Blast that unfinished sentence. But something else is off. He is not telling me enough. Then I notice that, though the light streams in all around Finn, he has no shadow. I run to the window next to him, then turn and look at the ground. My shadow is there, silhouette of long hair and robed body, but there is something fuzzy, something not quite the same about it. I raise one arm as fast as I can, and there! The hint of another shadow behind it.
“I still have your shadow!” I gasp. “Take it back!”
“Would that I could.”
“No, I don’t want it, you must—” I stop, my heart racing as I remember what he said earlier. “You . . . you can see and hear through your shadow.” Minutes ago I was na**d in his bathroom, with his shadow there the whole time! “How dare you!” I slap him, and he has the audacity to look surprised.
“No, it doesn’t work like that! I don’t see and hear through it all the time. It takes a great deal of concentration and power, and I’m entirely tapped out at the moment. I promise I would never intrude on your privacy.”
My face is burning, and I cannot find it in me to believe him. “Take it back. Immediately.”
He raises both hands in the air, exasperated. “I can’t! These things don’t work like that. You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me how they work! Why did you attach it to me in the first place?” Had he suspected Lord Downpike would do something? If so, why hadn’t he protected me?
Finn looks to the side, taking a deep breath and folding his hands in front of himself. I can actually see him regaining control of his temper. “I would prefer not to discuss it at the moment. In due time we will figure out . . . a solution.”
I want to strangle him. The cool, smooth planes of his face, the sharp contours of his jaw, the perfectly combed golden hairs atop his head. It infuriates me how he can be so put together and calm when my whole world has shifted.
I lift a hand. He cringes expecting another slap, but does not move, as if he knows he deserves it. Instead, I push my fingers through his hair, making it stand at wild angles, horribly mussed.
“There.” I mimic his imperious, disengaged face. “Now.” I sit back down and take a sip of my brandy. “You have more to tell me, but first I would like to send a letter to my friends at the hotel telling them I am safe and will be home soon. They’re probably sick with worry.”
“I’ll send notice that you’re safe, but I am afraid you can’t go back.”
“Pardon?”
He moves away from the window and stands, examining a bookshelf as though it contains something more interesting than a rainbow of cracked and worn spines. “I think it best if you go to my home in the country. You’ll be safe there until this is sorted. The grounds are well kept, and you’d love the greenhouse. I can hire a few servants for you.”
“And how long am I to stay?”
“As long as it takes for me to neutralize Downpike as a threat to you and others. If you are where he cannot reach you, then that problem is solved.”
I set my glass carefully onto the table, my voice measured. “I am a problem to be solved.”
“Yes. I mean, no. But I could not live with myself if you came to any more harm from my enemies. It’s the best solution for everyone.”
“You mean it is the most convenient solution for yourself! What about me? I have school, and a job!”
He shakes his head dismissively, and I hate him for it. He has dismissed my entire life with that one gesture, whether intentional or not. “You cannot go back to the hotel, he knows where you live. But you needn’t worry about money. I will take care of everything. And you can tell me which books you want, and I’ll have them sent there. I can’t imagine you learn more from your professors than you do on your own.”
“It’s all settled, then.”
He nods, clearly relieved. “Yes. This will work out nicely.”
“And how shall I dress? Will you pick out my clothing for me? Perhaps you’d prefer I give up scholarly pursuits entirely. I could take up painting! Would you also advise me on how to style my hair so that, if you decide to visit, it is most pleasing to your tastes?”
He frowns. “It’s not my place to—”
“To tell me anything about how to live my life and protect myself. You tell me that you do not ask for the power you were born with, and yet you wield it like the Great Gentle Sword of Mother Albion, coming in to tell the simple primitives how they should be living their lives! You couch your motivations under the banner of protecting me, when it comes down to the fact that you think you are better than I am and more equipped to rule my life.”
His eyebrows raise. “That is not fair.”
“No, it’s not fair. None of this is fair. But I will decide what to do with the lack of fairness in my circumstances.”
“There is more at stake here than your well-being. You don’t understand the elements at play, the lives that hang in the balance. Downpike isn’t only after you. He has his sights set on inciting conflict, perhaps even war, and I alone stand in opposition!”
“If I don’t understand, it’s because you think me unworthy of the knowledge and that is where you fail.” I stand. “Now, if you will show me the front door, I’ll be on my way.”
He leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed, face set. “And where, pray tell, will you go? He will have you in an instant if you return to the hotel. Is that what you want?”
I try not to blanche at the idea of being back in Lord Downpike’s horrible room. “I have other options. You needn’t concern yourself.”
“I can’t help it!” For a moment, his coolness cracks and he looks beside himself with anguish. Then his smile slides back into place. “I am afraid I cannot show you to the door.” He taps his cane against the floor, perhaps thinking I do not notice the motion. “They are all locked at the moment.”
We both stare, eyes hard, neither breaking down or backing off. Then I sigh, putting on the meek face I gave to Mama when she needed to be right. “Very well. I’m not agreeing to anything, but I’m in no condition to argue right now.”
He lifts his cane, pleased. Clearly he does not know me if he thinks I am ever in a condition where arguing is not possible.
“I’m feeling faint. I’d like to wash my face with some cool water.”
“Of course!” He walks ahead of me, and I take Sir Bird’s book and tuck it into the robe, crossing my arms in front of its hidden bulk.
“Thank you,” I say, entering the washroom. “Is there a bed you could prepare for me? I would be grateful.”
He nods, all polite concern now that he is getting what he wants, and closes the door behind himself. I roll my eyes at how easily he accepts me as meek and courteous. I play an Alben woman well when I want to. I cross to the window overlooking a park in the city, push it open, and climb out.
Thirteen
THE GRAY-HATTED WOMAN UNDER THE BATTERED umbrella cannot seem to understand what I am asking.
I repeat myself. “The park, madam. What is it called? What area are we in?”
She looks nervously from side to side, as though unsure whether to call for a constable to deal with me. I am a sight, in my man’s dressing robe, bare feet, single glove, and undone hair, but one cannot be expected to be fashionable under such circumstances.
I wait as calmly as I can manage. Finn will check on me soon, and I’d prefer to be far removed. But if she calls for a constable, I’ll have to run. No telling where they would take me if I answered their questions honestly. Yes, sir, I am hiding from two mad magicians, one of whom tortured me, and the other of whom wishes to set me up in a beautiful estate with servants and anything I require.
“The park?” I repeat.
“Greenhaven. Greenhaven Park. In the southern neighborhood of Kingston. Can I . . . do you need . . . would you like my umbrella?” She holds it out. The handle is worn but sturdy.
For some reason this small gesture from a woman I don’t know, whom I assumed was judging me, puts me on the verge of tears. “Thank you. You are so kind.” I take the umbrella, because I do not have it in me to pass up such a simple generosity.
She pats my hand and smiles. “You’re young yet. These troubles are never as serious as we make them out to be.”
I sniffle, nodding and holding back a laugh. “I’m certain you are right.”
“Well, then.” She seems to stand a bit straighter—in spite of the drizzle now hitting her hat—and walks away.
Kingston. It’s on the opposite end of the city from where I live, but something feels familiar. I laugh. I do have other places I can go. A few minutes later, I stand on the front steps of a beautiful dark stone town house in a stylish Kingston neighborhood, my umbrella dripping a halo of water around me. The butler, a stout man with polished glasses and hair brutally combed into submission, blocks the door with a perplexed frown.
“And you know Miss Eleanor how?”
“She gave me her card and told me to call on her.”
“Do you . . . have the card with you?”
“I am afraid my purse was stolen. Along with my shoes.”
I can tell he thinks me mad—with good reason. He would sooner set me out with the rubbish bins than allow me into the parlor of Eleanor’s fine town house, but if my story is true, he might earn the ire of his mistress by being rude and dismissing me.
I have a feeling I will be standing on this porch for a long time.
A man’s voice comes from behind me. “What in the queen’s name is going on here, Mr. Carlisle?”
I turn to find Ernest trying to figure out who exactly I am. When he finally connects me to his dance partner at the gala, the realization is written in humorous clarity across his face. He immediately looks to either side as though caught doing something wrong.
“I . . . erm . . . what are you doing here?”
I silently thank the spirits when Eleanor, dressed in a tailored burgundy day gown with an art piece of a hat, climbs out of the black carriage and joins her brother. She frowns, clearly stumped, until recognition lights up her face. Instead of guilty, she looks delighted. “Jessamin? Is that you?”
I give her a wry smile, hoping I didn’t misjudge her friendliness last night. “I have had a series of misfortunes since we met and wondered if I might trouble you with some questions.”
She laughs, hands her umbrella to Mr. Carlisle, and then wraps her hand through my elbow. “Oh, I knew I was right to make you my friend. Finally, someone interesting in this whole sleeping town. Let’s get you off the porch before you’re attached to Ernest in some vicious gossip he is no doubt already fearing will ruin his political aspirations.”
“I—of course not, I—” he stammers, his face as red as his hair.
Eleanor ignores him. “Mr. Carlisle, we will be in the parlor. Have Mrs. Jenkins bring dry clothes for my friend, and we’ll take some tea—” She notices my expression change, and narrows her eyes. “No tea then. We’ll have some chocolate. You do like chocolate?”
Relieved, I squeeze her hand with my own. “Nothing could sound better at the moment.”
After my umbrella is taken, my clothes are changed, and the chocolate is delivered, we settle near a cozy fireplace in Eleanor’s parlor. It is decorated in stripes and cream colors, far less ornate than I would have expected.
Ernest walks in to join us, but Eleanor cuts him a look and shakes her head. “I think this is a ladies’ talk.” Again his skin tone matches his hair and he bows out. She leans in, her eyes gleaming. “I must warn you. I am the biggest gossip in all of Avebury.”
I take a sip of the thick, bittersweet drink. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. And if you are a gossip, then I hope you know something of the people I’m avoiding.”
“Oh, dear,” she says, but her smile grows bigger.
“Do you know anything about Lord Downpike? The minister of defense?”
Her smile vanishes, replaced with genuine concern. “What has he done? Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I tried to protect you last night. That’s why I pulled you away when he tried to cut in on the dance floor. It had nothing to do with Ernest. You were probably the highlight of my brother’s entire year. But Lord Downpike had been watching you so closely and I simply couldn’t stand idle. I would not wish that man on my worst enemy. Dark rumors. Besides, Uncle and he don’t get on at all. They had a dreadful falling-out a couple of years ago.”
I find I am stroking the smooth surface of my glove. “Yes, he . . . well, let’s just say I find your enmity with him greatly comforting.”
“What did he do?”
I debate lying, but if she’s nobility, she should know about the magic. And if she doesn’t, she is not much use to me in avoiding this mess. “He spied on me with his familiars, kidnapped me, trapped me in a room without a door, and then proceeded to smash each of the fingers on this hand with a hammer.”
She leans back as though I have struck a blow, and then pulls out a snuffbox. Pinching some between her fingers, she whispers and, to my surprise, blows it straight into my face.
I sneeze.
She clicks the snuffbox shut emphatically. “Well, I’m confused. Whatever would he want with you? You’re lovely, but you haven’t a drop of magical blood in you. He never concerns himself with commoners. Oh, sorry. Here.” She holds out an embroidered handkerchief, and I take it to dab my nose, glaring at her.
“I could have told you I have nothing to do with the secret magical societies apparently flourishing in Albion.”