Her unhappy mood did not subside on her return to Emeraude House. She felt restless, uninterested in settling down to any sedate activity like reading, but too deeply chilled to find more Flying appealing. She eventually settled in the drawing room, contemplated ringing for tea, and decided even the scant company of the servants was too much to bear.
After a few minutes’ silent grousing, she began Moving the many knickknacks her mother had collected over the years, juggling miniature figures and candlesticks in elaborate, complex patterns. It was something she had competed in often at the public trials, and a skill at which she excelled. She gradually added more and more objects until she had two score porcelain miniatures flying through the air, dipping and swirling and dodging each other like so much chaff in a whirlwind. Rather than soothe her, the rapid motion irritated her further. If this was all her talent was good for, what was the point of having it?
Anger pulsed through her, and she flung two of the statuettes at the fireplace, smashing them against the bricks and sending shards flying. Breathing heavily, she leaned forward, watching the flames blacken the smooth porcelain surfaces. The sight calmed her somewhat, as did her growing awareness that she was not behaving rationally. She could not recall the last time she had lost control of her temper.
She realized she was holding the rest of the objects stationary, frozen where their trajectories had landed them, and gently Moved them back to their original places on hearth and tables. Then she stood and wearily trod to the fireplace. She swept up the shards and splinters with her Moving and plucked the larger pieces out of the fire, depositing them all in a neat pile on the hearth. Then she rang for a servant. The man did not look at all surprised at Clemency’s request to dispose of the broken figurines. She hoped that was not because her household was so eccentric such things were a matter of course.
She resumed her seat and squeezed her eyes tight shut for a few seconds. If only it were dark, she might Fly through the city, looking for crime to stop. She recalled what Mr. Wescott had said about an imagined group of Extraordinaries bent on eradicating crime from London’s streets and smiled despite herself. She personally did not feel the need for companionship on her nocturnal excursions; in fact, she loved the solitude and the feeling that she was doing something no one else dared do. But the idea compelled her nonetheless.
She spent the rest of the day in motion, examining each of the rooms in her house for untidiness, walking to the park and circling it on foot many times, and finally calling for her carriage and driving herself through the city. She had not driven since her return from the War Office, because why take such a slow, roundabout mode of transportation when one could Fly instead? But on this day, staying at ground level suited her. She was not so alien as all that if she could drive through the streets without drawing attention.
She dared not venture into the seedier parts of London, not because she feared for her safety, but because she felt superstitiously that if she traveled openly into places she would later Fly secretly, the inhabitants who saw her now would somehow recognize her then. Instead, she stayed on the most public and popular thoroughfares, admiring store fronts and exchanging nods with other drivers. The ordinary, even banal activity soothed her, and she returned to the house before suppertime feeling less oppressed in spirit.
Unusually, the whole family gathered that evening for supper; Roger frequently dined at his club, and Prudence more often than not ate off a tray in her room. Clemency tried to be generous of spirit with Roger and Prudence, but she could not help seeing their behavior as an insult. The fact that she felt easier when they were not present to start a fight or sit in sullen silence complicated her emotions. They were her siblings, and she felt she should at least not see them as a burden.
She summoned up a pleasant smile and addressed Prudence. “Mama insists you are ready for a ball to celebrate your come-out, and I agree with her. Is that something you would like?”
Prudence poked at a pile of soft, cooked potato, Bounded at great expense from South America. “I did not believe you cared about what I would like,” she said, not meeting Clemency’s eyes.
“Prudence! For shame!” their mother exclaimed. “Clemency cares very much for all of our well-being.”
Clemency took a bite of her own potato and chewed slowly, summoning inner calm. She liked the exotic delicacy enough to make an effort to bring it to her table, but at the moment it tasted like ash. “I regret that you feel that way,” she told Prudence, “and I apologize if I gave you the impression that your needs are not important. Perhaps you could choose a date?”
Prudence shrugged. “So long as you are asking me, I would like it to be as soon as may be managed.” She did not sound enthusiastic, but at least she was speaking to Clemency, and Clemency would take her victories where she could get them when it came to her family.
Mama let out a sound midway between a tiny shriek and a gasp. “Oh, and you may leave the planning to me! This is the perfect time of year for a ball, and it will be so beautiful—and you will need a new gown, a new wardrobe, even!”
Prudence’s lips curled in a sneer. “I see no reason to celebrate so lavishly. It is not as if I have talent, something to set me apart.”
“Prudence, having talent is not so important,” Clemency said. “Most of the population of England has no talent.”
Prudence flung her fork down to chime loudly against her plate. “And yet those with talent consider themselves superior,” she exclaimed. “Do not tell me you and Roger and Mercy and even Mama do not benefit under the law and in society because of your talents!”
“And why should we not?” Roger said. “Those of us with talent have superior abilities, so why not reward us as a result?” He patted his lips with his napkin and then attacked his beef with enthusiasm, as if there was nothing more to say.
“That is not—” Clemency began.
“You do nothing to benefit society with your Scorcher talent,” Prudence shot back. “Lighting a fire in the hearth, or lighting a pipe—those might be done by anyone. And yet you are celebrated for that accident of birth.”
“Prudence, you know talent is not all there is to life,” Mercy said. “Father had no talent, and he was respected and admired by everyone who knew him.”
Clemency winced inwardly. Mercy was right, but mentioning Father was more likely to cause an explosion than to calm Prudence.
As she expected, Prudence’s face paled, and she shoved back from the table. “None of you knew Father as I did,” she whispered. “None of you deserve to speak his name.”
“Prudence, you are not the only one who grieved at his death,” Clemency said. It was a mistake, but she could not bear receiving her sister’s bile one moment longer without striking back. “He loved each of us regardless of what talent we did or did not have. You should not blame us for his loss.”
Prudence turned on Clemency, a furious scowl distorting her face. “Don’t pretend you care about me,” she snarled. “You believe you can return home like a conquering hero and tell us all what to do?”
“Since when have I told you what to do?” Clemency raised her voice to match Prudence’s. “I have given you everything you wish for, met your every need, and all I ever receive in return is vitriol and anger. Why, pray, should I respect you when you behave like this?”
“Yes, you are generosity itself,” Roger said. “Lady Bountiful of the manor.”
His sarcasm made Clemency’s already keyed-up nerves twang further. Gritting her teeth, she said, “You would prefer I keep you all on a tight leash, make you come begging to me for favors and money? Who pays for your club, Roger?”
Roger’s face darkened. “That’s right, hold it over my head that I am dependent on you until I reach the age of twenty-five. I could have received my inheritance at my majority if not for Great-Aunt Edith’s insistence that I wait. Everyone in my life believes me incompetent—you, Great-Aunt Edith and her solicitors, Father. Prudence is correct; you came home from the war and set about managing our lives, will-you, nil-you.”
“I did no such thing!” Clemency regretted her outburst immediately. She drew in a breath and said, more calmly, “I regret that my War Office service took me away during a time when I was needed here to settle Father’s affairs. But that was hardly my choice. And I am doing my best now.”
“Clemency, please,” Mama begged. “This is hardly behavior befitting a lady.”
“Clem hardly cares about that,” Roger drawled. “When difficulties rear their heads, she takes to the skies. Not exactly ladylike behavior, is it?”
Clemency ignored Roger. “Prudence, I do care about you,” she said, hoping it was not too much of a lie. “I want you to be happy. I know I can’t bring Father back, but can we not find some common ground?”
Prudence rose from her seat. Her lips were white and pinched with anger. “We have nothing in common but birth,” she said. “You cannot change that.” She shoved her chair against the table and broke into a run, slamming the door open and disappearing down the hall.
Clemency closed her eyes and mentally rehearsed the worst profanities she could remember hearing from soldiers in the field. When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell first on Mercy, who gripped her fork and knife as if she intended to use them in her defense. “She is in such pain,” Mercy said.
“At what point does her pain become self-indulgence?” Clemency said. “She is not the only one who lost a beloved father. I cannot believe her anger and misery will bring her satisfaction. The rest of us have learned to accept our loss.”
“Don’t imagine you know how we feel,” Roger said.
“Roger, you—” Clemency again bit back a few choice words. “I did not mean I know how you feel,” she said when she regained control. “But it seems as if Prudence wishes to be miserable and rejects anything that might cheer her. I have no idea how to approach her.”
“Permit me to speak with her, Clemency,” Mama said. “She has agreed to a ball for her coming-out. I truly believe if she joins society, she will see how much pleasure it will give her, and that may lighten her spirits.”
“I hope you are right, Mama,” Clemency said. She did not believe anything would lighten Prudence’s spirits so long as she clung to her misery, but she also did not wish to have Prudence stalking through the house, angry and bitter and resenting everyone, for the rest of all their lives. And perhaps Mama was right, and being recognized as an adult by society would give Prudence something to think about that was not her dead father.
The meal proceeded in blessed silence, but when Clemency rose at its conclusion, Roger surprised her by rising as well. “I’m off to the club,” he said, then, with a mocking smile, added, “if that is acceptable to you, Lady Bountiful.”
“Oh, by—” Clemency was sure at some point, her bridle on her tongue would slip, and she would shock her family with her language. She calmed herself and said instead, “If I were to oversee your every movement and every activity, Roger, you would know what true oppression looks like.”
Roger’s smile vanished. “So I am to be grateful you are only parsimonious, and not overbearing?”
“Stop,” Mercy said. “This argument will make neither of you happy. Roger, why must you needle Clemency? She does not treat you like a poor supplicant.”
“And neither does she treat me like a brother,” Roger said, and turned on his heel and stalked away.
Clemency let out a long breath. “I would take that complaint more seriously,” she said, “if I did not know his definition of treating him like a brother means giving him the title.”
“Oh, that is not true,” Mama said. “You were named countess, and Roger accepts that.”
Clemency and Mercy exchanged glances. “He has stopped arguing the point,” Clemency said. “I doubt that means he has accepted it.”
She read to Mercy in the drawing room for an hour, hoping the peaceful activity would soothe her. Instead, the slowness of the story, in which people talked and talked endlessly without ever taking action, roused her impatience to new heights. She did her best to conceal her irritation, not wishing Mercy to be the recipient of her foul mood, but at the end of the hour, Mercy laid her needlework in her lap and said, “If you are resentful of reading to me, I would prefer you leave off and permit me to sew in peace.”
Instant remorse filled Clemency. “It is not you,” she said, “and I hope you will forgive me. I am simply out of sorts.”
“That is natural, given the meal we had,” Mercy said. She leaned forward in her chair, her eyes intent on Clemency. “You are not a villain, you know, whatever Roger and Prudence might say in their jealousy.”
“You believe it is jealousy?”
“What else can you call it, when you have freedom and power they lack? Prudence suffers from the burden of being seventeen and female in a society where women’s roles are constrained, and Roger—well. There is nothing you can do for Roger save abdicate, and I hope you will not do that.”
“Father wished for me to inherit, so I cannot betray his memory. And it is not as if I believe Roger’s needs are more important than mine.” Clemency set the book aside and sighed. “I will retire now. Are you tired? I can Move you to your room.”
“I am not yet sleepy. Albert can carry me.” Mercy put a hand over Clemency’s. “Sleep, and tomorrow will look brighter.”
“I hope so,” Clemency said with a smile.
She climbed the stairs rather than Flying to the second floor, feeling a need to connect with the earth, or at any rate the staircase. It occurred to her that Mercy had not sounded at all resentful when she spoke of the footman carrying her. That eased Clemency’s heart somewhat. She owed Mr. Wescott a great debt.
The memory of how she had left him made her cheeks burn. He must think her fickle, or unstable, and she wished so much for his good opinion. It disturbed her slightly that she cared so much for the regard of someone still virtually a stranger. But he intrigued her, and she wished to know more about him, and that could not happen if he believed she disliked him, or however he interpreted her odd behavior.
Now that she was free of social and familial obligations, her eagerness to be Flying over the city burned like a tiny fire in her chest. She submitted to Tatton’s assistance impatiently enough that the woman said, “My lady, is something wrong?”
“No, it is just that I have been restless all day,” Clemency lied. “All I need is a good night’s sleep, and I am certain I will feel more myself in the morning.”
She successfully kept from tapping her toe against the dressing table leg while Tatton braided her hair. Instead, she watched herself in the mirror, examining her face for signs of her hidden struggle. How easy it was to conceal one’s turmoil from the casual observer! Tatton certainly did not perceive her mistress’s disquiet, and Tatton was extremely shrewd. Clemency looked perfectly calm. Hers was not at all the face of someone intent on illicit doings.
She lay in bed and waited for Tatton to finish tidying the dressing room, so eager to be up and doing she quivered. The instant Tatton closed the door behind herself, Clemency sprang from the bed and rooted between the mattresses for her clothing. Dressed, shod, and gloved, she opened the window and stepped through it, pausing only to latch it closed behind her before shooting into the sky like a rocket.
For a few minutes, she Flew with no intent in mind, simply enjoying the cold air on her face. Already she felt calmer; taking action, any action, relieved the urgency that tightened her chest and tensed her muscles. The dark moon had set hours before, and although the skies were clear, the blackness was deep enough Clemency felt shrouded in velvet. Below, the lights of the city twinkled like chips of diamond shaken free of the night’s velvet folds, barely illuminating the streets. Either this was a night when the criminals would be out in force, or it was too dark even for them.
Remembering her previous nocturnal flight, she headed for the Thames and followed its dark path for a few miles, then turned north and began her hunt in earnest near Whitechapel. She swept silently over the few men and women still on the streets. The darkness forced her to Fly lower than she preferred, but she was still high enough that no one looked up to perceive her. She might as well be invisible. Why there was no talent for invisibility, she could not imagine, but such a talent would benefit anyone who wished their doings to remain secret. Of course, probably most people would use the talent for crime, so it was just as well it did not exist.
She Flew in a tight pattern she had been taught in the Flight Corps, assessing the streets, and became increasingly irritated at seeing no one intent on breaking into a house or stalking a victim for robbery. Surely Londoners had not suddenly given up on crime?
Frustrated, she headed west. Perhaps she should hunt south of the Thames, in those narrow warrens that looked so unlike the streets near London’s center it was hard to believe they were both part of the same city. Clemency disliked Flying there not because it was difficult to apprehend miscreants—if anything, crime was prevalent enough she might spend every night catching criminals and never run out of prey—but because the rampant poverty and illness made her heart ache. She could stop a few criminals from preying on the weak and innocent, but that left hundreds or even thousands unpunished. She could do nothing to save those who barely had enough to eat, let alone those who had nothing at all.
She made out the dome of St. Paul’s in the distance and decided to swoop around it before moving south. The beautiful landmark gleamed pale even in the low light, appearing more solid, more real than anything in its surroundings. On a whim, Clemency Flew lower and alighted on the top of the dome, just where it curved beneath the cupola and the cross. Perhaps her behavior was sacrilegious, but she could not help herself.
She turned, looking out across the city. From this vantage point, the city was once more a frozen sea of rooftops and chimneys, the smells of waste and the closer odor of the Thames merely hinted at in the frigid air so Clemency could imagine herself on an island surrounded by a grey, motionless ocean.
Tilting her head, she looked up at the cross surmounting the cupola. It was so small compared to the building as a whole, and yet it symbolized so much to so many. Clemency had never been much for religion, though she paid her devotions every Sunday and at Christmas and Easter, so she felt unmoved by its presence. God had not prevented Napoleon from Coercing her and making her Armand’s doxy, and while she suspected it was unfair to criticize God for failing to intervene, she could not help her resentment.
She pushed off the dome and drifted lower, examining the rest of the cathedral, though it was dull compared to many she had seen in Europe. She preferred the Gothic influences to Christopher Wren’s contemporary marvel. It was beautiful, true, but much of it looked more like a government building than anything devoted to religion.
Furtive movement caught her eye, and she halted midair, peering into the dimness. Three—no, four figures crept along the base of the cathedral at its rear, moving slowly with many pauses. The figure at the head of the line occasionally gestured, beckoning his comrades forward or indicating they should stay back. From her vantage point, Clemency saw two other men approaching along the street, neither of them appearing very alert. But the thieves, or so she imagined them to be, were cautious not to be noticed by those passersby nevertheless.
Clemency floated backward until her feet rested on the edge of the dome, slowly so as not to draw attention, though the thieves did not remember to look up. She watched them creep along the foundation until they reached a spot that to Clemency did not stand out from the rest of the cathedral. It was far from the doors and well away from where most people passed. The four men gathered in a tight knot, crouching behind some bushes. Clemency decided this was her moment.
She dropped to hover about twenty feet above their heads and snatched them up, or tried to; they looked up just as she descended, and two of the men resisted her Moving. The other two, however, let out hoarse cries of shock and flailed their arms until Clemency used her talent to bind their limbs tight to their bodies.
“You should be ashamed, stealing from a house of God,” she cried in her deepest voice. “I will not permit it.”
The two men on the ground looked up, their eyes and mouths wide with astonishment. Then the man on the right, the one who had been at the head of the line, scowled furiously and gestured. In the next second, yellow fire filled the air, engulfing Clemency entirely.