Arcana (31 page)

I open and close my mouth a few times. Lord Thornewood glares at his brother, whispering to him in what I’m sure are harsh words. Lord James has clearly decided to stir up as much strife as he can. Worse, neither of us can refuse without seeming abominably rude.

I smile as if I don’t mind when she takes her place beside me. Penelope and Lucy choose each other as partners, casting me sympathetic glances as they read over the list.

We are able to choose our mounts, and Eliza makes the mistake of choosing the same feisty mare Lord Thornewood brought for me to ride all those weeks ago. I go with a calm, bright-eyed gray gelding. I’m in no mood to manage both a temperamental horse and Eliza.

The air buzzes with excited chatter, but Eliza and I are quiet. She shoots me a glare. “You could have at least worn a different color.”

I look down at my black riding habit. Eliza is wearing a nearly identical outfit. I roll my eyes. “As if I can help it.”

She makes an irritating huffing sound and yanks the reins of her poor horse. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“Good luck, everyone,” James calls. Everyone else rides away with bright expressions, happy banter in their wake.

I follow Eliza silently, letting her take the lead as she canters away toward the lake. The gelding has a smooth gait, and I try my best to enjoy it. When we arrive, my eyes scan the list of items: ribbon, bird’s egg, honey, statue, ball, fishing net, peony, and gloves.

“What do you expect to find here?” I ask. “I know where we can find the peonies, but none of the others.”

“A fishing net would be used in water,” she answers in a biting tone. “Do you see water anywhere else?”

I don’t deign to answer her, just watch with a bored expression on my face as she dismounts and searches the water’s edge. After a few moments of pushing aside tall vegetation, she snaps, “You could assist me you know.”

“Very well,” I say and dismount. I examine the shore line, searching for anything that resembles a net. Then I notice the narrow wooden pier. A sign with a pile of nets sits at the very end. My boots make hollow sounds as I walk over to the nets and retrieve one from the top of the pile.

I dangle the net from one hand and smirk. “I suppose this won’t be so hard after all.”

Eliza marches over and snatches it from me. “Only because I determined where to go in the first place.”

I grit my teeth. “Shall we go to the garden next?”

She doesn’t answer at first, just glances in the direction of the copse of trees behind the lake. In the distance, I see Lord Thornewood and his brother, talking and laughing in the shade. “No,” she says, “I believe we’ll search for the bird’s egg next.”

“The peony would be easier,” I say.

She waves her hand in the air flippantly and mounts her horse. “Do as you wish.”

I would like nothing more than to go my separate way, but I know if I do, she’ll seek the attention of Lord Thornewood. An ugly streak of jealousy twists inside me. “I’d rather help you,” I say sweetly.

She shoots me a nasty look and mutters something under her breath.

We ride around the lake, Eliza sawing on the horse’s bit. I grit my teeth as Eliza delivers another pointless smack with her riding crop to the mare’s side. It reminds me of when I was younger and got in a terrible row with Robert. He took my favorite doll and hid it from me, and we ended up in a wrestling match. When I went riding with Mama later, I was still sore at my brother for not only taking my doll, but beating me at wrestling. I pouted the entire time, and my pony responded by being as stubborn as a donkey. I never stooped to treating him badly as Eliza is now, but it was one of the only times I saw my mother angry. She told me that my pony could feel every bad emotion I was feeling, but unlike me, he could do nothing about it. Save throw me off. Which is probably exactly what Eliza’s mount would like to do.

I watch the mare’s tail swish angrily back and forth. She prances in place as a warning, but Eliza only gives her another smack with the crop.

My stomach twists in response. Even from a few feet away, I can sense the mare is only moments away from her breaking point. I open my mouth to say something to Eliza just as the mare tosses her head. Eliza jerks hard on the reins; but when the mare tosses her head again, she wrenches the reins out of Eliza’s hands. Eliza makes a dive for the fallen reins, nearly unseating herself in the process.

Spooked by Eliza’s sudden movement, the mare takes off as though baying hounds chase her. I suck in my breath as Eliza pitches forward and clings to the horse’s neck. She has absolutely no control of her now.

There is a horrible moment where I shame myself by thinking:
this is only what she deserves.
But then Eliza’s scream carries back to me on the wind.

Her panicked horse heads straight for the woods—no doubt the fastest way back to the stables and, therefore, safety—but also full of thick oak trees and thorny underbrush. Galloping through the woods can be dangerous even for a skilled rider, but for a rider who has lost all control, it’s practically a guaranteed way to get one’s neck broken.

I may hate Eliza, but that does not mean I would see her dead.

I urge my horse into a gallop after them until we reach the entrance to the woods. I cannot risk my horse getting tangled in the underbrush, so I jump from his back and race ahead on foot.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see Lord Thornewood and Lord James in a flurry of activity, but my focus is on the runaway horse and rider.

Branches and thorns tear at my face and clothing. I leap over fallen logs and debris, following the sound of thrashing hooves and fearful screams.

I reach them just as the mare tosses Eliza from her back. Eliza flies through the air, her arms flailing uselessly. With a crash, she lands in a heap in the hedges. The horse is blowing hard, her eyes wide. I take hold of her reins and put my hand on her nose, and she drops her head and relaxes her body.

“Eliza?” I call, and she answers me with a strangled sob.

I lean down to help her to her feet, and that’s when I see the blood spread from a wound in her side. With a shaky hand, I pull her cloak away to reveal a sharp branch protruding from her chest. Blood bubbles from her lips, and I realize it has punctured her lung.

TWENTY-TWO

“H
ELP
me,” Eliza says, nearly choking on her own words. Her eyes are wide with panic. “
Please.”

I can fix this. Lord knows she doesn’t deserve it, but I cannot leave her here to die when I possess the power to heal her. I have only seconds to make up my mind. The cost will be high for me—this arcana is akin to stealing her from the jaws of death. I think of the little kitten in the stables and of Henry’s devastating revulsion afterward. I think of my mother. In truth, I’m not sure I’m strong enough.

“Please,” she says again, her lips red with blood.

But I have to try.

I crouch beside her and close my eyes, calling my power to me. Channeling this much energy has a different pull on my body than my normal arcana. The tug inside me is painful, and I suck in my breath. I grip the branch in both hands and take a deep breath.

I meet her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say and pull.

Eliza’s scream of agony reverberates through me.

The branch comes free, bringing a torrent of blood with it, and I immediately switch to healing arcana. I hold both palms over her battered body. A breeze tickles my neck, and my palms begin to glow with a bright, golden light. The light churns around us, humming with ancient power. The smell of rich earth permeates the air. The smell of healing.

The dappled sunlight fuels some of the energy but the majority comes from my own stores. The effects are near instant. I can feel my own life flowing into her, bleeding out of me like a mortal wound.

“Katherine,” a voice calls—panicked, insistent. “Katherine, where are you? Answer me!”

It’s Lord Thornewood’s voice, but I cannot stop now. Eliza is bathed in the light, and her body is slowly mending itself. I watch her muscles knit back together as the blood finally slows to a trickle.

“Katherine, thank God. I thought—”

This time, the voice is right behind me. I don’t even turn around. What’s done is done. Though I only halfway believe it.

My heartbeat weakens, flutters. Sweat pours down my face as a terrible pain radiates out from my chest. Tingles of numbness run down my arm. My heart is failing me.

From behind one of the towering trees, a snowy white fox appears. Its gaze pierces mine in the same way it did when I first saw it in my vision. Images of my mother gently scolding me the day I brought the kitten back to life fill my mind.

“Resurrection arcana has too great a price,” she said, her gaze meeting mine as intensely as the fox does now. “You must never attempt it again.”

The fox takes another small step forward.
Let go
, it says in my mind.

I cut the flow of power as one would snip a loose thread.

Another moment, another heartbeat, and Eliza sits up, her hand on her newly healed side. Eliza’s eyes are wide as she stares at me. “You healed me,” she says, her voice filled with incredulity.

I glance at Lord Thornewood, but he stands motionlessly. My eyes swing back to Eliza’s. “Yes,” I say. Where her face should be, I see only black spots. I’m so cold, as though my body no longer has the strength to produce any heat. Eliza’s chest is heaving. I’m still connected to her, so I know fear drives her rapid breathing. I should be terrified of her reaction. I should be feeling so many things, but I feel nothing. I am numb.

“How is this possible?” she asks, probing the spot in her side that was once a gaping wound.

As her question seems to be more rhetorical than anything, I concentrate on staying conscious. My body begs me to lie down, to give in to the dark edges of my vision.

Eliza’s wide, panic-stricken eyes finally take in Lord Thornewood. Like a flash of lightning, her demeanor changes. “Lord Thornewood, you must help me. She
did
something to me.” Her voice is desperate, insistent.

“I only healed you, Eliza.” My voice sounds like I’ve aged sixty years.

“Only?
Only?
I
knew
there was something wrong with you! What are you?” she asks as she scrambles to her feet.

“I’m a girl, just as you are.”

“You’re not. I knew those outrageous rumors were true.” She turns back to Lord Thornewood, her whole body shaking. “I’ll tell you what she is. She’s a witch,” she says, her voice as accusatory as Henry’s.

But rather than appear fearful, her eyes have a glint in them, as though this may be the very thing she has hoped for all along: that I will have made such a disastrous mistake all of society will shun me. Before Lord Thornewood can even respond, she races away. A line from my mother’s letter pops into my mind:
There is no greater scandal than the one fueled by fear.

Lord Thornewood steps forward and places a warm hand on my shoulder. I look up into his dark eyes and see concern swirling in their depths—concern, and something else. Determination?

“You are uninjured?” he says, and his voice sounds hoarse. His eyes sweep over my person.

“I am well enough,” I say weakly.

He helps me stand. I sway on my feet, and then I see nothing at all.

I awake to disembodied voices just outside my room.

“Her heartbeat seemed stronger this time?” Lord Thornewood asks, his voice strained.

“Absolutely, my lord,” another man answers. “You should get some rest yourself. Miss Sinclair will fully recover.”

“I’ll rest when she wakes up and tells me herself she’s better.” The sound of booted heels on marble ring out and then soften as they approach the bed where I lie.

I try to force my eyes open, but they feel weighted. After a moment, Lord Thornewood sighs and moves away. I hear him settle into a nearby chair, and I relax. I’m having trouble remembering exactly what happened and where I am, but I’m sure it’ll come to me—probably much too soon.

At last, I manage to get one eye open. A view of the lake at Thornewood greets me. A fire crackles in the marble fireplace to the left of the bed. Blankets are piled all around me, and as I concentrate on other areas of my body, I find the mattress is exceptionally plush.