Archive of Our Own ^beta

8 April
Rushton Manor, Essex

Dear Sebastian,

Rushton is as it ever was, but the manor seems exceeding dull without you, I'm afraid. I suppose I must be grateful that old Boney is exiled at last and that I do not languish in an army hospital in Spain, but lying abed with Aunt Charlotte's endless ministering would drive any man to wish for a French bayonet to fling himself upon. And I hope you will not think it unmans me to admit that my leg aches abominably. The doctor says I may attempt to ride soon, but I may well walk with the cane for the rest of my life, which has put something of a pall over the household. (To add insult to injury, George positively pines for the fair Olivia, I confess I find it offputting in the extreme, altho' one must admit that George has never exactly been what one might term a wit. If I believed Uncle Arthur listened to a word of what we said at the supper table I might suppose him relieved that at least George has left off prating of cravats and the Derby, for he shows not the slightest concern, but neither Olivia nor horseraces can have anything to say to the Etruscans, after all.) Reverend Fitzwilliam has called several times, to lend his support to Aunt Charlotte — one would suppose I was about to cut my stick, and not merely burdened with a limp! — and Patrick Everslee visited the day before yesterday, which was kind in him, as I can hardly present a figure of much interest in the neighborhood at present. After I primed his pump with a few tales of our mishaps in Spain he was perfectly willing to relate all the gossip I have missed on account of being confined at home with no one but Aunt Charlotte, an abstracted uncle, a feather-brained brother, and a minister for company.

According to Patrick, Lady Tarleton's eldest daughter is in residence — Miss Jane Tarleton, never married and quite past the first blush of youth, he says, I do not think either of us has met her — as well as her nephew Theodore Griscomb, who has apparently quite taken the local ladies by storm. Patrick sounded rather disgruntled, so I surmise that perhaps Roberta Penwood has shown the gentleman particular favor. Poor Patrick: between George distracting all those susceptible to empty-headed good looks and your recent heroics on the field of battle dominating the talk over tea, I take it he has been in the shadows of late, altho' I cannot help but think Miss Penwood is a fine sensible young lady who has no intention of inclining to him regardless of what other gentlemen are talked of in the neighborhood. (I like Patrick well enough, but it can hardly be contested that Miss Penwood is worth ten of him.) Pray do not think it poor-spirited in me to say that now that the business of blood and cannonfire is over I can think of nothing more diverting than to observe such country drama, and as a consequence I have resolved to accompany Aunt Charlotte to Lady Tarleton's picnic luncheon next week if I must haul my sorry carcass face-down across the back of my horse like a slaughtered deer. All I shall want for my happiness to be complete is your steady presence at my side and perhaps a more functional leg, and of course Squire Bryant's goat to lend dignity to the proceedings.

Write me as soon as you may, as this rusticated bumpkin longs to hear your tales of London, and give my love to Aunt Elizabeth and Olivia (for I suppose she is not to blame if George will make a cake of himself over her).

Yr devot'd cousin,
Kit

10 April
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

"Rusticated bumpkin" indeed! Well, it may soothe your wounded vanity to know that I can hardly take two steps in London without encountering one of our former comrades, and not a single one has greeted me without looking over my shoulder for you: I am quite inadequate company on my own, it appears. (And indeed, whenever we fall into reminiscence they are quick to inform me that "Talgarth tells it better!") But truly, I find it uncomfortable to reconnoiter this foreign territory without you to watch my back. I fear that at any moment I shall fall into disaster or social solecism, and I shan’t have your silver tongue to talk me out of trouble. No doubt I shall soon enough be sent running back to my own rustication with my tail between my legs, while Aunt Elizabeth and Olivia bewail the damage I have done to the family reputation.

As it is, I spend my days squiring Olivia about to her various calls and tea parties and wishing most heartily for a long bruising ride across the countryside. Perhaps I am a sad bore, but it seems to me that most of the entertainment for young gentlemen in Town revolves around gaming, and I cannot find the least excitement in it. I suppose that is preferable to finding too much excitement in it, since I have seen Olivia's dressmaker's bills and we can ill-afford for me to fall into a habit of high play. I am told that there may be opportunity for instruction in boxing (only think, one may now employ a man to hit one in the face: how generous of the French to perform this service gratis when we were captured and suspected spies) but it must wait until I can be properly introduced at the saloon.

I am summoned to drive Olivia in the park, so I close this brief missive — I trust Father can bear the expense of the single sheet — but I shall write again soon.

Yr affectionate cousin,
Sebastian

17 April
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

In your honor I have braved the opera and all the quizzing old cats in the boxes who no doubt detected a thousand faults in my dress, for I have yet to find a way of tying my cravat that does not look as though I dressed myself in the dark. (The better-off of our old compatriots insist I should engage a valet, which is rank absurdity: we haven't even an abigail for Olivia. If Aunt Elizabeth can manage to put up Olivia's hair for her I think I should be able to pull on my own boots.) At any rate, it was a charming production of The Secret Marriage but I do not think many of those in attendance marked the action on the stage in the least. Olivia certainly did not: all of her attention was upon the gowns of the other ladies. Well, I suppose Aunt Elizabeth did not go to all the trouble of bringing her to London so that she might look the dowd, and I must say that her fashionable frocks suit her. You would scarcely recognize the little ragged tattle-tale who used to traipse down to the stable after us.

And it is just as well that Olivia has been so attentive to the latest fashions, for Aunt Elizabeth has accomplished what even I must recognize as a great triumph: we encountered Lady Jersey at the opera, and she is somehow acquainted with Aunt Elizabeth, and she has promised to acquire vouchers for both of us for Almack's! She called Olivia "a very taking girl" and said it was very pretty of me to dance attendance on my sister and she told Aunt Elizabeth she shouldn't wonder if we were both much in demand before too long. I suppose I really had better learn to tie my cravat.

It has been a few days since I last received a letter from you, and I certainly do not mean to nag, but if you would scribble me a few lines so that I may know you have not succumbed to wound fever, or one of your black moods, I would be grateful. I cannot help but worry a little. I think this is the longest we have been apart from each other since you came to live at Rushton. I remain, as always,

Yr loving cousin,
Sebastian

20 April
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

I had meant to write you a long rambling letter full of entertaining gossip, and indeed I have been storing up London tales for the occasion, but I fear I must instead call immediately upon your strategic genius, for I am quite out of my depth. I will try and lay out the tale as clearly as may be, thinking of how you would question me, but I wish you were here so that we might talk over face to face: it is clear to me that something must be done, but I haven’t the slightest notion what.

Sir Hilary Bedrick was invested in the Royal College of Wizardry today and he came to tea with Aunt Elizabeth last week to particularly invite us, by which of course he meant to particularly invite Olivia. You may call me an overfond brother all you like but I have never liked the way that man looks at her, and rest assured I had no notion of allowing her to attend without me. (It’s no use saying that Aunt Elizabeth should have escorted her, for you know she dislikes Sir Hilary and would likely have cut him long since if society in Rushton were such that it wouldn’t cause a hideous scandal. I own I wish Papa did not depend so utterly upon the library at Bedrick Hall myself; as it is, I cannot impress upon Olivia the least notion of circumspection where Sir Hilary is concerned, or indeed in general, and she is inclined to complain that I have returned from the war quite gothic in my sensibilities.) At any rate, we attended the ceremony and barely saw Sir Hilary from a distance, so I need not have fretted, but afterward I persuaded Olivia to walk about the college a little and we had the most dreadful shock.

Olivia was quite bored, I think, and when she tried a door and found it unlocked she went through, but I cannot blame her for her curiosity in the slightest for on the other side of the door was a garden -- not at all what one expects to find inside a building. I followed her, of course, as I had no mind to receive another lecture from Aunt Elizabeth on my failings as a fraternal escort, and found Olivia sitting quite frozen at a little table with a strange woman. I remember her perfectly because she was so remarkable looking: her hair was entirely white, although she did not look particularly old otherwise. She looked up as I came in, very angry, and I was about to apologize for the intrusion and drag Olivia out by the sleeve when she smiled at me. Kit, I hope I never see anything so terrifying ever again. French bayonets are nothing to it. "Sylvia, how kind of you to join us," she said. "I should have known wherever Thérèse went you would follow close behind. And what a quaint costume! Perhaps I shall attempt a similar masquerade. Do you think it would suit me?"

"Madame," I said, "I am afraid there has been some mistake," which was entirely understating the matter as she appeared to have confused me with a lady. I was at the time far more concerned with the fact that my body had gone completely numb from the neck down.

"Oh, you certainly made a mistake in crossing me, Sylvia," the white-haired lady said, "and Thérèse as well, although I dare say she has made others that are more spectacular. Why don't you sit, my dear, and have some chocolate?"

I sat, or rather my body sat, for I certainly had nothing to do with it. I could only see Olivia out of the corner of my eye, since I couldn't turn my neck, but she was reaching out very stiffly to take a cup of chocolate from the white-haired lady when suddenly I felt the necklace Aunt Elizabeth gave me before we went to Spain burn, my arms lost their numbness, and I was able to snatch the cup before Olivia could drink from it. I threw it in that dreadful woman's face.

She screamed, as well anyone might after taking a cup of very hot chocolate in the ocular region -- for it was steaming as she poured it from the pot -- but I did not linger to see how badly she was injured. I wish I might say that it was my fraternal obligation to keep Olivia safe which motivated me instead to grab her arm and run for the door as though all the hounds of hell were chasing us, but I must confess it was pure self-preservational instinct. At any event, as soon as the door was shut behind us Olivia burst into strong hysterics and I had, as you might well imagine, quite a trial bringing her home. I can hardly blame her: when I think of all the times you and I nearly died fighting the French, and still, I don't know that I've ever been so terrified in my life. I keep twitching my fingers to remind myself that they will move if ask them to.

Kit, I dearly wish you were here with me. What on earth can that woman have wanted with me or Olivia, or why did she think we were Sylvia and Thérèse? And for that matter, who are Sylvia and Thérèse? And what the devil did Aunt Elizabeth -- Aunt Elizabeth, of all people -- do to those necklaces? (Whatever it is, it may well have saved my life and Olivia's: do not take yours off.) Could she have given us a charm to repel other magic? She hates magic so much I can hardly credit it, but I have no idea what else they could be. I know we promised her never to mention them again, but I may have to ask her in the end.

Write me all your news of Rushton, dearest coz, for I am sorely in need of a reminder of home. I wish I could stuff Olivia into a carriage and drive straight back. I repent every complaint I have ever made of boredom; London is far too exciting for my blood.

Yr bewilder'd cousin,
Sebastian

24 April
Rushton Manor, Essex

Dear Sebastian,

Well, at last I have something of interest to relate, for I did indeed accompany Aunt Charlotte to Lady Tarleton's picnic luncheon. I know you will not chide me for not writing sooner, tho' you would be well within your rights, but I have felt unprecedented low this past week. Perhaps it is nothing but the lack of society, for I do indeed feel much better now, and have put my lifted spirits to good use composing this long-overdue letter.

First of all, I have met this paragon of manly beauty that Patrick Everslee takes in such dislike, one Theodore Griscomb, and indeed, even to one inured to George's looks, he is something out of the common way. But he is not one to chase the ladies, and I think shows somewhat uncomfortable in their company — not at all like George, who, altho' to give him credit he remains thus far devoted to Olivia even in her absence and has never been particular in his attentions to another, is delighted to flirt with any pretty lady who admires his charms. At any event, Theodore — observe how sociable I have been, cousin, we are already arrived at Christian names — was really very kind to me, pressed me for tales about our service in Spain even tho' it is all old news by now, remained behind to bear me company when the ladies went on a promenade, for while my leg held up well enough to ride over I'm afraid a walk around the lake remains quite out of the question. (And the dagger-looks that some of the maidens shot me when he cried off! I shall count myself fortunate I did not expire on the spot.) He has lived most of his life in India, I believe; we arranged to go riding tomorrow if the weather holds fine, and I look forward to hearing more about the country. I feel a sad provincial at times, having only ever left home to be shot at by the French. Perhaps if my leg ever heals properly you and I may go on a belated Tour.

Lest you should accuse me of withering away to an accredited woman-hater, I must add that we shall be accompanied — perhaps even chaperoned! — on our riding expedition by Griscomb's cousin, Miss Tarleton. I wish I could describe her to you properly, but I'm afraid she spoke very little, so all I can say is that she is an older lady but certainly not yet a dowager, quite handsome, and she never lets Griscomb out of her sight. I overheard two of the girls remarking that she seems to be hoping to ensnare her cousin before he can travel to London and make a wider acquaintance of eligible women, but I cannot suppose it anything but spite. She certainly makes no push to engage his interest; she is only very alert to his movements. Perhaps her mother has asked her to keep off any fortune-hunting misses, for I understand his prospective inheritance to be considerable. Rich as a Nabob, I believe the expression is. A pity that he seems too shy to enjoy the resulting attentions.

25 April

I received your most recent letter this morning, and I cannot help but wish I had accompanied you and Olivia to London, little use though I may be in my present condition. Of course peril is not a stranger to either of us, but I am accustomed to face it by your side. You have laid the situation before me, so here follows my tactical advice, such as it is: you must tell the whole to Aunt Elizabeth, immediately. I know you would not for the world cause her pain, but only think how much worse she would feel if Olivia had been left exposed to danger out of consideration for the delicacy of her feelings. She may or may not be able to shed light on the identities of Sylvia and Thérèse, or the white-haired woman, but in my role as intelligence officer I may assure you that no campaign was ever lost because we collected too much information.

As for the rest, Olivia can hardly leave London now without inspiring gossip and I know you would not abandon her unprotected, so I suppose the only thing to do is maintain a watchful vigilance. Perhaps your encounter with this woman was a simple coincidence and will not be repeated, or perhaps she truly does mean you and Olivia harm. There is no point in speculation until you have gathered more intelligence.

I shall close this letter and send it now, for I must go and dress for my ride with Theodore Griscomb and Miss Tarleton, but I will write again soon. Please do the same, for I will fret myself to pieces, thinking of you in danger and me languishing at Rushton, of no help whatsoever.

Yr worried cousin,
Kit

30 April
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

I had your letter this morning, and as always your advice is sound. I did indeed speak with Aunt Elizabeth, but I must tell you everything that has happened in order, or else it will be a dreadful muddle.

Lady Jersey came up trumps and obtained vouchers to Almack's for Olivia and me, and so last night we paid our first visit to the august Assembly Rooms. Olivia was, if not the prettiest girl in the room, certainly a strong competitor to the title, and much solicited for dancing. I did the pretty with a few wallflowers that Lady Jersey brought up to me, although I can't imagine I'll be half as popular as Olivia: you remember how badly I dance! And I'm afraid I must be a dreadfully dull partner. They were all very nice young ladies, but I can't say they helped me much in carrying a conversation. I must have remarked on the weather a half a dozen times in as many dances.

Halfway through the evening Lady Jersey came to find me again and said there was someone she particularly wanted to introduce me to, if I would be willing to follow her into another room. I didn't much like leaving Olivia, but Aunt Elizabeth had her under her eye (even if she was more concerned about flirtatious gentlemen than murderous sorceresses) and I liked the idea of offending Lady Jersey even less, so I agreed. (I can hear your interjection already, so yes: I was also on fire with curiosity.)

Lady Jersey led me to a small alcove just off the main ballroom, where two women were waiting. One was in full mourning and the other was wearing a very brilliant sapphire blue, and after my visits to the modiste with Olivia I can assure you that neither gown was moderately priced. "Mr. Rushton," Lady Jersey said, "please allow me to present to you Lady Sylvia, the dowager Marchioness of Schofield, and Lady Schofield."

You can imagine my immediate suspicion, Kit. I must have murmured the appropriate things, because Lady Jersey seemed satisfied, and then Lady Sylvia asked her to leave -- she put it a good deal more graciously than that, of course, but I still find it astonishing that Lady Jersey did, in fact, leave us even though she could clearly sense that some excellent gossip was in the offing.

Since I know you will want all the details, I will attempt to describe Lady Sylvia and Lady Schofield. Lady Sylvia is quite elderly, I think, with pure silver hair and a walking stick, but she has a way of standing up very straight with an air of complete authority that puts one on one's mettle immediately. I can think of several officers who might do well to learn it from her. She was wearing blacks, and I learned by inquiring afterward of Lady Jersey that it is not a recent bereavement; she is considered somewhat eccentric for having never put off mourning for her husband and elder daughter.

Lady Schofield was wearing the blue dress. She is taller than her mother, with dark hair and dark eyes. I suppose her to be some few years older than you or I, and something about her draws the eye, although from what I have seen of ladies' fashions in London she is not in the common style. It was clearly Lady Sylvia who held the command of their little unit, but Lady Schofield took the initiative of speaking first. "It seems we owe you our thanks and apologies, sir," she said.

"Oh?" I said very politely.

"What my extremely foolish daughter means," said Lady Sylvia with a sharp look at Lady Schofield, "is that you appear to have sprung a trap laid for her, for which we are grateful, and at some not inconsiderable danger to yourself, for which we apologize."

"I take it that you are Sylvia and Thérèse, my lady," I said. "Having made your acquaintance, I confess myself even more puzzled that anyone could have mistaken my sister and me for you."

"Miranda's thinking has always tended toward the Byzantine," Lady Sylvia said, "with the result that what seems perfectly straightforward, she imagines to be part of a convoluted scheme. She hoped that Thérèse would be lured out, and when Thérèse did not appear but a different young lady did, she assumed it must be Thérèse in disguise rather than the natural result of having established her trap in at a time when the college was crawling with visitors. And then when you came after your sister, why, you must be Thérèse's mother, rather than a young man chaperoning his female relation. She does not," Lady Sylvia concluded with a faint air of disapproval, "have a very adaptable turn of mind."

"You believe that this Miranda set a trap for Lady Schofield, and Olivia stumbled into it," I said. "My lady, what was the bait?"

"I don't believe that is the least bit of your business," snapped Lady Schofield.

"It is if I wish to avoid it in the future," I said, beginning to be a bit irritated. "My sister is my responsibility, my lady, and I do not need you to tell me that Miranda is dangerous. I am a soldier; I do not like to be kept in the dark about what lies ahead."

"Perhaps you have a point, young man," Lady Sylvia said, looking at me very closely. "Rushton, was it not? Are you any relation of Elizabeth Rushton?"

"She is my aunt," I said. "Please do not change the subject, my lady."

"You will find, if you do not interrupt me, that I have not. That's a very neat piece of charmwork around your neck, and explains nicely how you were able to escape from Miranda at all. Is it from your aunt's hand?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"She is obviously talking about magic," Lady Schofield said impatiently. "Of which your family must have an abundance, if anyone, even a fool like Miranda, could mistake you and your very silly sister for my mother and me."

"I am afraid you must be mistaken, my lady," I said. "I am not a magician."

"I did not say you were a magician. Indeed, I said quite the opposite. You have a great deal of magic and are completely untrained, which is a very dangerous state to be in when Miranda Tanistry is sniffing about. That charm your aunt made for you is powerful, but I doubt it will be of much use against someone who knows it is there."

"You think that Aunt Elizabeth is a magician?" I said incredulously.

"Yes, and quite a good one," Lady Sylvia said. "I would have expected some signs of rust. I haven't heard of her practicing in years. But quality will show through regardless, I suppose, and she always had a gift for charms. Indeed, I will have to ask her to demonstrate how she established the limitations on this protection charm; I don't recognize some of them, and I begin to wonder if she invented them herself. I shall call on her tomorrow."

I am embarrassed to admit it took me several moments to sort through all of this, and by that time Lady Sylvia and Lady Schofield were nearly out the door. "Wait, my lady! You mean to call on us? What about Miranda?"

"Young man, I do not propose to expose you to further danger," said Lady Sylvia, "but there is no getting around the fact that you are very vulnerable to certain kinds of magical attack now that Miranda knows you exist, and the only solution to that is to train you to protect yourself. We will call some time in the afternoon; I trust that you and your family will be at home."

She swept away before I could protest again, and by the time I had gone back to the ballroom and found Aunt Elizabeth and Olivia (who was surrounded by absolute swarms of admirers; there will be no living with her now) Lady Schofield and her mother were nowhere to be found. All that was left to do was tell Aunt Elizabeth that Lady Sylvia had told me she meant to call on us the next day and hope she wouldn't question me too closely, for that is not a conversation I meant to have in Almack's Assembly Rooms! Fortunately, Olivia kept her quite busy all evening, and then slept quite late this morning, so I was able to speak with Aunt Elizabeth privately about what has been happening with Miranda Tanistry and Lady Schofield and Lady Sylvia, and the necklace she gave me that is apparently a very powerful protection charm.

We neither of us covered ourselves in glory in that conversation, so I will not recount it to you, but in the end Aunt Elizabeth was at least willing to entertain Lady Sylvia and hear what she has to say. She says that if nothing else, it can only be to Olivia's benefit to be called upon by a marchioness. I think she still knows more than she is saying, for she turned absolutely white in the face as soon as I mentioned Miranda's name. She went off to rest for the rest of the morning, pleading a wretched headache, but I suspect she wanted to be left alone so she could create something like our necklaces for Olivia.

I am sealing this letter now and sending it off with the afternoon post to soothe your worries as soon as may be, but I will write you whatever happens during Lady Sylvia's visit, never fear. And I look forward to your letter about your ride with Griscomb and Miss Tarleton! With all these strange goings-on in London, I long more than ever to hear your news of home.

Yr anxious cousin,
Sebastian

2 May
Rushton Manor, Essex

Dear Sebastian,

I think I have had rides in stranger company than Theodore Griscomb and Miss Tarleton, but not many. We set out under poor auspices, for Theodore was so cast-down that even Aunt Charlotte observed it, but once we were away he did cheer up a little, or at least enough to tell me some interesting stories about growing up in India. It sounds like a fascinating place, and he would very much like to return home once he is married, if his wife is agreeable -- at which remark he cut himself off, looking quite alarmed.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Theodore," Miss Tarleton said, with masterful authority -- I think you would quite like her, Seb -- "do buck up. If you wish to marry Miss Penwood and carry her off to Calcutta, make an offer and have done. Anyone could see she and her father are waiting in daily expectation of your call."

"Jane!" he protested. "You know perfectly well that Mother expects me to offer for the Marchioness of Schofield."

"I know perfectly well that Thérèse has no intention of accepting your so-charming offer," Miss Tarleton retorted, at which name you may well imagine my ears pricked up. "Nor have I the least notion of why you think she would, when she has been the toast of the Continent for years and might have her pick of offers at the lifting of a finger. But more importantly, if you had any more resolution than a blancmange you would know that your stepmother cannot force you to offer for anyone you don't care to."

"You've met Miranda," Theodore said, no longer angry but despondent, as though that explained all. Since no further clarification seemed forthcoming, I set out to nudge enlightenment along.

"I think you must be speaking of the mistress of Waycross, are you not?" I asked. "It's quite curious, she owns an estate barely twenty miles distant from Rushton, but I've never had the pleasure of her acquaintance."

"Oh, Jane and Lady Schofield are great friends," Theodore said. "Been junketing about Europe together with her mother for years."

"Lady Sylvia lives in Paris, and naturally she likes to have her daughter with her when she may," Miss Tarleton said, quite confirming my suspicions, as I doubt there are many pairs of Sylvias and Thérèses in England to choose from. "She has been very gracious in inviting me to accompany her and Lady Schofield abroad, but with the war so recently ended, we all felt it might be well to return home."

"Indeed," I said. Theodore seemed oblivious, but Miss Tarleton did look quickly at my leg -- you can hardly tell about the injury anymore, at least while I am clothed -- and then away. One does not like to scare off one's quarry by appearing too inquisitive, so I feigned disinterest and asked if my companions fancied a gallop.

"Back to Tarleton Hall, perhaps?" Miss Tarleton suggested. "I do hope you will join us for tea, Mr. Talgarth."

Curiosity being, as ever, my besetting sin, I did not require much persuasion to accompany Miss Tarleton and her cousin home, where we found Lady Tarleton entertaining Sir Hilary Bedrick. It's odd; I would swear that there is no more love lost between Sir Hilary and Miss Tarleton than there is between Sir Hilary and Aunt Elizabeth, but I can't imagine how Sir Hilary could have found time to offend her when she has so recently arrived in England and he has been in Town for his investiture. At any rate, there is apparently some scheme among the ladies to have Sir Hilary host a ball at Bedrick Hall, for he had come to consult Lady Tarleton about some questions of refreshments. He also made a point of saying something to Miss Tarleton which must have had a deeper significance: she went positively red with fury, but he was only asking her if she thought he ought to serve drinking chocolate. Fortunately -- or perhaps unfortunately, for I would dearly love to know why hot chocolate would inspire Miss Tarleton to rage -- Lady Tarleton interrupted their conversation by remarking that she had had a letter from Mrs. Griscomb informing her that she meant to stop at Tarleton Hall on her way to London, for she required Theodore's escort.

Theodore looked absolutely tragic as he nodded. "I am sorry that I will have to miss your ball, Sir Hilary," he said, clearly determined to make the best of it.

"As am I," said Miss Tarleton.

"My dear girl," Sir Hilary said -- it is quite eerie how he can make the most polite statements sound so threatening -- "why should you not be there?"

"I promised my cousin that I would accompany him whenever he was summoned to London," she said. "But at least this way we shan't unbalance your table. Is it not most convenient?"

"More convenient than your aunt will find it to host you uninvited, I am certain. But I am forgetting. You will doubtless be welcome at Schofield House. Dear Thérèse. You will give her my very best wishes, will you not?"

"Of course," Miss Tarleton assured him, smiling with a great many teeth, and she kept smiling the entire time until Sir Hilary took his leave. There is steel in that lady, Sebastian; I commend her to you, for I did mention that my dear cousin was in London and asked Theodore and Miss Tarleton to call on you once they arrive.

My little country intrigue has grown a great deal in complexity, it seems: there is the question of your mysterious Sylvia and Thérèse, who may or may not be the Marchioness of Schofield and her mother; there is Sir Hilary's connection to Lady Schofield, and his mutual dislike of Miss Tarleton (who is, it should be noted, a close connection of the marchioness); there is Theodore's mother, or stepmother it seems, who he expects to somehow compel him to offer for Lady Schofield; there is the matter of Miss Penwood, who if Miss Tarleton is to be believed does seem inclined to disappoint Patrick Everslee's hopes by running off to Calcutta; and of course there is the hidden message in Sir Hilary's hot chocolate! If I may be assured of your and Olivia's safety, I think unraveling this puzzle will be the greatest entertainment I have had since coming home from Spain.

Yr fond and ever-inquisitive cousin,
Kit

5 May
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

I was not privy to whatever conversation Aunt Elizabeth had with Lady Sylvia, but the end result was that they and Lady Schofield are taking it in turns to teach me whatever magic they think I will find most necessary. This endeavor is complicated by the fact that none of them agrees with the others about what magic I should learn, but I can now make charm bags and cast a few small cantrips that I wish we had known in Spain. (Only imagine being able to dry one's socks with bit of charcoal, a feather, and a few words of Greek!) Since Aunt Elizabeth and Lady Sylvia are also much distracted by creating sufficient protections for Olivia (and arguing constantly about their methods), Lady Schofield has been my primary instructor, but I do not think she can be much used to teaching, and my lessons, while informative, are chaotic to say the least. All three abandoned the attempt to teach Olivia along with me after half an hour, which is a small mercy; Olivia says she has enough to practice with her Italian songs without adding all this awful Greek to the mix.

It seems strange that the social whirl goes on despite my private worries, but Aunt Elizabeth says that so long as Olivia is adequately chaperoned she will be perfectly safe -- perhaps more so, since she is always in the view of so many people. I have accompanied her to two balls, a Venetian breakfast, several musicales, and driving in the park nearly every day. I suppose her callers must think us the strictest family in the country, for she is allowed to go nowhere alone. Do not suppose I am forced to spend all my time escorting Olivia -- I still see our army friends when Aunt Elizabeth gives me an evening's liberty, and I go driving with Lady Schofield, for my magic lessons seem to go better when we have a fixed destination (and, more to the point, a fixed time at which we will leave off arguing with each other and go our separate ways).

I received your most recent letter -- I am so glad to hear you in better spirits! -- and I must say this all raises more questions than it answers. We still do not know what Miranda (Tanistry? Griscomb? It strains credulity that there would be two wicked Mirandas in our orbit, but we cannot entirely rule it out) wants from Lady Schofield, who is remarkably unwilling to answer questions on the subject, nor how Sir Hilary fits into the equation. And there is the curious coincidence of Sir Hilary's mentioning hot chocolate to Miss Tarleton and Miranda's attempting to force me and Olivia to drink it. I will press Lady Schofield and Lady Sylvia for further details if I can, but I beg you to try your subtle interrogation on Miss Tarleton if you can before Mrs. Griscomb arrives to carry her off to London, for I am nowhere near as clever at it as you! I look forward to meeting her and Mr. Griscomb regardless; any friends of yours are, of course, friends of mine as well.

Yr devot'd cousin,
Sebastian

13 May
Rushton Manor, Essex

Dear Sebastian,

Fear not, my native curiosity would impel me to further investigate matters even without your urgings! And I do have some news of some interest to report, although I confess their precise significance remains obscure to me.

First of all, I have been at pains to infiltrate the Tarleton household -- although really it is hardly painful; I like poor Theodore, and under different circumstances and given more time I imagine we might have become dear friends. He does not show to advantage, I think, in his cousin's company, and her personality quite overwhelms his. (I do not wish to be unfair: I think she is sincerely attached to him and desires only to help him, as one might a particularly foolish younger brother who cannot be trusted to choose his own path. Alas, he is not made of such metal as can withstand the hammer of her sororal affections.) But at least the circumstance of his being attached to Miss Tarleton by a metaphysical leading string has enabled me to spend some time in her company as well, and I have done my best to press them both -- subtly! -- on the subjects of Miranda and Lady Schofield.

Theodore is not what anyone would call discreet, but despite his fear of his stepmother I think he is genuinely ignorant of whatever her plans are. He is still convinced she means (for reasons unknown) to force him to marry the Marchioness of Schofield, but how she will accomplish this is a mystery. He did confirm that Tanistry is Miranda Griscomb's maiden name, so we need not fear a second Miranda waiting in the wings to wreak further destruction once the first is defeated.

Miss Tarleton is without a doubt better informed than her cousin, but she guards her tongue as though she feared I meant to steal it. I cannot even count the number of innocuous questions I have asked about her travels on the Continent with Lady Schofield — the fashions, the food, the entertainment — and she let slip not a single piece of useful information, until today.

I should pause to note that, in anticipation of Mrs. Griscomb's arrival, Theodore has thrown himself into arranging every possible outing to make use of his freedom while it lasts, and in my new rôle as confidant, I have been invited along to them all. Today our expedition (which also included Patrick Everslee and Martha De Lacey, and of course Roberta Penwood) took us to Bedrick Hall, to explore the maze. I begged off of the maze itself on account of my leg, of course, and Miss Tarleton decided to remain with me rather than accompany Theodore — rather inexplicably, at least until I gave the matter some thought and realized how easily he might draw Miss Penwood off for a private conversation with the excuse of being lost in the maze. I wonder if Miss De Lacey was recruited as an accomplice in order to distract Patrick? But at any event, Miss Tarleton and I were left to our own devices with a picnic luncheon while Aunt Charlotte and Mrs. Penwood and Mrs. De Lacey all had a comfortable gossip.

Miss Tarleton fended off my conversational gambits with her customary élan and then declared her intention to go up to the house and ask for lemonade to be brought out. Since she clearly meant to go snooping through Sir Hilary’s house and just as clearly had little to no experience in the fine art of reconnoitering the enemy’s camp, I gave her a few minutes’ head start and went after her.

Between her long stride — really, Seb, I think the woman might ride as long in the stirrup as you do — and my abbreviated one, it took me nearly a quarter of an hour and consultation with several of Sir Hilary’s servants to locate her again in the library; she had apparently already been on a whirlwind tour of the kitchen in search of the housekeeper, who she must have known perfectly well would never dare linger in the cook’s domain.

"Well, Miss Tarleton," I said cheerfully, "what are we looking for?"

She jumped and looked quite guilty before she mastered her expression; I’m afraid she’ll never make a spy. "Mr. Talgarth, you startled me," she said, very much on her dignity. "I am only waiting for the housekeeper to bring me some lemonade."

"In the library?" I asked. "I’ve already been to the kitchens in search of you and was informed you had passed through on your way; I cannot imagine that you will find lemonade here if it was not on offer there."

"If you must know," she said, "I was in search of the necessary."

"And perhaps some light reading material to accompany you?" She looked offended rather than amused, so I hurried on, "Miss Tarleton, you cannot possibly imagine that I pose a threat to you, or to the Marchioness of Schofield. Her mother is friends with my aunt; she is teaching my own cousin magic. What can it hurt to allow me to assist you?"

"You will forgive me if I do not put much stock in aunts when Miranda Griscomb is mine," she sniffed.

"Miss Tarleton — "

"Oh, very well," she snapped. "Sir Hilary stole something from Thérèse. I am simply looking for it to see if I can take it back."

"Steal something from a wizard? Are you mad?" I asked before I quite caught up to the full significance of what she had said. "Wait. Did he by any chance steal a chocolate pot?"

"I don’t see what business of yours it is — "

"I can assure you that it is very much my business when your aunt is attempting to murder my cousins with it! Good Lord. Murdered with a magic chocolate pot. Just as well this must be wizard business, or Sebastian would never be able to hold his head up front of our regiment again. You really think Sir Hilary might have left it in his library?"

"He keeps his magic books here," she said stiffly. "It was a faint hope, but I cannot get into his study — the lock is enchanted."

"Curious, you would think he would keep the books under closer guard," I remarked, but when I went to examine the shelves she was quite right: an entire wall of books on magic, out in the open where anyone might see them. One of them caught my eye almost immediately: "Epicyclical Elaborations of Sorcery by an Everard Tanistry. Do you suppose he might be a relative of yours?"

"I don’t know," Miss Tarleton said. She came over to examine the book, looking curious almost in spite of herself. "Mother hasn’t the least speck of magic, and neither have I; she says that’s why her relatives never took an interest in us. She was none too pleased when Miranda demanded that she play host to Theodore when he came home from India, although of course we’re all very fond of him now. I don’t know anything about that side of the family."

"Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to investigate," I said, and tucked the book into my pocket.

"Stealing from a wizard, Mr. Talgarth?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I shall send it back with my uncle’s latest load of historical reference texts, so really it’s only borrowing," I assured her. "As I see little hope of our locating a chocolate pot on the premises, shall we depart? The servants will begin to suspect an assignation if we do not rejoin our party."

She liked that about as well as she liked allowing me to meddle in her business in the first place, but she did take my arm and let me lead her out of the library, which was just as well since we ran head-on into Sir Hilary’s housekeeper, bringing Miss Tarleton her requested lemonade, and she was indeed quite suspicious of a young lady and a gentleman closeted together. I made an excuse of my war wound and made sure to limp quite conspicuously the entire way back to the gardens, leaning on Miss Tarleton the whole time. Aunt Charlotte fussed over me all evening for overdoing and sent me to bed with a posset and a hot brick, but I think on the balance the information was worth it, and at least I have had the time to commit all the details to this letter while they are still fresh in my mind.

14 May

This morning I had a note from Theodore Griscomb apologizing that he would not be able to go riding with me today; Mrs. Griscomb has arrived and is insistent upon carrying off Theodore at once. Miss Tarleton goes with them as planned, Theodore writes, but most interestingly, Sir Hilary does as well. If you are able to pass a warning to Lady Schofield, please do so as soon as possible, for I still do not understand the precise nature of her relationship with Sir Hilary but I cannot imagine that their meeting unexpectedly may presage anything good.

Yr fond cousin,
Kit

17 May
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

I was promised for a drive with Lady Schofield the afternoon of the day I received your letter, so I was able to warn her of Sir Hilary and Mrs. Griscomb's impending arrival; as it turns out, Miss Tarleton had written her the same, but she thanked me nevertheless for our concern. It was a very strange drive to say the least — Lady Schofield allowed several errors to pass without comment when ordinarily she would have castigated me, and she was far too easily distracted from her tangents in magical theory. When I finally ventured to ask what troubled her, she did rouse herself enough to tell me my invocations were absolutely wretched, so at least I knew she was still herself and no impostor.

Just as I was preparing to take her back to Schofield House, Lady Schofield made an announcement that has quite overset me, although of course she did not look for my opinion (fortunately I was able to maintain my composure until I sat down to write to you), for she says she is leaving Town immediately. She remained uncommunicative as ever in regard to her reasons, but I was able to gather that she thought it would be unwise to remain in close proximity to Sir Hilary — perhaps something to do with the chocolate pot? I assume there must be a magical explanation, but I am afraid I am not yet advanced enough in my studies to tell you what it might be. When I pointed out that her departure would deprive me of a teacher and Olivia of a protector, Lady Schofield was nonchalant: Lady Sylvia and Aunt Elizabeth continue to spell Olivia against magical attack, and as for my education, she says that she has “made arrangements”. I do not like to traduce a lady, Kit, but sometimes I find Lady Schofield utterly infuriating. And her Parthian shot was above all else — “If I continue any longer as your instructor in this fashion, Mr. Rushton, I fear that wagging tongues may make something of my entertaining an aspirant to my hand at last. And while you are no doubt an excellent gentleman and may someday make a fine wizard, I fear you are not at all to my taste.”

Well, there was nothing to do but to assure her quite civilly that she would ill-suit my taste as well and return to Berkeley Square to write to you and fume. Adding insult to injury, Aunt Elizabeth was already informed of Lady Schofield’s decision to leave London, for she told me at tea that she would hear my invocations on the morrow, and suggested which ones I ought to practice further. You may look forward to making Lady Schofield’s acquaintance yourself, for the one concession I managed to wring from her arrogant neck was that she would call on you when she arrived in Essex.

19 May

I was today made acquainted with the exact nature of the arrangements Lady Schofield made for my continued magical education, for a gentleman by the name of Wrexton called and said that she had asked him to pay our household a visit. He seems a very fine fellow, in point of fact, around Father's age or perhaps a little younger, and also most certainly a scholar. We had a long comfortable discussion of my program of studies thus far, and I do not think it is entirely my irritation with the Marchioness of Schofield that leads me to believe Mr. Wrexton will prove a more comprehensible instructor. To give her due credit, by all evidence Lady Schofield is quite a brilliant wizard! Alas, I am not quite up to snuff as a student. But Mr. Wrexton is very clear and very patient, and I think we will get on admirably. Olivia, who met him briefly but would not linger for our discussion of magical theory, is indifference personified, but I believe Aunt Elizabeth was impressed by both his manner and his credentials. (You would scarcely credit Aunt Elizabeth's placidity at being called upon by a wizard. Constant exposure to Lady Sylvia has done her a great deal of good, I think.)

No sooner had Mr. Wrexton gone his way than we had a slightly more expected caller, for Lady Sylvia came at her usual time and brought Miss Tarleton with her. You might have mentioned how handsome she is, Kit! I'm sure I looked an absolute fool tripping over my own tongue when we were introduced. We talked a little of you and a bit more of Mr. Griscomb — if Mrs. Griscomb is indeed the woman whom Olivia and I met at Sir Hilary's investment, I can perfectly understand why Miss Tarleton is anxious for her cousin, but she gives the impression that he is incapable of buttoning up his own waistcoat without her assistance — and a great deal about Lady Schofield. She is certainly very fond of the marchioness. I must say that the Thérèse who figures in Miss Tarleton's conversation seems rather less autocratic than she has proved in my experience, but I suppose it is only natural that she act differently in the presence of her friends than a near-stranger. Olivia, not being much interested in our conversation, turned the topic to the upcoming ball at Carlton House as quickly as she was able; I suppose she must have wished to lord it over the upstart newcomer that she had been invited and Miss Tarleton had not, but if so she misjudged her shot, for Lady Sylvia said she meant to bring Miss Tarleton as a member of her party. The ensuing discussion of gowns and ornaments was, alas, extensive, and I had no opportunity to continue my tête-à-tête with Miss Tarleton.

I close my letter here, but Miss Tarleton has promised to call on Aunt Elizabeth again soon with Mr. Griscomb in tow, and shall write you all my impressions, of course. Now I must away to my books, for Mr. Wrexton has left me several new texts and I do not wish him to think me a lazy student so early in our acquaintance. When I think of how we railed against Father's insistence that we master our Latin and Greek, and tortured our poor tutors, I can only laugh. If our child-selves could see me now!

Yr bluestocking of a cousin,
Sebastian

23 May
Rushton Manor, Essex

Dear Sebastian,

I have had my first glimpse of the notorious Lady Schofield, for she called on Aunt Charlotte today! I think you have had your entire revenge for every slight the lady may have given you, past or future; did you never think to warn her what our other aunt is like? It was all I could do not to laugh, for she is certainly a very formidable lady and much accustomed to have her way, but not, I think, up to Aunt Charlotte's weight. (Upon reflection, however, it may only have been the shock of the first encounter that put her off her mettle; there was a certain glint in her eye at some of Aunt Charlotte's remarks that makes me wary of return fire in their next encounter.)

At any event, not being able to catch a private word with Aunt Charlotte supervising, I presumed upon our mutual acquaintance with you and Miss Tarleton and most improperly slipped Lady Schofield a note asking to meet tomorrow on my morning ride. Uncle Arthur inadvertently came to her rescue before she could reprimand my impertinence and betray herself to Aunt Charlotte, for having learned that she has lived in Italy he was absolutely wild to ask her if she had seen various ruins. I think she enjoyed his interrogation far more than Aunt Charlotte's; Uncle Arthur is still in raptures. I suppose it must be hard on him that neither George nor you nor I have the least turn for scholarship, but I cannot change my nature to suit him, alas. Perhaps you or I will marry a woman with more of a taste for education.

24 May

A most illuminating morning! Somewhat to my surprise, Lady Schofield was waiting for me when I arrived; I think were our positions reversed I would have left the gentleman at loose ends for at least an hour, and I said so.

"Jane says that you are extremely persistent," she said. "I thought it best to get this interview out of the way."

"Not to a fault, I hope," I demurred. "Although I must admit that I was born with more than my fair share of curiosity."

"Pardon me if I do consider it a fault when a gentleman goes poking and prying into my business," Lady Schofield said coldly.

"It is not only your business, my lady," I said, quite exasperated; I now understand far better your irritation, for is there anything in the world so provoking as a person who pretends to be entirely an island? We are none of us without connection, after all. "I am very fond of my cousins, and I consider myself in your debt for what you and your mother have done to help them; above and beyond that, it is obvious that there are strange doings afoot here in Rushton, and I assure you I did not survive the war by closing my eyes and hoping that if I did nothing the danger would pass me by!"

"I suppose there is something in that," she said, in quite a different tone. She appeared to consider the matter for a few moments in silence, examining me so closely that I wished I had dressed more carefully for the ride. Those eyes of hers are unsettling, Seb. It was as though she could see straight into my soul. "Very well, I concede the point."

"So you will explain to me what Miranda Griscomb and Sir Hilary are doing, and what they want from you?"

Lady Schofield laughed. It was nothing like the giggles of the neighborhood girls, but still, it was not an unpleasant sound. "I will do no such thing, my dear sir, but I will endeavor not to begrudge your curiosity."

"Will you at least tell me the significance of this book?" I asked, for I had carried the book I borrowed from Sir Hilary's library with me. I have paged through it enough to realize that I am not enough schooled in wizardry to understand its contents — although I do not need to know anything of spells to tell that it is an extremely unpleasant business, for there are far too many mentions of blood and stealing the puissance of others. Lady Schofield took it from me, but as soon as she read the title she recoiled as though from a live snake.

"So that is why he has joined forces with Miranda," she said. "I had wondered. He is not a man who likes to share power."

"Sir Hilary?" I asked.

"Who else?" she said.

She seemed rather more likely than less to provide useful information while distracted by her thoughts, so I ventured to ask, "It is not an alliance of long standing, then?"

"Miranda is allied to nothing except her own self-interest," Lady Schofield said, contemptuous. "Sir Hilary… well, she will discover soon enough how he treats his friends once he has gotten what he wants from them."

"As he did you," I surmised.

"Oh," said Lady Schofield, "if he had gotten all of what he wanted from me, I would hardly be here to reflect on the fact." She shook her head and then frowned at me. "I have no notion why I told you any of that."

I gave her my most disarming smile. "I would be a very poor intelligence officer if I were not easy to talk to, my lady. Won't you please go on?"

I think she was more amused by my effrontery than anything else, but she did deign to explain, "Miranda's family developed some very unsavory techniques for, ah, relieving the unworthy of their magical gifts — techniques entirely fatal to the donor, unfortunately. I expect that some but not all of their legacy is contained in this charming instruction manual."

"Well, that all sounds extremely unpleasant," I said. "And this is what Sir Hilary means to do to you, my lady?"

"I imagine Miranda would love to have the opportunity, but Sir Hilary has other methods available to him." Lady Schofield paused. "In fact, I have no idea why he would bother. It seems rather redundant."

"Would Sir Hilary's methods have something to do with the chocolate pot he stole from you?"

Lady Schofield looked at me very narrowly. "When Jane called you persistent I think she understated the case."

"Thank you," I said. "Please do go on."

"The chocolate pot was — an unfortunate error," she said stiffly. "I was attempting to create a focus for my magic; Sir Hilary was my tutor, at the time, and I did not realize… well, it went wrong, and by the time I knew what he had done, it was too late. My mistake. His mistake was in thinking my mother would let him supervise my attempt to remedy it. Instead she took me to the Continent as soon as she learned what he had done, and well out of his reach."

"I beg your pardon," I said, fascinated. "You were attempting to focus your magic through a chocolate pot?"

"I was attempting to focus my magic through a diamond bracelet that has been in the Schofield family for several generations," Lady Schofield snapped. "Sir Hilary unbalanced the spell, and it went into the chocolate pot on the table instead."

"Forgive the question of an ignorant nonpractitioner, my lady," I said, "but if it was a mistake, why did you not simply smash the chocolate pot and start over?"

"Why did I not — " Lady Schofield drew herself up, looking more like Aunt Charlotte in a tirade than I think she could have realized, and then suddenly began to laugh. "Out of the mouths of babes! I suppose that would have been a very tidy solution at the time. Now that Sir Hilary has it in his possession, of course he will be careful to protect it from destruction. Aside from the fact that he can use it to draw on my magic, breaking it would backlash on us both — an interrupted spell rebounds on the caster, and the more powerful the spell, the more powerful the effect."

"I see," I said, although to confess the truth I did not. I will leave all matters of magic entirely up to you, dear cousin. "And Miranda? Why would she ally herself with Sir Hilary?"

"Miranda Tanistry killed my sister," Lady Schofield said. Her voice was so devoid of any emotion that it took me a moment to understand what she had said -- even now, I have chills down my spine thinking of what I would do if something had happened to George or Olivia or God forbid, you, and someone had asked me so casually about it. If I would even be able to speak. "And she has never forgiven me for stopping her from becoming Lady Schofield in Edwina's place."

"I am so very sorry, my lady," I said. I did not inquire as to the specifics of how Miranda might have replaced Edwina Schofield. If she thought that you might plausibly be Lady Sylvia in disguise, I suppose she might well have posed as anyone she liked. "But in order to inherit the title in her own right, would she not have needed to be an only daughter?"

Lady Schofield inclined her head to me. "I believe you have hit upon her motivation precisely. She can hardly accomplish her original plan now; if nothing else, my mother would certainly notice. I believe she is now attempting some overly convoluted plot to force me into marriage with her unfortunate stepson and then murder me once an heir has been produced: utterly absurd, but that's Miranda. Never a simple concept when a ridiculously complicated one will do."

"I certainly hope she will be as easily circumvented as you believe," I said, for without meaning any offense to Lady Schofield, any woman who can paralyze you and Olivia and terrorize poor Theodore half out of his wits does not seem so slight an adversary. "Is there any assistance an invalid veteran might render you in your efforts, my lady?"

She laughed. "Ah yes, a mere invalid veteran who has already wormed more information out of me in a day than I would grant to anyone in a year. You are much more charming than your cousin, sir -- " I can hear your protests already, but I have faithfully reproduced her words, so it will do you no good to complain to me -- "but no, I do not require your assistance any more than his. Much as I thank you for your kind offer," she added, bowing slightly to me in her saddle.

"Since I am so very charming, perhaps you will allow me to further prosecute my case," I said. "At the same time tomorrow?"

We parted ways without exchanging a promise to meet, but I am hopeful that the lady will oblige my whim. I understand perfectly why you find her a frustrating conversationalist, but allow me this concession: I do not think anyone in her company could ever be bored.

Yr affectionate cousin,
Kit

31 May
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

Wrexton says that Olivia is quite unharmed and the danger she was in has entirely passed, or you may rest assured that I would be riding bound for Essex like a demon out of Hell and not sitting down at my desk to write you an account of the evening I have had. Forgive my handwriting, I fear I am still somewhat overset.

Olivia, Aunt Elizabeth and I went to the ball at Carlton House tonight as planned; Olivia was in tremendous spirits and surrounded by admirers as soon as we arrived, and once we had greeted our hosts I left her and Aunt Elizabeth to look for Lady Sylvia. You would be surprised by how difficult it is to locate the one woman in black in a ballroom full of color, but I did eventually find her holding court amongst the dowagers with Miss Tarleton. "Come to pay your respects to an aged widow, have you, young man?" she asked when I made my leg.

"To fling myself at her feet and beg the favor of a dance, perhaps," I suggested. I do like Lady Sylvia very much: she is so completely the captain of whatever regiment she finds herself in. Perhaps I miss military life more than I had realized.

"Well, you certainly shan't have one from me," she said, while her coterie tittered. "Dance with Miss Tarleton instead; she's far too young to be sitting out with me."

"Miss Tarleton," I said, bowing, and she condescended to place her hand in mine as we went to make up part of a set for a country dance (there is waltzing at Carlton House, to Aunt Elizabeth's disapproval, but not so early in the evening). Just as the dance finished, I caught sight of a young man so handsome and ringed-about by women that I knew immediately he must be the elusive Theodore Griscomb -- for although Miss Tarleton has accompanied Lady Sylvia faithfully on her daily calls to Berkeley Square, the promised visit from her cousin never arrived. I will own myself disappointed; after your description I was quite eager to make his acquaintance.

"I see your cousin has made short work of pairing off with the most beautiful girl in the room," I remarked to Miss Tarleton. The young man I presumed to be Mr. Griscomb was at that very moment drawing Olivia onto the dance floor, to the indignation of another gentleman whose claim on her dance card he had ignored. "I pray you will have the opportunity to introduce us tonight; it is not often that I encounter a rival to my cousin's looks. George, not Kit," I added.

Miss Tarleton had not heeded my quip; she was watching Mr. Griscomb's progress across the floor with a pinched expression. "That is not Theodore," she said grimly.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, I should not have assumed — "

"No, you are correct, it is certainly in all respects the likeness of my cousin. But Theodore would never tie his cravat so sloppily, or flirt with strange women, or cut in on another gentleman. Also," she added, her head swiveling on her neck to continue staring at Mr. Griscomb, "Theodore left Town yesterday on an errand to Rushton. Even if Ms. Penwood consented or declined immediately, he could not have returned so quickly."

"Olivia," I said. "We must get her away safely — go and warn Mr. Wrexton and Lady Sylvia, I will distract Miranda."

"I should be the one to confront Miranda," Miss Tarleton argued. "She is wearing my cousin's face. No one will think anything of it if I ask him to come aside with me."

"Come with me if you like," I said, "but I am getting that woman away from my sister immediately."

Olivia was less than pleased to have her dance with the apparent Mr. Griscomb interrupted, but once Miss Tarleton had very mechanically made introductions and I had sent Olivia off with an invented errand for Aunt Elizabeth, Miranda was prompt to drop the pretense of ignorance. "I do not suppose that even you foolish children would care to confront me in the ballroom of Carlton House," she said, smiling — her horrible smile is even more dreadful on a different face. "Shall we all three retire to the conservatory? I am certain we have much to discuss — particularly how you have encouraged dear Theodore's latest attempt at rebellion."

I glanced at Miss Tarleton and immediately discarded the hope that she would remain in the safety of the ballroom to find Lady Sylvia, for her expression, never well disguised, was one of grim determination. "What have you done with Theodore?" she demanded.

Miranda turned and walked out of the room, leaving us to follow her — or rather, leaving Miss Tarleton to follow her, and me to follow after Miss Tarleton muttering a protective spell as quickly as I could, for I had no intention of leaving her to Miranda's tender mercies and no illusions I would be able to convince her to stay behind once a threat to her cousin had been invoked. As soon as we passed over the threshold, I felt the familiar, terrifying numbness settle over my body, which continued walking despite all my efforts to stop. "It is quite remarkable how simple-minded you two are," Miranda's voice drifted back to me as we marched onward. "Your pathetic little cantrips are hardly a match for a Tanistry, you know. Sylvia, now — but you have set her to nursemaiding that exceptionally idiotic young woman instead. I suppose I shouldn't complain, but you present as much challenge as drowning mongrel kittens."

I could not even answer her, which made the situation seem that much more frightening. I could only keep walking, my eyes fixed on Miss Tarleton's back. Once we had arrived at the conservatory, Miranda gestured us to stillness at the center of the room, but at least my mouth would move again. "What did you do to Theodore Griscomb?" I asked.

Miranda, still in appearance an exceptionally handsome young man, had produced a piece of chalk and knelt down to scratch a diagram on the floor. At my question, she began to laugh. "I did absolutely nothing to my idiot stepson," she said. "If he wishes to run off to Calcutta with some countrified schoolroom miss, he may even have my blessing. His usefulness to me is at an end."

Miss Tarleton said something that I will not reproduce, as unfit for the mouth of a gentlewoman, although at the time I certainly could have echoed her with great feeling. Miranda clucked her tongue in mock disapproval, still busily working on her spell preparations. "Really, my dear niece, you should guard your tongue a bit closer. But I quite understand your attachment to him, for you are every bit as useless as he is. When I think of the fact that you are a Tanistry by blood, and not a scrap of magic in you…! But it hardly matters now."

"What about Thérèse?" I asked. If you are captured, keep them talking, you always said, and it remains as good a piece of advice when dealing with mad wizards as with the French.

"My dear boy," Miranda said, "have you not realized yet? Sir Hilary can have her if he likes; I have no need for Thérèse now that I have you. I really should thank you," she went on, getting to her feet. I stared at her, willing Aunt Elizabeth's necklace to burn. "I might never have thought of it if I hadn't mistaken you for Sylvia. But it is so rare to find a young man with a gift for magic and no training or protection! It might as well be divine inspiration. My father always did so wish I had been a son." By then she was directly in front of me, and with a single yank she broke the chain on my necklace. The charm fell into her waiting hand and burst into flames, which was amusing for the few seconds it took her to stamp it out and me to realize I was now without even my last piece of magical protection. "I think I will enjoy being you very much, Mr. Rushton," said Miranda. "The freedoms of your sex and youth are wasted on young men. I can assure you that you will enjoy being an old woman very little, but you won't live long enough for it to trouble you. Now be a dear and step into the circle, won't you?"

The question was rhetorial, of course; my legs took me where she wanted without my input. "Will you at least let Miss Tarleton go?" I asked. My change in position meant I could see her watching me with tears sliding down her cheeks, for what good it did either of us. I almost wished she would close her eyes; I couldn't bear to think of her watching what would come next.

Miranda laughed again. "No," she said, "but I shall make her death as painless as I can manage, if that will soothe your sense of chivalry. How would you like to be a suicide for love, my dear? I'm sure enough people will attest to your passionate devotion to my idiot stepson and your grave disappointment when he fled to India with his little bride. What a tragic end to the morality tale when they find you floating in the river."

Miss Tarleton spat at Miranda, and nearly hit her, too; it makes one wonder about the company she and Lady Schofield kept in Europe. "Lady Sylvia will never believe it, and neither will Thérèse."

"No one believed Sylvia when she claimed Edwina was murdered and no one will believe her when she says it about you," Miranda said dismissively. "As for Thérèse, if Sir Hilary doesn't manage to take care of her, I shall marry her myself; she's been indiscreet enough with Rushton that no one will be surprised when we retire to seclusion in Waycross for a few months before I dispose of her. Women die in childbed all the time. Now, I'm afraid I shall require silence for this next part," and Miss Tarleton froze with her mouth still half-open.

"Allow me to stop you there," came the very welcome voice of Aunt Elizabeth in a towering rage from the doorway behind me. "I think we have all heard quite enough from you."

I wish I could recount the ensuing battle of spells for you, for Miss Tarleton says that it was quite impressive, but from where I was standing, I could see almost nothing, and my Greek is not strong enough to understand it when there are four angry wizards shouting spells all at once. To make a long tale a shorter one, Miranda was quite thoroughly incapacitated, and Lady Sylvia explained matters to the authorities so masterfully that even I, well accustomed to your persuasive gifts, was amazed. Wrexton says Miranda will be kept in the custody of the Royal College of Wizards until they can decide what to do with her. At least she was telling the truth about Theodore, for after her spells were stripped from her she reverted to her usual form, with the addition of several still-angry scars on her face, which I think must have been from the chocolate she tried to serve me and Olivia.

All in all, I think we might have all retired weary but pleased with our efforts for the evening, except that when we returned to the ballroom to collect Olivia and go home, she was nowhere to be found. Wrexton spent several minutes cursing so comprehensively that I was astonished Aunt Elizabeth did not banish him from the room; he then performed a tracking spell and ran out into the street. We had several very anxious hours waiting up in the sitting room at Berkeley Square before he returned, nearly falling down with magical exhaustion, to report that Olivia was safe at Rushton Manor. Aunt Elizabeth insisted upon putting him to bed rather than interrogating him, so we all remain on tenterhooks until he awakens and can explain to us what happened and where he went.

Well, I knew I would get no sleep for worrying, so here I am writing my report to you despite the late hour, and I shall send it first thing in the morning. If Olivia is at home you may already know better than I what has happened to her, so I shall not repent my hastiness in closing this letter with a wish to hear from you as soon as may be.

Yr weary and anxious cousin,
Sebastian

31 May
Rushton Manor, Essex

Dear Sebastian,

First of all, your sister is perfectly safe. I know you must be absolutely distracted, so while I will let the rest of the events in this letter unfold in a logical fashion, allow me to reassure you that Olivia is well, and restored to Aunt Charlotte's loving if tyrannical bosom. George was overjoyed for a few minutes and then they had the most dreadful row and are no longer speaking to each other, so we may even be finally free of his unbearable sonnets to Olivia's nose: an unforeseen consequence to everything that has happened in the past day and night, but most welcome.

George, Uncle Arthur, Aunt Charlotte and I all attended Sir Hilary's ball this evening, for I could hardly have convinced any of them to stay at home. George wore an absolute monstrosity of a cravat — do you suppose our sense of fashion is simply stunted by the privations of war? I cannot understand in the slightest the clothing my brother chooses to wear, but he claims it is all the crack — and Aunt Charlotte even bullied Uncle Arthur into a presentable suit, although with all her powers she could not manage to keep him from rumpling it in the carriage. For all that I might have wished to avoid it, I confess Bedrick Hall was an impressive sight as we rolled into view — I have never seen the house so bedecked before and doubt I shall again.

Once we had exchanged our pleasantries in the receiving line and entered the ballroom proper, I was dismayed to see Lady Schofield mingling among the guests, and dressed in an extremely conspicuous ballgown. Mrs. Everslee and the rest of the local gossips were already buzzing; you know how much they have always made of the Marchioness of Schofield's refusal to visit her Essex estate. "Have you come to inquire after my dance card?" she asked when I made my way to her.

"I have come to inquire after your sanity," I hissed. "Are you mad? Why would you come here? You told me that distance protects you!"

"The distance from Tarleton Hall, or Waycross, or even London, is too negligible to have any effect, once the process has begun," she said, dismissive. Up close, despite the careful application of cosmetics (do not say that Olivia has never taught us anything of use!), she looked drawn and pale, as she has increasingly every morning this week. "And I shall certainly not find any solution by sitting at home allowing it to happen."

"I begin to wonder if your mother took you to Paris to protect you not from Sir Hilary but from yourself," I said bitterly.

"Well, perhaps a bit of both," she said. "But I assure you it is nothing to do with you. Do you care to dance and scandalize your neighbors?"

I waved my cane at her (I have finally found one I like so well that I am scarcely embarrassed to carry it about with me like an aged dowager — it helps that there is quite a fine sword concealed within, but really I am vain enough to admire the fine ebony and gold inlaid handle for their appearance alone) in a mute excuse. "I shall happily accompany you to the punch table instead if you so desire, my lady."

"Ah, but will you happily accompany me when I break into Sir Hilary's study?"

I only sighed instead of remonstrating with her, for in a week's acquaintance with Lady Schofield it has already become quite clear to me that reproaches mean nothing to her when she is set upon some scheme. (In that, she reminds me of you: perhaps you rub up against each other so badly because you are too similar.) "If it is my lady's desire."

"Excellent," she said. "Go wait for me in the library, I shall come join you shortly."

As you well know, it is no small thing to escape to the library when Aunt Charlotte is on the prowl; in the end I made an excuse of having seen Uncle Arthur wandering in that direction (he was in fact in the card room) and going to fetch him back before he could get caught up in one of Sir Hilary's books. Lady Schofield did join me shortly thereafter — how she could possibly slip away unnoticed in a peacock blue ballgown I have no idea, but I suppose she is a wizard, after all. She led me through the hallways with such confidence that I assumed a spell was at work, but when I asked her, she shook her head.

"I told you, Sir Hilary was my tutor," she said. "I ran tame about this house when I was a girl; I know Bedrick Hall as well as Waycross or Schofield House." It is strange to think of Lady Schofield as a child, but endearing too. When I think of Sir Hilary using her trust to entrap her —

The door to Sir Hilary's study was, as Miss Tarleton noted on our previous visit, locked and enchanted, but Lady Schofield murmured a few words in Greek and it opened in welcome. "Are we looking for anything besides a chocolate pot?" I asked. The room was so cluttered it defied a systematic search.

"Perhaps a sense of self-preservation?" came a silky voice behind me, and numbness suffused my body from the neck down. "Dear Thérèse, you disappoint me. Surely you cannot have believed it could be so easy."

"I would say the same, Sir Hilary, but my expectations of you are so low that I think it may be impossible to sink beneath them," Lady Schofield said. "Let the boy go. This is between you and me."

"Once I would have obliged you, but now I think not, Thérèse," Sir Hilary murmured. "I believe I have some business to attend to for the next little while, so I trust you will forgive me if I leave you to entertain each other. Oh — and lest I forget." He opened a cabinet and took out a beautiful blue chocolate pot, which he placed very fussily in the exact center of his desk, moving several papers out of the way. "This is what you came here for, is it not? I should hate for you to think it was all in vain." He glanced at me and at Lady Schofield, as if to ensure that we could indeed see the chocolate pot, and left the study. The door shut with a click behind him, and then we were quite alone.

I now understand entirely why you wrote that enchanted paralyzation was more frightening than any other danger we have faced. For my part, the sense of helplessness was curiously worsened by the fact that it was the only time I have felt the absence of pain in my leg since I woke in that hospital bed. To have something I have prayed for daily, but accompanied by such terrible peril for myself and Lady Schofield… well, I suppose I should be grateful that I shall be able to revisit the moment in my nightmares for many years to come.

"Well," Lady Schofield said, determinedly cheerful. "I seem to have gotten you into quite a mess, Mr. Talgarth."

"I seem to recall your telling me on several occasions to refrain from poking about in your business," I replied. "If I chose to ignore you, I have no one to blame but myself."

She laughed, perhaps a bit breathlessly. "A fine epitaph, I'm sure."

"'Here lies Kit Talgarth, beloved son, brother and friend: he had no one to blame but himself.' Yes, it has a ring to it. I shall have to try to remember it. I would write it down, but I seem to have forgotten my memorandum book."

"I will tell Sir Hilary that he can have my cooperation if he lets you go," Lady Schofield said, suddenly serious. "He might listen. He could drain my magic faster if I stopped resisting."

"Lady Schofield, I wish you wouldn't — "

"Oh!" she snapped. "I wish you wouldn't call me Lady Schofield at a time like this. If I am going to get you killed you might as well call me Thérèse."

"Thérèse," I said. "I am a soldier. I do not want to die, but neither am I afraid of it."

"Well, I am not a soldier, and I would prefer that you survived," she said briskly, her brief moment of sentiment at an end. "It is a pity you never studied wizardry. You do know that you have the potential, don't you? It's less obvious than your cousin's, but I think it is only that yours manifests in less usual ways."

If I could have shrugged, I would have. "I am happy to leave the sorcery to Sebastian," I said. "If I have any magic, it has never troubled me."

"Oh?" I could only see her out of the corner of my eye, but I thought she had an odd look on her face. "Surely you will reconsider. Only imagine what might happen if you had a wizard for a wife. How could you ever command her without magic of your own?"

"My lady, I have had more than enough orders in the army, both given and received," I said. "I do not wish for a wife I could command."

"Oh," she said, in a very different tone of voice.

I do not know how long we were trapped there, unable to look directly at each other and staring instead at that accursed chocolate pot, before the door swung open again. "I hope you have not been bored," Sir Hilary said. "I have brought you more company."

Olivia followed him into the study. Her body was clearly under his control just as mine and Lady Schofield's were, for she moved like a marionette, but her eyes were awake and terrified. "What do you want with my cousin?" I demanded.

"Oh, not what you expect," Sir Hilary said. "She is truly lovely — something of a mystery how the same parents produced both her and Sebastian Rushton, but one might same the same of you and George, really. But more importantly, both Rushtons are absolutely full of magic." He smiled, quite horribly. "Miranda had no notion of what she let slip through her fingers. She always was a fool — but she served her purpose to distract the watchful guardians. Do you have any notion how long I have been waiting for the fair Olivia, Talgarth? It is so difficult to find magical potential in an unguarded vessel. Witness Thérèse — how many years did I labor over your education, my dear, until you were ripe to pluck? And at the end, your mother simply swept you off to Europe, out of my reach. But Olivia Rushton… no mother, her father a nearsighted scholar, her Aunt Charlotte an ignorant harpy, her Aunt Elizabeth so full of hatred for magic that she would never teach her niece a bit of it. You would have been exceptionally convenient if your mother would only have agreed to let you continue to study with me, Thérèse — the magic I could have taken from you through your focus, slowly, over the years! But Olivia is my blood — yes, my dear, as it turns out your mother is a distant relation," he added in Olivia's direction as her eyes widened. "A very distant relation, but a drop of shared blood is enough for the Tanistry spells, once I persuaded Miranda to teach them to me. Your magic, I can take to the last scrap."

"You're a monster," said Lady Schofield, her voice shaking. "She's only a child, she's done nothing to you. You'll kill her."

"Oh, I don't mean to take it all at once," Sir Hilary said. "Just enough to drive her a bit mad, at first. I'll go to her uncle, once it becomes clear that her wits have turned, and tell the whole sad story: how I've loved her from afar for years, waiting for her to come of age and marry some handsome young sprig of fashion, never dreaming that she might love an old scholar in return. And I'll offer to marry her no matter how unlikely it is that she will ever recover. Once she is my wife, her magic will be mine to take whenever I want it."

"You dare," I said.

"Ah, Talgarth, I had almost forgotten you were there! I suppose from your perspective it does look a bit greedy. I hadn't expected Thérèse to return, you see. I don't wish to be unjust: shall I offer you a bargain for your silence? You may choose which of them I take."

I looked past Sir Hilary to Olivia's frightened face. Do you remember when we were ten and Olivia insisted on climbing up into the tree after us, and then couldn't climb back down? You ran to get Aunt Elizabeth and a gardener with a ladder and I stayed in the tree with her until you returned. Her eyes just then reminded me of that moment when she realized how far she was from the ground.

"Forgive me, Thérèse," I said. In that desperate moment, I felt Aunt Elizabeth's necklace begin to burn, and the pain creep back into my leg. I gathered my strength and flung myself across the room before Sir Hilary could stop me, and smashed the chocolate pot to pieces on the floor.

Sir Hilary and Lady Schofield both shouted in pain and staggered, and the numbness of Sir Hilary's spell vanished entirely. Olivia, suddenly freed, darted over to where I had dropped my cane, snatched it up, and clubbed Sir Hilary soundly across the back of the head. "How dare you, you horrid old man!" she shrieked. "I would never marry you! Not if you were the last bachelor in England! Not if you were a duke!"

After such masterful intervention on Olivia's part, what more was there to do? (I find it remarkable that she remains more affronted that Sir Hilary believed she would marry him, a man old enough to be her father, than that he intended to drain her of her magic and leave her an imbecile or a corpse, but as it seems to reassure her to focus on the former offense I pray you will not dwell upon the latter in her presence.) Lady Schofield recovered from the backlash (apparently this manifests as a severe headache: I had imagined something rather more drastic, but I suppose it served the purpose of distracting Sir Hilary nonetheless) of destroying the chocolate pot within a few minutes, and in the meantime Olivia and I tied up Sir Hilary with strips cut from Lady Schofield's no doubt hideously expensive undergown. I also made sure to gag him in the approved fashion for incapacitating a wizard. When we opened the door to the study, there was a man waiting outside whom Lady Schofield greeted with enormous relief as Wrexton; he had followed a tracking spell on Olivia (something to do with a magical portal to London? As always, I leave the magic to you, dear coz) to the door but had been unable to get inside. Wrexton took charge of Sir Hilary's unconscious form and agreed to transport him back to London to hand him over to the Royal College of Wizards, since Olivia is now safe, if hysterical, in Aunt Charlotte's care.

The ball appeared to go on very well despite the host's absence; I heard many of our neighbors declare they had rarely spent so pleasant a night. Lady Schofield and I elected to remain until the end of the evening, to quell any rumors that might have arisen due to our disappearing in the middle of the ball, and she did persuade me to dance just one waltz — for as she said, she is a good deal stronger than she looks, and well able to support me when I stumble.

I look forward to hearing from you soon. Wrexton has assured me that Miranda is in good hands and no longer a threat to you or anyone, and so I rest in the unanticipated pleasure of expecting nothing but good news.

Yr very happy cousin,
Kit

9 June
11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Kit,

It was an unalloyed delight to receive your latest letter, for it can only be a pleasure to dwell on dangers vanquished. Permit me to add, unprompted and perhaps unwanted, my best wishes to you and Lady Schofield (but do not think I will allow you to escape unpunished for claiming we are too similar!) and my hopes to someday soon wish you very happy.

As for goings-on in London, now that Aunt Charlotte has brought Olivia back to Berkeley Square, the house is nearly unbearable for the brangling between her (Aunt Charlotte) and Aunt Elizabeth, who has apparently changed all out of her sister's recognition, and not at all to her pleasure. Perhaps the greatest of Aunt Elizabeth's offenses in Aunt Charlotte's estimation is that she has so clearly fallen in love with Mr. Wrexton; Aunt Charlotte seems convinced that she has done this solely to damage Olivia's chances of making a Great Match by causing a scandal in the family. (How Aunt Elizabeth's marrying Mr. Wrexton, a man of unimpeachable character and family, could possibly damage the Rushton name is beyond me.) At any event, Aunt Elizabeth and Mr. Wrexton do not seem prepared to rush into anything, and have several times remarked upon the benefits of a long (but not too long) engagement, so I think Aunt Charlotte will have to content herself with having put off but not prevented their nuptials.

We have returned to the social whirl with much loosened strictures for Olivia, now that we are not continually on guard for murderous wizards. She seems to be enjoying herself a great deal, although I really cannot say if she herself intends a Great Match at all; she flirts with poor younger sons as happily as with barons and viscounts. I must say that since knocking Sir Hilary unconscious with your cane Olivia seems much more confident standing up for herself to Aunt Charlotte. I hope the effect will last; Aunt Charlotte could do with more people standing up to her, and I would hate to see her pressure Olivia into accepting a proposal she dislikes or is even indifferent to, merely for the status it would impart.

Speaking of proposals, I have one for you, which I hope you will consider seriously rather than dismissing it as you always do. You have said so often that you long to visit the Continent once your leg is healed. Your leg may pain you for the rest of your life, but it is no reason we cannot still see the cities of Europe. I have no objection to traveling slowly, and if there is ever an obstacle too high for you to climb, I will gladly carry you over it. You are my oldest and dearest companion, and I love you too well to allow you to molder at Rushton when the world outside is simply waiting for you to explore.

Come to London, Kit. Lady Sylvia wishes to return to Paris; Jane means to go with her, and I expect Lady Schofield as well. We can accompany them — there can be no impropriety in it when Lady Sylvia is there — and if we go on to Italy or Greece or Spain or remain in France with the ladies the rest of the year, we will at least see more of the world than we have before. Jane is writing to Lady Schofield as well, so perhaps she can plead our case more eloquently than I have done! I shall not brook a refusal, and so I await your arrival (and yes, even Lady Schofield's) with the greatest joy.

Yr loving and hopeful cousin,
Sebastian