Valentina considered her hats as morning light streamed in through the cabin window. She had several steamers full, in all the styles and spells she thought she might need.
She set aside the attention-drawing hats. They had their purpose, but things were complicated now, and that last thing she wanted was an Inspector paying more mind to her than was strictly necessary and casting her as a suspect.
She’d only brought a single flattery hat and didn’t plan to use it. She was handsome enough without it. Silly girls always angled after such spells, but she rarely granted them. She usually made these hats in secret, for old women who believed they’d lost their shine, or shy young women who came in with a gaggle of others and picked out the cheapest hat on display without trying to be too obvious about it. Flattery spells didn’t actively change appearances, but they kept them in a flattering light, made sure that the hair beneath them fell just so, and put a sparkle in the eye. They also kept the wearer confident of their own looks, and she wanted her mind clear and sharp, not dulled by vanity.
She laid aside the hat that prevented sunburn; it might be useful when the cityship reached warmer climes.
A hat to sharpen her memory might be appropriate, especially given her plans to study at the library. A truth hat would let her see if someone around her was lying. Protection might be wise, if she would be in any danger near Lord Jamison. Valentina drew her finger along the brim of a tiny felt hat with a profusion of flowers and feathers.
None of these were the right hat for Charlotte, she thought. Charlotte’s brazen reddish hair needed something just as bold, in bright green, perhaps, with peacock feathers and bright ribbons. And a spell…what spell would serve her best? She certainly didn’t need confidence or grace.
Did you never think to marry for love, or passion? Charlotte had asked, and the words rattled in Valentina’s head.
She had cared for her husband and they suited each other very well. But although they were deeply fond of each other, their marriage had certainly not been passionate. Valentina had performed her wifely duties without cause for complaint, but she had always wondered if there was something wrong with her, that she found no zeal in the act. She could not reconcile the romance in the plain-covered books that she sometimes read with real life; making hats and admiring fashion was as close to such excitement as she got. Was there some flaw in her heart that she couldn’t find that kind of ardor? Was it ridiculous to yearn for more?
Charlotte knew what passion was. Her zest for life was in every flashing smile and bold gesture. The way she walked, the way she tossed her head so that her awful hat was constantly on the verge of falling.
Valentina scowled and picked up the memory hat. Charlotte had a hat of her own choosing and it was a terrible one. Valentina had no right or interest in changing that. They were enemies, she reminded herself, united only briefly until their paths diverged again with one of them the winner.
She selected an outfit to match the hat and called for her maidservant to help her bathe and dress, then sallied forth to the Cityship Library.
Valentina hoped that her early arrival would help her avoid Charlotte, but the bothersome woman had already ensconced herself with a tidy pile of the gossip rags from Lord Jamison’s home city. Surprisingly, there was also a thick book of business law, with several page markers poking out.
Her boots were up on the table as she leaned back with a rag spread in her lap. She was wearing the same ugly silk hat, perched unsteadily on her riot of reddish curls. She was dressed in a modest walking dress in a conservative brown stitched in green, but still managed to look defiant.
“Ah, Letty!” she greeted Valentina casually. “I did remember correctly! Lady Jamison’s life was tragically cut short by a runaway horse! A black horse, no less.”
Valentina sat primly across the table. “Do you think that the murderous horse is here to finish the family?” she asked. “Who would want to get rid of both of them?”
“Lady Jamison held a seat in the parliament, so naturally she would have enemies. But I couldn’t think of a reason anyone would want to kill her husband also. He has no heirs, so his riches would merely go to the state. Then I had an idea!” Charlotte put her feet down on the floor and leaned across the table. “Did you know that there were rumors, nothing proved, of course, that Lord Jamison pushed her in front of the horse.”
Valentina had heard the rumors, of course, and had investigated carefully. “I would not be considering his court if I thought he was a murderer,” she pointed out, deliberately implying that he was pursuing her. “There were several witnesses who swore they were standing some distance apart, and the driver himself said that she stepped out carelessly.”
“But if he had! What if the horse is Lady Jamison herself?” Charlotte proposed.
“Hmm!” It was a theory, which was more than Valentina had at this point. Still, she didn’t want to give the idea, or Charlotte, too much credit. “Why a horse, then? That it was a kelpie seems more likely, doesn’t it? And honestly, I refuse to give much credence to the idea that a ghost was here for revenge. Everyone knows that spirits have no memory beyond their dying moment. How could a spirit have followed him onto a cityship?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Here, these are the rags from around her death.” She nudged a pile of periodicals across the table and settled back with her thick law journal.
Valentina flipped through the top few rags, looking for any that she hadn’t already read. There were several she did not recognize and she paged slowly through them, skimming for the topic and tapping her hat any time she saw something she particularly wanted to stick in her memory.
Charlotte certainly didn’t need a flattery spell to add life to her features; she was animated and her gaze was direct and full of challenge. Had she somehow missed all the lessons in life that a woman’s role was to be gentle and supportive of the men around her?
Valentina had always been considered independent, for her pursuit of craft and for insisting on managing her own finances. But she had gone about it softly, listening patiently as people told her what to do, nodding in agreement, and then quietly doing things her own way as subtly as possible. And since her business was women’s hats, no men were terribly concerned with it and she was free to do as she wished.
She learned to work around the men in her life, not against them, and had established a blissful amount of independence. Harrod’s death had disrupted that, of course. She had to shutter the shop for mourning for nearly a month, and opportunistic milliners found their increase in commerce delightful enough to go searching for a way to shut her down for good.
Charlotte suddenly sat upright, her boots stomping loudly on the floor in the quiet library. “You’re a hedge witch,” she hissed.
Valentina looked up in alarm. “Excuse me?” She realized that her fingers were poised at the rim of her hat.
“Unlicensed, I bet, since that’s not the kind of thing a respectable woman like you would want to advertise.”
Charlotte looked triumphant, and with good reason. If being a tradeswoman was damningly common, being a magical tradeswoman was likely to torpedo Valentina’s chances in winning not only Lord Jamison, but in securing any respectable husband. Further, all Charlotte had to do was point out to the inspector that Valentina was an unlicensed magic user and she’d be in his sights as a suspect, and subject to fines and even jail time, if they could find evidence that she’d practiced it for money.