Arcana (16 page)

She has a point. I never give it a second thought. “Isn’t that why we’re here?” I bat my eyes at her and clutch my hands to my chest. “So I can find my Prince Charming, who will adore and worry about me every night?”

“I wish you would,” she mutters, but a small smile peeks out before she can stop it.

“I’m doing my best, and believe me, so is Grandmama.” I hold out my hand and help her to her feet. “Shall we walk down to the stables?”

“Just a moment,” she says and walks to the vanity, which contains drawing materials instead of combs and perfumes. “It would be lovely to draw just for pleasure while we’re there. I haven’t had as much time of late with Grandmama’s schedule.”

“Yes, how foolish of us to think we’d have time for leisurely pursuits,” I say with a teasing smile.

She gathers her materials in her arms, but suddenly turns toward me. “Oh, but Wren! In all that has happened this morning, I didn’t ask you about your debut. You must tell me everything.”

“It was . . . so much better than I had imagined,” I say, a slow smile curving my lips as I think of Lord Thornewood’s surprising chivalry. “But come, I’ll tell you more on our way to the stables.”

We make our way downstairs, careful to avoid any of the rooms Grandmama might occupy, for I’m certain such an outing is not on our tedious agendas for the day.

As we walk, I tell her in as much detail as I can remember what it was like to debut before the king and queen.

“So Lord Thornewood saved you?” Lucy says, a bit dreamily.

I laugh. “He saved me from embarrassment, yes. Although, I’m sure I would have eventually remembered to curtsy.” My mind chooses that moment to play back our exchange in the dark palace corridor, and I feel a blush sneak up my neck.

“Describe the palace for me again. Was the throne room outrageously beautiful?”

I struggle to recall the minute details of the palace’s design elements, though I am nowhere near as observant of such things as Lucy. As I describe them, she jots notes on her sketchpad. She is so gifted that I know my paltry descriptions will be later transformed into a perfect rendering of the palace.

“I simply can’t wait to see the photographs,” Lucy says as we reach the stables.

Warmth and the smell of hay greet us as soon as we enter. The grooms are hard at work mucking stalls at the other end of the stables, so we slip into Orion’s stall.

“I didn’t realize Papa sent Orion here,” Lucy says, giving the stallion a pat on his neck.

“It was a surprise, I think,” I say with a smile as I touch my forehead to Orion’s. He snuffles into my hair, and I laugh. “We’ve come to visit with you,” I tell him, “so make yourself comfortable.”

In answer, he folds his legs under him and lies down on the newly changed straw. Lucy and I join him on the ground, leaning back against his warm side.

Lucy balances a small sketchpad on her lap and begins to draw. With the soft sounds of charcoal on paper beside me, I close my eyes and open myself to Orion’s thoughts. As though I have suddenly submerged myself underwater, all other sounds and sights apart from those sensed by Orion become muffled and dim. He turns his head to look upon Lucy and me, our figures shining brightly with light.

I remember being frightened the first time my pony revealed how I appeared to him. Instead of the child’s body I expected to see, my pony saw me as a girl-shaped being of golden light.

I ran to my mother with tears streaming down my cheeks. “Why do I look like that, Mama?”

She hugged me to her and stroked my hair. “Animals see us as we really are, darling. It’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“But why am I so bright?” I asked.

She pointed to the sun hidden behind a cloud. “Because the sun is bright. It’s the sun’s energy that lives inside us, giving us the power for our special abilities. The same ability that allowed you to communicate with your pony.”

I splayed my hand over my navel, fascinated. “I have sunshine inside me?”

Mama laughed, the sound like the clear ringing of bells. “You do, my darling. My little ray of sunshine.”

I smile as the memories play in my mind, mingling with Orion’s thoughts. Lucy and I are almost too bright for him to look at; the energy within us flows into him like the warmth of the sun. His eyelids droop, and I absently rub his velvety nose.

I glance down at the sketchpad on Lucy’s lap. Her drawing has taken shape: a stately ballroom with ladies lined up for a dance. She adds musical notes in the top corner and smudges them with her finger. When she catches me watching her, she says, “I’ve been experimenting with my arcana. May I show you?”

“Please do,” I say.

She touches her finger to the smudged notes, and the sound of violins fills the air. Orion jerks his head in surprise. The music continues a lively Scottish tune, one we’ve danced to many times. The sound is so clear, it’s hard to believe an orchestra isn’t performing in Orion’s stall.

“Luce, this is amazing,” I say.

“Thank you,” she says with a wide smile. She touches her finger to the notes again, and the music fades away.

“Truly, your ability in weaving arcana into your artwork is remarkable. Mama would be so proud.”

She hugs the sketchpad to her. “Do you really think so?”

“I do,” I say. “Her love for music was second only to her love for all of us.”

The stall door rolls back, and one of the grooms takes a step back when he sees us curled up next to Orion. Lucy and I share a look, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from laughing at the poor man’s expression.

He gapes at us open-mouthed for a moment as all three of us stand. Lucy and I brush the straw from our skirts, and Orion shakes out his long mane.

“Beggin’ your pardon, misses,” he says, his bushy red eyebrows still raised. “I didn’t realize Orion here had company.”

Lucy giggles, and I smile. “He did indeed,” I say, “but we were just leaving.”

“I shouldn’t saddle him up for you then?” he asks, his expressive brows now furrowing in confusion.

“That will not be necessary,” I say. “We’re already quite late for breakfast.”

“Thank you though,” Lucy adds.

We manage to nearly make it to the main house before dissolving into a fit of laughter. It’s a freeing feeling not to be proper, well-behaved ladies. We haven’t had the freedom to be ourselves in so long.

“The poor man didn’t know what to make of us,” Lucy says, sounding as though she will succumb to another fit as we climb the stairs.

“I’m sure he will assume we’re both touched in the head,” I say, and then our laughter begins anew.

Before we reach our rooms, Mary calls out to us with a letter in hand. “Do excuse me, misses, but the post just arrived.”

When I see our father’s name scrawled across the front, I smile. “Thank you, Mary. We’ll just be a few more minutes before we come down to break our fast.”

I turn to Lucy. “A letter from Papa.” When she looks at me with eyebrows raised, I say, “Come, we can read it in your room.”

Once in Lucy’s cluttered room, with nearly every inch of space covered with drawing supplies, I climb onto her bed. She follows, pressing her shoulder into mine to get a better view of the letter.

“Papa,” Lucy says in a happy sigh as I wonder at the strange mention of Grandmama’s card games. “Oh, but this is distressing news. I cannot believe Clara would do such a thing. I always liked her.”

I think of the young maid with her ringlet curls and sooty eyes, and the way she was often too flirtatious with the grooms.

“Well, she’s certainly done plenty of damage,” I say, my hand a tight fist in my lap. “I suspect Eliza may have heard the rumor.”

Lucy’s eyes widen. “But she only spoke of a rebellious girl from Gloucestershire—never a girl who could use arcana.”

“Yes, but if she knows the first rumor, why not the other?”

Lucy took the letter from me. Her eyes scanned back and forth as if Papa would offer advice. “What should we do?”

“The same as we have been: be on our guard against her. And pray she doesn’t get it into her head to spread the rumor here.”

ELEVEN

R
OBERT
is able to attend the opera with us, and I squeeze his arm with excitement as we enter the Royal Opera House’s lobby. Red velvet opulence awash in soft lighting surrounds us along with men dressed all in black and women dressed in silks and satins of every color, glittering tiaras atop their heads. The crowd herds us along toward the main entrance to the theatre, with the box seats above. We follow our grandmother to the spot where we agreed to meet Lord Blackburn.

The chattering of so many people creates a constant cacophony of sound, but it only contributes to my own excitement. The title of the opera is scrolled in bold black letters as we walk through one of the doorways that will lead us to our seats:
Don Giovanni
by Wolfgang Mozart.

“Dowager Lady Sinclair?” a liveried servant asks as we approach the box. She nods, and he sweeps the thick velvet curtain aside. “Right this way, my lady.”

Lord Blackburn stands when we enter, dressed in an elegant tailcoat and trousers. He does a sweeping bow, and a smile lights up his blue eyes. “Welcome to you all. I am so glad you could accept my invitation.”

While my grandmother proceeds to give him effusive praise of his box seats, I curtsy a greeting and go immediately to the railing. Before long, he is beside me.

“By the excitement in your eyes, I’m assuming this is your first time,” he says.

“It’s amazing,” I say, almost breathlessly.

I have trouble deciding what to look at first. Our box floats high above the stage with ten enormous crystal chandeliers hanging even higher. The conductor leads the orchestra with strong but controlled movements, and just watching the bows of the violins is hypnotizing. Fluttery red curtains are drawn across the stage, which is lit by enormous candelabras.

“It’s impressive for a building with such a cursed history, isn’t it?”

I’m quiet for a moment, embarrassed to have no idea what he’s talking about. But my curiosity wins out. “Has there been much misfortune here?”

To my relief, he doesn’t shame me for not knowing, just nods sadly. “Indeed. It has been rebuilt three times. It burned to the ground twice, which is why it was rebuilt the last time about fifty years ago.”

I shake my head, my eyes still riveted by the orchestra. “How awful.”

“A maudlin bit of trivia, but I am fascinated by the history of places and people. The more unusual, the better.”

Gradually, the crowd gets quieter, and I realize the opera must be about to start. I glance at Lord Blackburn and find he has been watching me with as much interest as I have given to my surroundings. I smile tentatively, but he shows no shame at having been caught staring.

“You must forgive me,” he murmurs, “but watching you is like seeing the opera for the first time.”

Unsure of what to say, I keep my eyes glued to the conductor’s baton.

“I’ve been to countless operas,” he says, “so it’s refreshing to see it with someone who is so obviously enjoying it.”