A Breath of Frost

  And a window.

  Never mind witchery—this was far more practical.

  There was a bowl of salt and rowan berries on the sill which she flung aside impatiently. The window opened, letting in a rush of cool air that cleared the strange taste out of her mouth. She was three stories up, overlooking a pretty London garden and carriage lane. The lane was bordered with a high wooden fence and flowering lilac. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Everything outside her window looked perfectly ordinary not only to London, but also to the neighborhoods she was familiar with. She might even be able to walk home.

  The sky was darkening quickly, revealing the first star of the evening. The smog was too thick to see Sirius, but Venus twinkled through the haze. The trees shook their branches at her, but they were too far away to touch. She’d never be able to swing onto one without breaking her neck. She may as well have tried to reach for Venus herself.

  She heard a whisper and leaned as far out of the window as she dared. Surely if she yelled for help someone would hear her and call the constables, at the very least. “Hello down there!”

  There was another muffled voice and a cry of “Bollocks!”

  Emma blinked. “Gretchen?” She could scarcely believe it when both her cousins emerged from the lilac bushes. “Thank God.”

  “Never mind God,” Gretchen muttered. “I’m the one with leaves up her nose.”

  “How did you even find me?”

  “Long story,” Penelope called up in a loud whisper. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not a bit. You?”

  “I’ll be better when I’ve planted my boot up Cormac’s backside,” Gretchen grumbled.

  “Never mind that now.” Penelope nudged her. “Get Emma down from there.”

  Gretchen surveyed the side of the house carefully. She finally chose a trellis on the left and scampered up, a length of rope coiled around her shoulder like a sleeping snake. When she reached the top of the trellis she was still only at the second story and too far from Emma’s window. She shifted, securing one arm through the grid of the iron trellis. “Ready?”

  Emma hooked her own foot around the leg of the desk and leaned out another few precious inches. “Ready.”

  Gretchen threw the end of the rope as hard as she could. It missed by several feet and nearly toppled her off her perch when it whipped past her. Penelope tossed it back up and Gretchen tried again. It came closer, but still not quite close enough.

  “Third time’s the charm,” she huffed with grim determination. Her forehead was shiny with perspiration.

  The rope flew up and Emma caught it. Gretchen’s laugh was infectious. Emma was grinning in response as she darted back into the bedroom and tied the rope tightly around one of the bedposts. She tested with a few hard tugs to satisfy herself that it would hold her weight.

  Climbing down a rope seemed simple enough in theory but it was a rather awkward affair in practice. Her long skirts got in the way, tangling and catching the sill as she swung one leg over. It took a surprising amount of courage to leave her perch, one leg dangling precipitously over the edge. Her hands were damp with nerves. The ground was a very long way down. Surely the house was taller than a regular house.

  And it was probably packed with witches, magic, and kidnappers. A broken leg seemed a small enough price to pay for her freedom.

  She closed her eyes and dropped over the edge, sliding down the rope. She hung there for a moment, the bricks cool on her hot cheek, while Penelope gasped and shouted poetical rhymes at her. She rhymed when she was nervous. Emma’s arms screamed with the effort of supporting her entire weight as she inched down slowly, carefully, painfully.

  She stretched out a leg, trying to reach the top of the trellis with her toe. Her leg cramped and her knee throbbed and she stretched and stretched and still could not reach it. “Bloody hell,” she gasped. “It’s too far.”

  “Nearly there!” Gretchen said encouragingly. “Try again.”

  “But don’t look down,” Penelope said, less encouragingly. “You might fall off and break your head open.”

  “Yes, let’s avoid that, shall we?” Mrs. Sparrow said calmly from an open window next to Emma. She was close enough that Emma could see the moonstones on her necklace. “It sounds rather messy.”

  “Run!” Emma shouted down to her cousins.

  Unfortunately, Gretchen and Penelope didn’t have time to even turn around, let alone run. Footmen emerged from the stables at the end of the lane and more blocked the way out to the road. Mrs. Sparrow clucked her tongue. “My dears, there’s no need for dramatics.”

  A fatalistic sort of calm had come over Emma as she dangled uselessly on her rope.

  “Show the ladies into the drawing room, if you please,” Mrs. Sparrow continued, as if it was all very normal. “And have someone fetch a ladder for Lady Emma. She doesn’t look at all comfortable.”

  Emma considered screaming for help but Gretchen and Penelope were already being marched inside the magic house. The footman who brought the ladder was so young he still had spots. He didn’t say a word to her, not even when he reached out to steady her by touching her hip. He flushed bright red. Emma was quite beyond embarrassment.

  She was shown back into the house, which now appeared to have a normal number of doors and stairs. There were portraits of formidable-looking women on the walls and the sound of girls chattering came from the closed ballroom. Mrs. Sparrow, Gretchen, and Penelope waited in a spacious drawing room with enough chairs to seat dozens of guests. Emma sat between her cousins on a settee meant for two. They clung to one another, perfectly willing to be squashed uncomfortably. Mrs. Sparrow poured tea from a silver pot next to a plate piled with biscuits and cakes. “I expect you’re wondering where you are,” she said.

  “And why I was abducted,” Emma returned with remarkable calm, all things considered.

  “Abducted?” Mrs. Sparrow raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be silly. You were brought here for your own good.”

  “Against my will.”

  “Sounds like abduction to me,” Gretchen added.

  “I could have left you to the Order,” Mrs. Sparrow said sharply. “Especially after what happened to poor Mr. Cohen.”

  Penelope looked startled. “Mr. Cohen? What happened to him?”

  “He was taken ill. His head swelled up,” Mrs. Sparrow elaborated, watching them carefully. “Luckily their family doctor also happens to be a witch or the poor fellow might have died.”

  “Is he all right?” Penelope asked.

  “He’ll recover. He and his family were told it was an exotic sickness that traveled here on one of the ships.”

  Gretchen frowned. “I hardly see how that’s our fault.”

  But Emma did see. All too clearly. “I said he had a fat head,” she said slowly, trying to recall the exact details. “We were angry because he was unkind to Penny. Gretchen, you said something too but I don’t recall what it was.”

  “I said I hoped he swelled up like a balloon.” She blinked. “Blast.”

  Penelope frowned. “How were they to know?” she demanded. “You can’t very well blame them for speaking out loud.”

  “I do not,” Mrs. Sparrow replied. “Others would. Especially given your family connections. These things happen rather frequently, only most witches come into their powers much younger and the damage is less severe. They have had some training and knowledge, at least enough not to set this sort of thing in motion.” She shook her head. “Nothing for it now, I’m afraid. Have one of the strawberry tarts. They are divine.”

  They accepted tea and tarts because they didn’t know what else to do. Etiquette didn’t cover taking tea with witches and kidnappers.

  “What is this place?” Emma asked finally. “And why didn’t it have any doors earlier?”

  “It was spelled,” Mrs. Sparrow replied. “You could do yourself harm wandering aimlessly in these corridors.” She smiled. “I’m the headmistress here. Welcome to the Rowanst
one Academy for Young Ladies.”

  Emma set her teacup down with a jostle. Tea sloshed over the rim. “I was kidnapped by a finishing school?”

  Gretchen scowled. “Did my mother put you up to this?”

  “This is hardly a regular school. We don’t teach mathematics or languages and we only take in the daughters of certain families.”

  Emma’s mouth went dry. “Witching families.”

  “Exactly. Witches ought to be well versed and well trained in all the magical arts.”

  “What if we don’t want to join witching society?” Gretchen asked. “I don’t like the rules I’ve already got, thanks very much. I’m not keen on learning new ones.”

  “We definitely don’t want to join them,” Emma confirmed. “I’ve met their magisters. And I didn’t care for them.”

  “I’m afraid they will insist,” Mrs. Sparrow said. “In any case, it is not a suggestion. Especially for you, Lady Emma.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because of your mother, of course.”

  Penelope linked her arm through Emma’s. “What about her mother, exactly?”

  “That is a rather long tale,” Mrs. Sparrow replied smoothly. “One that is shrouded in mystery, even to me. Regardless, there are things you must learn.”

  “Here.”

  “Here. Lady Gretchen and Lady Penelope, you may attend day classes, but it would be best if Lady Emma boarded with us for a while.”

  Gretchen crossed her arms. “If Emma stays, we stay.”

  Mrs. Sparrow inclined her head. “If your parents agree, you may of course board here.”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m certain my father didn’t give his permission,” she said. She couldn’t have imagined his reaction to a request that his only daughter live in a boarding school run by witches.

  “Actually, we sent for your belongings while you slept. He was most obliging.”

  Her jaw dropped. “My father knows about witchery?”

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Sparrow replied. “But he was told by my very great friend the Duchess of Whitefield that a spot had been offered to his daughter at the best finishing school in Britain.”

  “But why isn’t he here then? Why wouldn’t he at least say good-bye?” Penelope squeezed her hand. Emma squeezed back but lifted her chin and refused to betray any other reaction.

  “That cold fish,” Gretchen muttered.

  “I couldn’t say,” Mrs. Sparrow replied.

  “And hang on a minute!” Gretchen blurted out. “What about my brother then?”

  “He will be attending the Ironstone Academy for Young Men next door. It is more secretive than our school, of course, as it doesn’t have the option of passing as an exclusive finishing school. Pity. They could use some manners.” She shook her head. “He will retain his current lodgings as they are only rented out to witching families in any case. Your mother knows that.” She refilled their forgotten cups. “I know you must have a lot of questions. You’ll be given a guidebook and a history primer and I daresay after a good night’s rest, everything will look better.”

  “We can’t just leave Emma here alone,” Penelope protested.

  “I’m afraid you must.” Mrs. Sparrow rang a silver bell. “The carriage will take you home now.”

  Gretchen shot to her feet. “I don’t think so. Who are you exactly? And why should the Order get to decide our fates? And why are you picking on Emma?” She paused to yawn, despite her agitation. “Why am I so sleepy all of a sudden?”

  “Don’t look at her!” Emma tugged Gretchen’s arm. “She can bewitch you to sleep.”

  Mrs. Sparrow just smiled. “I don’t need eye contact for that, dear.”

  Penelope’s eyes were already half-closed. Emma pinched her and turned to glare at the headmistress. “Stop it! Please, I’ll stay here if you stop.”

  “A little rest wouldn’t do them any harm.”

  “But it’s unnerving.” She understood now why the men on the ship had been afraid of her and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Please leave them be.”

  “If they go quietly,” she allowed. “And do as they’re told.”

  “Don’t fight her,” Emma pleaded with her cousins, annoyed to be echoing Cormac’s bad advice. “Yet,” she added in a whisper.

  Gretchen scowled. “I don’t like it.”

  “I know.” Emma tried to smile. “But if you both go then I’ll know at least someone out there knows where I am.”

  “Your father knows.”

  “Someone who cares, then,” she amended. “And I’ll know where you are too. Or should be,” she added warily. “How do we know you’ll take them back and not to the ship or some other horrid place?” They clasped hands tightly.

  “This school isn’t a punishment,” Mrs. Sparrow assured them. “It’s an honor and a privilege. You ought to consider yourselves very lucky indeed.”

  “Lucky?” Emma echoed. “I’ve been chased through goblin markets, caged, forced to walk a gangplank blind, and threatened at every turn. You’ll forgive me if ‘lucky’ isn’t quite the word I’d choose.”

  Mrs. Sparrow clucked her tongue. “That’s quite enough of that.” She gave them each a silver ring set with a miniature painting of a blue eye surrounded with pearls. “To avert the evil eye,” she explained. “We find they go a long way in preventing accidents. You are required to wear them while at school.”

  “I’ve seen these before,” Penelope said.

  “They were a fashion in polite society several years ago. They serve the same purpose as the more traditional beads from Greece, but we find them less conspicuous.”

  The doors to the drawing room were opened by a footman. “The carriage is ready, ma’am,” he announced, bowing.

  Behind him the hall filled with girls streaming out of the ballroom and up the stairs out into the courtyard. They seemed perfectly healthy and happy. One girl had smoke rising from her hair, but she didn’t seem too upset about it.

  “You see?” Mrs. Sparrow said gently. “There’s nothing to fear.” She waved her hand at the footman. “Show her in.” To the cousins she added, “You even know some of our students.”

  Lady Daphne Kent entered the room, her white dress spotless and her blue ribbons perfectly in place. “You asked to see me, headmistress?”

  “I did, yes. You know these young ladies, do you not?”

  Daphne looked at the cousins. Something flickered in her face. “I do.”

  “Excellent,” Mrs. Sparrow said briskly. “Doesn’t that put your mind at ease? I’ll leave you to reacquaint yourselves while I give Thomas the carriage directions.” She left to talk to the footman.

  “You’re a witch?” Penelope blurted out. “Is everyone a witch now?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said dismissively. “Our families know each other because of our shared magical blood. It’s why we all grew up together. And also because your families needed to be watched, for all our sakes.” She sniffed. “You look dreadful, by the way. Did you fall in the Thames?”

  “Hello to you too,” Penelope muttered.

  “What’s your familiar then?”

  “I don’t know,” Penelope replied. “Perhaps I don’t have one.”

  “All witches have one,” Daphne said impatiently. “And some are more acceptable than others.”

  Emma thought back to the afternoon in Hyde Park. “Deer,” she declared with a great deal of certainty.

  “Passable,” Daphne said, with obvious reluctance. She turned to Gretchen.

  Gretchen shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe Penelope’s right.”

  “It would be an animal you see in spirit-form or as a real creature who is drawn to you and has been since you were little.”

  “Dog.” Gretchen smiled slowly, winking at her cousins. “The pink kind.”

  “Dog. Common,” she declared. “As expected.”

  Gretchen’s smile died. “Is that so? And what’s your familiar then? A shrew?” She was tired, frustrated, and nettled be
yond good sense. “And your talent? Ringlets so tight they stunt your brain?” She didn’t admit that her own talent amounted to honeybees buzzing in her brain.

  Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “You would benefit from a proper finishing school, Gretchen Thorn.”

  Penelope held Gretchen back as she tended to answer remarks with her fists if she wasn’t stopped. Emma just rubbed her face wearily. Mrs. Sparrow approached them with a pointed smile. “There now. I’m sure you’ll all get along splendidly, won’t you?”

  They looked at one another with resigned distaste, evil-eye rings glinting in the light.

  “Yes, Mrs. Sparrow.”

  Chapter 23

  When Emma was shown back to her rooms, there were three new trunks stacked by the door as promised. She was so exhausted she felt as though she were floating inside her own head. She wanted nothing more than to sleep, but she knew if she lay down her mind would only continue to race in circles. She went to the window and stared up at the sky to count the stars and had to crane her neck at an awkward angle to see anything at all. She felt bruised all over; one more ache hardly signified.

  Cassiopeia, Libra, Orion.

  With every constellation and every star, her chest felt less compressed, her mind less like a thread pulled too tight and about to snap. She rifled through her trunks until she found a nightgown and then contorted herself like the acrobats who balanced on horseback at Astley’s Amphitheater in order to undo her corset by herself. She found her mother’s box packed with her books, jewelry, and a miniature of her, Gretchen, and Penelope that Aunt Bethany painted last summer.

  Her life suddenly resembled one of those swoony gothic novels Penelope loved so much. Which was all very well and good in literature but rather a different matter in real life.

  For one thing, in a novel surely Cormac would have rescued her instead of handing her over to his unpleasant brethren.

  And yet, he had seemed to genuinely want to help her when he’d forced her to hide at the ball and again with the iron nail in the goblin markets. Popular opinion claimed women were mercurial and difficult to understand. Clearly, they had never met Cormac.