attend me at two o’clock.”
I nod and she flounces out without ever having touched her tea.
Piskel creeps out from under the pillows. He makes a few twittering motions, sashaying toward the door in clear mockery of Lucy.
“I’ve had better birthdays,” I say to him. Yes, indeed.
At two o’clock, after all the cinching, powdering, and pinching I can stand, I meet Lucy in her parlor. She’s calm and collected now, and she takes my arm with a flurry of bergamot and rose-scented lace.
“Oh, Vespa,” she says. “I do apologize for my manner earlier. I’m just so distraught over everything.”
I take the initiative to pat her hand. “It’s all right.” I smile as if I’m confident, though inside my stomach is full of fluttering sylphids.
She returns it with that winsome smile of which I’m so envious. Her face has been artfully painted and there are glittering butterflies affixed to her towering hair. She looks dazzling, so dazzling as to seem almost inhuman.
“All is well, then. You figured out how to . . .” She doesn’t say it out loud. Despite her earlier remarks, she knows the servants hear things.
I nod. It’s a bald-faced lie, but it’s better than incurring her wrath.
She squeezes my hand. “Wonderful,” she whispers.
I escort her from the parlor and to the Lord’s Sitting Room, where the matchmaking consultation will take place.
“You know,” she whispers in the hall, “despite your coloring and those Tinker cheekbones, you really do dress up nicely.”
I blush, whether with embarrassment or anger I’m not certain. Perhaps a little of both. How does she manage to compliment and offend simultaneously? It’s a trick I hope I never learn.
And then I think about the poor Tinkers trapped in the Imperial Refinery and my heart hurts.
There’s no time to say anything in reply, for we are at the door. Lord Virulen, who has been away on business until today, is already in the room. The silver werehound head on his ebony cane gleams near his chair. Firelight makes shadows of the seamed scars on his face. It’s still hard for me to believe sometimes that this shattered man
