A Breath of Frost (24 page)

“I didn’t know lavender worked healing magic,” Strawberry said.

“It doesn’t. But the scent is soothing.” He glanced at Cedric. “And you?”

“Dropping off a list for Mandala,” Cedric replied. Mandala owned an apothecary shop on New Bond Street. He passed over a roll of parchment to One-Eyed Joe. He glanced at it, the smoke from his pipe turning into beautiful dancing girls with peacock tails.

“I’ll need a few days.”

“She reckoned as much.”

One-Eyed Joe nodded. “Right then, it’s getting crowded here and none of you are buying. So off you go.”

They stepped outside, back into the sunlight. Cedric tipped his head. “Don’t take any chances tonight, Moira. Atticus will be looking for you.”

“I’ll be fine.” She shrugged. “Aren’t you staying? The Cursed Fiddlers are playing at the Three Goblins. You love them.”

“Have to head home,” he called over his shoulder, already walking away.

Strawberry sighed, watching him. “Do you think he’ll ever notice me?”

Moira shook her head. “That boy works for the fancy. He doesn’t have time for a sweetheart.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered what would make him stay?”

Moira smiled. “Not me, Strawberry. He’s like a brother to me.” And he’d been her brother for a lot longer than her actual family. He’d been right there next to her when her older brother was carted away by the Order. “And not you either, I’m sorry to say. I reckon he’s after a girl who will break his heart.”

“Duck!”

Emma didn’t duck so much as sprawl ungracefully on the scuffed parquet floor. Someone giggled. She felt sure it was Daphne. She rolled over onto her back, huffing a sigh. “Somehow, I’d assumed magic would be more glamorous.”

Gretchen’s face was the first to peer over her. “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I really thought I had it that time.”

Emma stayed where she was. The floor was hard and uncomfortable but it was a great deal more uncomfortable to have broken glass, pendants, and chandeliers flying at your head. Which had been happening all morning.

Clearly, the famous Lovegrove magic needed work.

Gretchen was attempting to harness and focus her natural abilities, which was resulting mostly in any charms in the vicinity exploding. The ballroom ceiling was damaged with scorch
marks and various substances she had no wish to investigate more thoroughly. The mural depicting the story of Medea was definitely the worse for wear, but that was only partially their fault.

The ballroom was converted into a training space when the schools were first established. The two buildings mirrored each other inside and rumor had it that there were doors leading between them. Needless to say, students searched on a regular basis and tried to blast them with spells on the rare occasions when they were found. Apparently a great many closet doors had fallen victim.

“Don’t worry.” Catriona drifted by. “This isn’t how you die.”

Emma rubbed her face, feeling only a little reassured. Gretchen helped her to her feet as she still tended to wobble, either under-or overcompensating for the weight of her antlers. Penelope was picking crystal beads from the chandelier out of her hair.

Miss Hopewell, one of the teachers, shook her head. “Let’s try another demonstration,” she said. “Lady Daphne, if you would?”

The rest of the girls were safely huddled on the other side of the ballroom, except for Daphne, who was smirking. She’d been sneering since she’d found Cormac in the garden with Emma, so Emma supposed a smirk might be considered an improvement.

Despite the fact that it was deeply unfair, Daphne was not only a favorite of the teachers, but she was also the most gifted in the school when it came to offensive spells. Her natural talent
guaranteed that any magic would find its target. If she’d applied her aim to pistols or longbows, she’d have been a crack shot. It drove Gretchen to distraction.

Daphne preened as she sauntered up beside the cousins. “Of course, Miss Hopewell.” She tossed her perfect ringlets before lifting her chin. Her expression changed, went from smug to focused as she faced the targets. Whatever else the cousins might think of her, there was no denying she was serious about her skills and the Order. Her father was the First Legate, which made him even more powerful than the magisters.

The targets were a line of large haystacks along the back wall. Some were painted with regular bull’s-eye circles, but most were far harder to negotiate. Charms, amulets, and various magical triggers were hidden inside the hay. This morning alone, Gretchen had released a swarm of bees, made a turnip talk, and set all the dogs in the neighborhood howling. Even now her wolfhound-familiar pranced up and down the street. He’d first emerged when Emma and Penelope had to pull Gretchen off Daphne for the second time.

“Begin,” Miss Hopewell instructed.

Penelope went first. Her natural magic had less chance of interfering, especially if she wasn’t physically touching any of the charms.

“Shield,” Miss Hopewell told her.

Elf-bolts of gray-green energy ejected from the haystack, seeking Penelope out like little arrows. They were fast and vicious. Penelope’s hair lifted into the air, full of static. Emma and Gretchen stood beside her even though Miss Hopewell waved them away. Penelope flung the first few aside, muttering
bits of Shakespeare under her breath, not because it helped her magic in any way, but because it calmed her.

“You’d do well to learn Latin,” Miss Hopewell muttered. She seemed to find Shakespeare too wild for her classes. Especially when Penelope yelled:
Ass head and a coxcomb and a knave!
and some of the girls started to giggle uncontrollably.

The elf-bolts came faster and thicker, like a volley of arrows from the battlement of a besieged castle. There were too many to stop individually. Penelope had to create an energy shield, the way they’d been taught that morning. It was made of blue light and looked like a lopsided, old-fashioned wooden shield. It wasn’t quite strong enough. The first bolt went through her hair, the second pierced her shoulder. It didn’t draw blood or leave an obvious mark, but Penelope wilted, turning as green as stewed celery.

Emma and Gretchen both placed a hand on each of her shoulders, without comment. They pushed magic at her shield until it glowed brighter, purer. The elf-bolts disintegrated on impact.

“And attack,” Miss Hopewell ordered.

The elf-bolts stopped, replaced by bats.

Penelope threw salt. Gretchen added a handful of iron nails. Emma cursed.

Nothing happened.

“Salt and iron aren’t enough,” Miss Hopewell remarked, which would have been more helpful before the bats began closing in. “They are only a vehicle for your magic in this case.” She paused disapprovingly. “And that language is certainly not acceptable, Lady Emma.”

With the three of them working together, it became
easier. They found a rhythm that allowed them better control than they had on their own. The bats transformed to hornets and then back to elf-bolts.

Emma caught the flick of Daphne’s fingers but too late.

Much too late.

Her aim was so true that each bolt was hit and turned into a boiled beet that exploded all over the cousins. Red pulp splatted into their faces, hung from their hair, and stained their dresses. The other girls couldn’t help but laugh.

“I may actually kill her,” Gretchen said, pulling a mangled beet out of her ear.

“Honestly, girls.” Miss Hopewell sighed. “You’re going to have to practice far more often if you want to catch up.” She left to summon a scullery maid.

“I thought the Lovegroves’ magic went back for centuries,” Daphne said, all false innocence.

“And I thought your family’s charm went back that long,” Gretchen shot back. “Guess it skipped a generation.”

“The sooner you realize you’re embarrassing yourselves and the school, the better,” Daphne said darkly. “The academy has a reputation to uphold.” She smiled archly before flouncing away, too fast for Gretchen to fling handfuls of mashed beets at her face.

The cousins stood in the middle of the ballroom, dripping vegetable matter and wondering why anyone would want to be a witch in the first place.

Penelope was walking down the lane
to the side door of the town house when Cedric rushed out of the stables. He was wearing his customary trousers and white shirt, his dark hair falling into his face. He didn’t say a word, just swung her up in his arms, wild-eyed.

She held on to his shoulder, fully expecting to be dropped on her backside. Her hem caught the breeze, ruffling up over his arm. He rushed inside to the nearest bench, setting her down carefully and crouching next to her. The horses lifted their heads curiously in their pens.

“I’ll get a doctor,” he said, frantically.

She blinked at him, dazed from being grabbed so suddenly and then carried about. She hadn’t realized he was so strong. Or that he’d gone mad since breakfast. “
I
am fine,” she said, when he looked like he was going to be sick on her shoes. “I suspect you might be coming down with something though.”

“You’re covered in blood,” he babbled. “You’re in shock. Where are you hurt? We need a doctor!” His babbling turned rapidly to bellowing. Penelope glanced down at her red-stained dress, chest, and arms. Comprehension dawned.

“It’s beets,” she assured him quickly. “It’s beet juice!” she yelled louder in case anyone had heard him shouting for a doctor. When her parents didn’t come flying through the stable doors, she relaxed.

Cedric sat back on his heels, befuddled. “Beets.”

She wrinkled her nose sheepishly. “From the academy.”

“Beets,” he echoed, rising slowly to his feet. “From the academy.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “Are you going to repeat everything I say? It doesn’t make for very stimulating conversation.”

He jerked his hand through his hair. “I thought you were hurt.”

She popped up to kiss his cheek. “You’re a darling,” she said. He turned red. She assumed he was finally feeling the effects of carrying her weight around as if she was one of those bird-boned girls. “I’m perfectly well. Although slightly mortified and definitely vowing vengeance.”

“So just another day then,” he said.

“Precisely,” she agreed cheerfully. She didn’t take offense at his teasing, though in regular houses the coachman’s grandson was not encouraged to chat up the master’s daughter. Most coachmen and most horses weren’t serenaded by piano music either. When her pianoforte was replaced she’d had the old one delivered
down to the stables. She was convinced it made the horses happy and since Cedric loved music, she was determined that he shouldn’t be deprived. It was a testament to her parent’s unique ideas that they’d allowed her free rein with pianofortes and lessons in general.

She’d been playing with Cedric since they were children and when she was banished inside to be tutored, she insisted Cedric be allowed to join her. He grumbled about it, but all of her teachers were impressed with his capacity to learn, even with their prejudice against his Gypsy blood. She was less impressed with their knowledge of poetry. All her mother had cared about was that they study Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication on the Rights of Women
.

Regular houses sounded terribly dull. And her father wasn’t a lord anyway, despite her mother’s aristocratic connections. He was wealthier than most earls and viscounts but he was in trade, having taken over his mother’s brewery. Some of the titled families were perfectly willing to overlook his pedestrian bloodlines in favor of his wealth, though they loved to whisper about it behind their fans and brandy glasses. They’d have a fit of the vapors if they knew how friendly his daughter was with the coachman’s Gypsy grandson.

Penelope didn’t begrudge Cedric anything. Except for the fact that he’d known about witchery all his life and had never said a word. She didn’t care what her mother said about her aunt’s spell. “I still can’t believe you knew,” she muttered.

“So you decided to scare me to death?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“That was just a side benefit,” she replied. “But you were very heroic.”