11 July 1817

11 Berkeley Square, London

Dear Cecy,

Forgive me for this letter. I shall give you all the news, I promise, but I must be merciless and tell it all in order or my head will start to spin and I’m sure to leave things out. I’m sure to leave things out anyway, but this is the only way I can make sense of it for you at all. You would not have me be like Lady Jersey and tell the story hopscotch fashion, would you?

On Friday, Lady Sylvia and Thomas came to supper before we were to depart for Carlton House. Just as we were going in to dine, a message arrived from Dorothea. She said that Miranda was indisposed. Unless she could find a proper chaperone she would be unable to attend the ball, and would Aunt Charlotte be able to oblige? After much coaxing from Georgy, Aunt Charlotte agreed we would call at Miranda’s on the way to Carlton House and collect Dorothea. (Doubtless the importance of the party counted for something with Aunt Charlotte.) I was surprised at Dorothea’s willingness to be leered at by the Duke of Hexham, but suspected she might have learned that Robert Penwood would be there. Lady Sylvia and Thomas exchanged dark looks over the news that Miranda was not planning to attend the Prince’s ball after all. As soon as the meal was over, Thomas took his leave, with the unstated intention of investigating Miranda’s sudden change of plan. It developed that with Dorothea along there would be no space in the carriage for me, so I was able to accept Lady Sylvia’s offer of a place in her coach, instead. The others departed and we waited in the blue saloon for word that Lady Sylvia’s coach was ready.

From the instant the others left, my heart began to lift. It was true that Thomas and I were not really engaged. It was understandable that he had abandoned the ball to hunt Miranda. But it was also true that on the strength of my sham betrothal, I had been allowed a silk dress—far grander than anything I’ve ever had—the color of a ripe peach: rich gold with shifting highlights of deep rose. And it was also understandable that I felt my spirits rise when I was alone with Lady Sylvia, whose opinion of me, even when she is frowning at my coiffure, is so much easier to bear than Aunt Charlotte’s.

“I can’t understand how you produce that effect,” she said, squinting at my hair critically, “but I wish you would not, my dear. Do you have a comb?”

I did, of course (and a clean handkerchief), but to get at it I had to turn out my reticule on the side table. Among the hairpins and other small debris I carry, she spied the pair of charm-bags you made for me. I returned my own to my reticule when I bundled up my things again, but she took the one containing Thomas’s handkerchief and turned it over and over in her hands with a pensive expression.

“So you carry this with you,” Lady Sylvia said.

I explained what you told me about the bloodstains.

“They turned violet?” repeated Lady Sylvia. She regarded the charm-bag in thoughtful silence for a moment, then nodded. “You are wise to guard it well. The handkerchief links you with Thomas, did you realize? Oh, yes. And such a link may not always be to your benefit. Remember the headache he gave you at Countess Lieven’s? You had a charm-bag and it ought to have protected you from such slight magic as that. Of course, charm-bags can’t protect you from everything. They work best when their existence goes undetected, or when a spell has been cast and left to do its work unattended. If Miranda were to try to enchant you this evening, for example, it would be very little use against her, save perhaps to delay the spell’s effects a trifle. Of course, it would be the worst of bad taste for Miranda to employ magic at Carlton House. The magical precautions cast over that place are very precise; it would be rank folly to interfere with them. And after all, whatever his personal habits, the Prince is still our heir to the throne. Still, you must remember that since you and Thomas are both in this charm-bag, you are linked. It is a small thing, but sometimes small things can cause more misery than you might expect. These magical bonds can sometimes prove painful.”

I remembered the day Thomas came to cry off, when I thought Dorothea had enchanted him. Thomas needed no magical assistance to make people miserable. “What should I do, Lady Sylvia? I don’t wish to prolong such a link, but I daren’t do anything to harm the charm-bag if it is protecting us—and even if I opened it, I don’t know where I’d be able to keep the handkerchief safely.”

“If the blood were out of the silk,” said Lady Sylvia, “the pair of you would be disentangled. I think I shall try, with your permission. May I keep this?”

I agreed and she tucked the charm-bag into her own reticule.

“And now,” she said, “your comb, my child.”

In the three minutes before the carriage arrived, she unpinned my hair, made me bend over until it nearly brushed the carpet, and combed until the tears came to my eyes. Then she twisted it all up into a loose coil, told me to straighten, and produced an intricate knot at the crown of my head. She thrust six hairpins in, apparently at random, and turned me to the mirror to judge the effect, which was, to my eyes, entirely lovely but very precarious.

“It’s perfect,” I said glumly, “but it will never stay up.”

In the mirror I could see Lady Sylvia standing behind me. Her reflection held my eyes as she said very distinctly, “It will stay up. It will stay up all evening.”

Our arrival at Carlton House was festive, for many of the guests were old friends of Lady Sylvia’s, anxious to welcome her home to England. I could see Georgina among a swarm of young men, and from the presence of the Duke of Hexham in the group, I judged Dorothea must be there, too. Of Thomas there was no sign.

Lady Sylvia made me known to her friends and conducted me on a brief tour of the marvels of Carlton House. There are marvels there, too, and you will be amazed, as I was, when you see them. In one long corridor they display some of the artifacts the Prince brought back from his tour of the American colonies last year, some very fine beadwork and a Mohican shaman’s drum, which casts out illness (Mohican illness only, unfortunately). There was also a gleaming obsidian disc that belonged to Doctor John Dee, and an exquisite chessboard with enameled pieces. I bent close to admire the detail of the white queen’s cloak (I could see the black-tipped ermine) and jumped.

“Oh, it moved!” I exclaimed—for as I watched, the queen had taken a step to her left, to a black square, where her cloak showed to best advantage. As I stared, the white knight beside her stepped aside politely to clear the next square. “That’s not a proper knight’s move,” I protested. “They’re just wandering around at random.”

Lady Sylvia smiled. “This is the King’s pride and joy,” she explained, “but the enchantment merely animates the pieces. It doesn’t instruct them in the finer points of play.”

“How dreadful,” I replied, “to be caught up in a game and have no idea of the rules.”

“It’s not a plight unique to this chess set,” Lady Sylvia observed dryly.

“Well, someone should teach them,” I said.

Lady Sylvia nodded. “It’s been tried. All they do is display their clothes, jostle for position, and, very occasionally, crawl back into their velvet case to sleep.”

“Oh,” I said. “Just like real people.”

“Indeed,” replied Lady Sylvia, and continued the tour.

A little past midnight, I received a message via Michael Aubrey that Dorothea wished to speak with me particularly, and that she waited for me with Georgina in the conservatory. Thinking she had some message to give me for Robert Penwood, who was not among the guests after all, I accompanied Michael to the little assembly of bamboo chairs set in the heart of the glass-roofed and walled conservatory. Dorothea and Georgy were sitting with their backs to the door. At our arrival, Michael claimed Georgy’s hand and took her off to search for refreshments. I took one of the delicate bamboo chairs beside Dorothea.

I arranged my skirts carefully, folded my hands over the reticule in my lap, and composed myself for another lengthy discussion of Robert’s virtues. And realized that Dorothea’s eyes were not blue, but dark and very hard. The woman sitting next to me was not Dorothea, but Miranda.

I had to squint a little to see her as she really was, and as I did so something in my expression must have betrayed my recognition, for she smiled at me icily and said, “I have been looking forward to this moment, you meddlesome little chit. It is about time I discomfited you as you have discomfited me, don’t you think?”

“Is that the reason for this little masquerade?” I asked. Really, it was so satisfactory to speak bluntly to Miranda for a change that I almost forgot to be frightened. “To discomfit me?”

Miranda put her hand up to conceal the smile on her lips. “In part,” she said. “You will prove useful to me. But I work best with an audience. Time to arrange for the rest of my entertainment. Thomas is being so slow about finding me, I think I’m entitled to give him a hint.”

She put out her hand to me. I found myself lifting my left hand and holding it out to her. It was a strange sensation—my hand had fallen asleep and there was the same feeling I’d had in Sir Hilary’s garden in it, first pins and needles and then numbness. Miranda made a slight sound of annoyance and pulled off my long glove. Beneath the glove, on my index finger, I wore Thomas’s ring. Miranda plucked it off and inspected it with a sneer.

“Quite the ugliest betrothal ring I ever saw.” She tossed it on her palm, caught it, and clenched it in her fist. Her knuckles went white—there was a flash of brilliant light—she opened her fist and the ring was gone.

“That ought to fetch him,” Miranda said.

For a moment I wished it would; then the thought of Thomas confronting Miranda’s reckless malice made me wish him a thousand miles away. From that thought, it was a small step to wish myself a thousand miles away, too. But wishing accomplished nothing.

It would have been nice to call for help, or even turn my head toward the door to see if Michael and Georgina were returning, but I could not. The pins and needles spread from my hand up my arm and slowly all through me—more slowly than that first day in Sir Hilary’s garden, but just as thoroughly in the end. I was held fast in the deep hard chill of Miranda’s gaze.

“You ought to have settled for life as a tree,” Miranda informed me. “I have always heard it is a most restful way to spend time. I won’t offer you such a pleasant fate now. You’ve had your chance at painless alternatives. When it seemed Dorothea had enchanted Thomas it should have been simple enough to break your neck, but you managed not to—and later it became plain that although you were solidly in the way, your death would do nothing to forward Dorothea’s cause with Thomas. So it is your own fault that you are finally providing me with a method of inflicting the pain that Thomas so richly deserves.”

As in Sir Hilary’s garden, I found I was able to speak, though my tongue was woolly and my words slow. “What did he ever do to you?” I asked muzzily.

Miranda rose and began to pace back and forth in front of my chair. It hurt me to follow her with my eyes, but I could not look away. I think, from the expression on her face, that she realized this and enjoyed it. “He interfered,” Miranda replied. “He has always interfered. He objected to his brother’s devotion to me, and interfered with it. He objected to my research with Sir Hilary and interfered with that. He had the audacity to threaten to expose us. We put a stop to that, and when he had run away, we put a stop to his brother, too. It seemed an appropriate means of replenishing our resources. And from the moment he arrived back in England, Thomas began to interfere again. He might have been of some practical use to me before Sir Hilary leached away most of his magic—but now my only interest in him is the entertainment value he provides. It will be amusing to witness his reaction to your death.”

“What do you intend?” I inquired. “Will you turn me into a chocolate pot and break me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” said Miranda. “No, I see no reason why you shouldn’t provide me with your youth. You’ll have no further use for it, after all. It is a delicate procedure, but worth the fuss.”

From somewhere on her person she produced a stick of blue chalk. Stepping delicately in a circle around me, she drew a ring of glyphs on the floor. As she worked, I was able to look away and see the reflection in the glass of the conservatory wall opposite me. The night beyond the glass threw back the candlelight in the conservatory to produce a reflection of me, sitting as stiff and stupid as a tailor’s dummy on a little bamboo chair, and Miranda working intently. In the reflection I could see her as she really was, a little woman with fair hair.

“I will be as old as you are,” she said, chalking symbols rapidly. “You will be seventy-five. As I recall, I enjoyed being your age very much. You won’t enjoy being seventy-five, and I’m quite sure Thomas won’t enjoy seeing you that way, either.”

She put the chalk away and surveyed the effect of the ring, dusting her palms with a fastidious little gesture. “A little off center, but nothing to signify,” she said. “I shall enjoy being young again. Disguising myself as Dorothea has given me a taste for youth. Pity it didn’t work out between her and Thomas. I would have taken her place soon after the wedding, of course. If he noticed, he could have done nothing. Now, of course, the chit’s worthless to me. Not even a virgin by this time, I suspect.”

“What!” I knew it was absurd to be in my predicament and still find myself shocked by a remark from Miranda, but shocked I was.

Miranda laughed merrily at the expression on my face. From what I could judge of it from my reflection in the glass wall opposite, she was entitled to her amusement.

“Yes, Dorothea’s gone off with some bumpkin she met in Essex,” Miranda said. “They had Griscomb’s consent to marry; they could never have arranged for a special license without it. I shall have his liver for it, of course, just as soon as I’ve taught Thomas what it means to interfere with me. Men—they think marriage solves all a woman’s problems.”

I thought of Robert Penwood’s little scrap of paper dropped in Dorothea’s lap at tea. “It solved Dorothea’s,” I said. “And it is the outside of enough to hear you complain of men. What do you know about men, anyway, you nasty little fright? What do you know about anything except how to hurt people?”

Miranda drew herself up and glared at me. “I know enough about that to deal with you, at least,” she informed me.

“What will that accomplish?” I demanded. “Thomas stood up pretty well to the worst that Sir Hilary could contrive. He’s sure to deal with him eventually. No matter what becomes of me, he has enough scores to settle with you to keep you busy for seventy-five more years.”

Miranda was still glaring at me. In the reflection in the glass wall opposite I could see her back, my front, and behind me, Lady Sylvia moving slowly to stand in back of my chair, her ivory walking stick held across her path as a shield. Miranda did not appear to have noticed Lady Sylvia as yet, and I determined to delay that moment as long as I could. More interested in making noise than sense, I went on talking.

“You’ve been buzzing around like a fly,” I said, “and all this time Thomas has had more important matters to deal with. But sooner or later you are certain to be swatted. And I must say I think the swatting is already sadly overdue.”

“If this accomplishes nothing else,” said Miranda, lifting her arms, “at least the spell will silence you.”

As she spoke in a high, exultant voice, I heard Lady Sylvia speak in my ear, as close as the moment she told my hair to stay up, saying, “All the years in this ring to you, and all your own years, too.”

In the reflection of the glass conservatory wall, I saw Lady Sylvia’s black figure behind my chair, ivory walking stick lifted over my head. There was a double flash of light—one from the real scene before me, a brighter one from the reflection—and Miranda screamed.

The numbness withdrew from my arms and legs and I found I could move again. I felt Lady Sylvia’s hand on my shoulder, a gentle pressure keeping me in my chair. I turned my head and saw nothing, though in the reflection I could see her quite plainly. But looking in the reflection revealed all too clearly what was becoming of Miranda. It was easier to watch her real body than the reflected one, even as the years she had lived and wished away came flooding back to leave her an empty husk, brittle with age, in the center of the conservatory floor.

“I came in as you were discussing flies,” murmured Lady Sylvia. “Had she cared to concentrate on her work, she would certainly have detected me as I crossed the circle. Thank you for your excellent work in distracting her.” As she spoke, Lady Sylvia grew visible to me in person as well as in the reflection. She leaned upon her ivory walking stick and said, “Miranda and I were at school together long ago. Long ago. When she received her own age back, the very slight addition of my age and yours, even briefly, upset the balance of her youth spell. Distressing to witness, but I doubt the demise of such an unscrupulous wizard will cause much recrimination.”

At the moment she finished her sentence, the glass wall opposite me shattered to fragments. Shards of glass were still ringing on the marble floor as Thomas leapt over the wreckage and into the conservatory. He crossed the room in two great strides and pulled me up out of my chair. With an embarrassed glance at Lady Sylvia, I realized she was fading tactfully away again, leaving the two of us in the conservatory with Miranda’s corpse.

“Kate!” exclaimed Thomas harshly. “—You’re not hurt? The ring—” He held me too close for me to get a clear look at him, but I could tell he had undergone some adventure, for his hair was disordered, his dark eyes were wide, and his evening clothes were ruined. His neckcloth was undone, the sleeve of his coat ripped from wrist to elbow, and there was blood on his knuckles. Before I could reply, Thomas stiffened, staring over my shoulder.

“Miranda is dead,” I informed him. “She was waiting for you, but grew impatient.”

Thomas went on looking past me. I turned to follow his stricken gaze—and found myself facing the Prince of Wales and a phalanx of his companions.

“Good gad, sir,” said the Prince to Thomas, “what do you mean by all this?”

I looked from the Prince’s scarlet face to Thomas’s pale one and freed myself from Thomas’s embrace to sink into my deepest curtsey.

The details of my story, told in my very best truthful voice, evolved and expanded during the next half hour. I explained Miranda’s treasonous use of magic within the confines of Carlton House, Thomas’s heroic intervention, the unfortunate but trifling loss of the glass wall in the conservatory (broken when Miranda tried to halt Thomas), and Miranda’s ultimate defeat. The highly unpleasant condition of Miranda’s remains proved a convincing piece of evidence. The Prince accepted the entire tale eventually and ordered the mess cleared up. Despite the heroic character I gave him, Thomas received many horrified glances, as much for his appearance as his alleged behavior. When the Prince pronounced himself satisfied, Thomas withdrew, taking me with him.

As we made our way out, Lady Sylvia stopped us, just long enough to return the second charm-bag to me. “You’ll have to decide between the two of you what should be done with this,” she said, “but without it, I’d never have been able to throw Miranda’s spell back upon her without ill effects for you, Kate.” I accepted the charm-bag, slipping it into my reticule as we left Carlton House.

Thomas said nothing as we left. In fact, beyond civilities to the Prince, he had said nothing since his arrival in the conservatory. A little concerned by his uncharacteristic reserve, I said, “I hope I didn’t offend you when I explained matters to the Prince.”

Thomas lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, is that what you call it? Explaining matters?”

“I did offend you.”

“Don’t be silly. You saved me from the consequences of my own folly. And you, er, explained matters beautifully. If you’d been less plausible or the Prince less persuadable, then you might have seen me take offense.”

We descended the stairs outside Carlton House. Thomas paused on the steps to gaze into the darkness. “I forgot,” he said. “I didn’t bring a carriage.”

“How did you end up outside the conservatory windows?” I asked.

“Walked. Or, rather, ran,” Thomas answered. “I was at Miranda’s house, where I had just forced the news of Dorothea’s elopement out of Mr. Strangle. It seemed to me that if Dorothea had gone off to marry Robert Penwood, then the ‘Dorothea’ attending the ball had to be Miranda. I could sense where the ring had been when it was destroyed—but I had to take the most direct path to that point or I would have lost my bearing on it. My route to Carlton House led me through half the kitchen gardens in Mayfair, and brought me into the Carlton House grounds behind the conservatory. I thought my heart would burst before I got to you.”

“She destroyed the ring to fetch you,” I said. “She wanted to let you watch while she took my youth and aged me to seventy-five.”

A little pause fell in which we fidgeted on the steps of Carlton House. I broke the silence to ask, “Did you say you forced the news out of Mr. Strangle? Does that mean you hit him?”

“It certainly does,” said Thomas.

“Oh, I’m so glad. Do you think you could hit any footpads who might set upon us if we walked home from here?” I asked.

“Tonight I would hit Cribb himself,” Thomas replied.

We set off into the darkness with a great and delicious sense of wrongdoing. After we had gone a good way, Thomas asked, “What was that my mother gave you as we left?”

I explained, including the fact that his mother knew our betrothal was a sham and her warning that a magical link between us might prove painful and distressing.

“Gammon,” said Thomas. “What do you think spared me from Dorothea’s enchantment? You keep that charm-bag safe. And as for our betrothal, you may cry off if you insist, but I wish you won’t. I like the idea of marrying you.”

I came to a halt in the street. “Oh, do you?” I asked.

“Yes, I do. I think we shall deal extremely.” Something in my manner penetrated his notice even in the dark. “Why? Do you have some objection?” he inquired uneasily.

“Only a very trifling one. You have never proposed to me,” I answered.

“Oh, well—if that is all,” said Thomas with relief. “I recollect making you the offer quite distinctly—”

I cut him off. “That was a matter of your convenience, conditional on my willingness to jilt you. I should like some indication that your desire to marry me extends beyond this evening’s whim.”

“Oh, you are being a perfect pig about this, Kate. What do you want me to say to you?”

“ ‘I love you,’ ” I informed him. He misconstrued me.

Fortunately, by the time we were quite finished kissing in a public thoroughfare, he had said it himself, with considerable feeling. I admit I, too, repeated the words several times. And we agreed that we should, indeed, deal extremely.

What with one thing and another, it took us quite a long while to walk back to Berkeley Square. When we were at the spot where the street opened out into the square, I stopped Thomas and held him for a moment with my hands on his shoulders.

“What is it, Kate?” he asked. I didn’t have to see him to know he was smiling; I could hear it in the dark.

“Miranda is dead,” I said, “but Sir Hilary is not.”

I felt the laughter leave him.

“Miranda is dead,” he said. “I’ll find a way to deal with Sir Hilary.”

“Thomas,” I said, exasperated, “you don’t by any chance believe all that rubbish I told the Prince about what a marvelous wizard you are, do you?”

Thomas laughed, and despite my irritation my heart lifted a little at the sound. “Very well,” said Thomas, “you and I will find a way to deal with Sir Hilary.”

He took my right hand in his left and put his other hand on my waist. With a monotone but rhythmic buzz, which I took to be his attempt to hum a waltz, he led me into a dance in the middle of the dark street.

“You and I and Lady Sylvia,” I said, obeying his lead.

Thomas stopped humming to say, “And James.”

“And Cecy,” I added.

“But not Aunt Charlotte,” said Thomas, as he changed direction.

“Definitely not, ” I said, following him through a sophisticated turn.

So, in the dark, to music only Thomas could hear, we waltzed the rest of the way up Berkeley Square. And when I was alone before the mirror in my bedroom I realized that Lady Sylvia was right. Despite the exertions of the night (and despite Thomas’s affectionate nature), my hair stayed up all evening.

Love,

Kate