Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
It took two days to locate infested blankets and clothing, and one night to dust them into every order in Clara Claremont’s
shop. Bedbugs for the gowns. Lice for the hats. A sprinkle of scabies over everything, courtesy of an outbreak Jimmy had located
downtown.
With the bugs in place, all they could do was wait—and attend the next party.
“You’re all anyone’s talking about,” Mary gushed as she tightened the laces on Emmy’s corset. “Even the servants heard how
you threw that rabbit mask at Miss Montgomery.”
The petite maid had arrived two mornings after the Inaugural Splendor, a satchel over her shoulder and a list of demands in
her fist. No servants’ bets, a stipulation to which Emmy readily agreed. Time off to visit her parents, which the Windsors
had rarely permitted. Emmy offered her a part-time schedule, one in which she could return home each evening for the same
lofty salary. Caleb had balked at that, but Emmy did not want Mary by her side night and day. It was too easy to slip, to
forget to call the others by their aliases, or to forget to act like a millionaire.
“I didn’t throw the mask at her,” Emmy tried to respond, but Mary was astoundingly strong, each tug of the laces stealing Emmy’s breath.
“Don’t worry, miss.” Mary’s cheeks were as russet as her hair as she yanked the laces even tighter. “You’ve given the Society
something they covet even more than magic or money.”
“And what’s that?”
In the mirror, a mischievous smile tugged at Mary’s lips. “Drama.”
This time, Emmy was ready for the pop of her ears as they crossed the illusion that hid Windfall House, the newly built home
of the Villadoms. She tried not to stare at the numerous guards stationed around the perimeter, the embossed ivory of their
uniforms whirling in the sunshine. A pity those hadn’t been in the dress shop when they’d planted the little critters.
The guards, unfortunately, had no qualms about staring at Emmy.
“To be fair,” Caleb murmured, “you threw a mask at Grace Montgomery.”
“I didn’t throw it at her.” Emmy glanced over her shoulder at the guards. Still staring.
“Relax, you two.” Despite Jack’s easy tone, he fidgeted with the sleeve of his pale blue suit. “All we need to do is make
friends today—which will be easier if we don’t throw things.”
Emmy nudged him with her wide gown, but unfortunately, he maintained his balance.
They’d gone over the plan last night. Since Oliver had quit the pool halls, Jack was going to befriend him in the hope of
being invited to his private card games. In the meantime, Emmy was supposed to play nice with Grace while also getting under
her skin. If Emmy had to choose between cozying up to Grace or the chancellor—Caleb’s objective—Emmy would have preferred
her father’s killer.
Which left Clara Claremont, who, with any luck, had a massive outbreak on her hands.
“That’s a lot of colors,” Jimmy murmured as they approached the lawn full of partygoers in bright pastels.
“Miss Fairchild!” A streak of lavender cut across the verdant grass, the matching hat so wide, Emmy could not see Mrs. Stratton until she kissed the air on both sides of Emmy’s cheeks.
An assortment of flowers embellished the bodice of her gown, furling and unfurling in a never-ending loop.
Yet another Claremont original. The party was full of them.
Let the scratching begin.
Mrs. Stratton linked their arms and guided Emmy down a path lined with enormous Montauk daisies. “Is Mr. Fontaine your escort
for the afternoon? Or is it one of the others in your party?”
“My escort?”
Mrs. Stratton gave her a stern look. “You cannot arrive with three fetching young men. Next time, have at least two of them accompany other young ladies. It’ll help you secure allies, and
in the Society of the Charmed, you need allies.” She nodded toward a group of young women standing beside the refreshments.
One offered Emmy a soft smile before being elbowed by none other than Clara.
And beside Clara, whispering furiously in her ear, was Grace.
She wore a summer gown so pale, it was nearly white, with gray tufts of dandelion fur drifting over the skirts. The sight
of it was a balm for Emmy’s soul. Two nights ago, she’d placed bed bugs inside that very gown.
Returning Emmy’s smile with a hesitant one, Grace absentmindedly scratched her arm.
“Ladies and gentlemen, gather around!” A young man stood on a small platform, one hand on his wife’s back and the other holding
a cone to his mouth, amplifying his words. “Welcome to the Enchanted Pursuit!”
“The Villadoms,” Mrs. Stratton whispered. “Married last season. Mrs. Windsor believes they’re already expecting,” she added,
her voice tinged with approval.
“The rules are the same as always,” continued Mr. Villadom. “Players must stay on the field. If a guard calls you out of bounds,
you’re disqualified.”
“What, exactly, is the Enchanted Pursuit?” Emmy whispered to Mrs. Stratton.
“Hide-and-seek, of course!” Mrs. Stratton beamed like a child. “It’s Society tradition.”
Emmy glanced at the vast field, which was peppered with the Villadom’s waiting staff. Other than a few trees and a small fishing
pond, there was almost nowhere to hide.
“Once you’re tagged,” Mr. Villadom continued, “you join the search party. The last one to be caught wins.”
“We thought we’d let one of our newcomers be the seeker.” Mrs. Villadom’s serene voice held the slightest edge of mischief.
“Mr. Fairchild, will you lead this year’s Pursuit?”
Surprised, Caleb stepped forward to a polite round of applause. As they fixed a blindfold over his eyes, Mrs. Stratton flashed
Emmy a knowing smile. “They’re asking him because they think he’s a nugat.”
So she knew the truth. Her husband must have found Caleb’s telepathy interesting enough to discuss with his wife. That was
something, at least.
“You have five minutes to hide, starting . . . now! Let the Enchanted Pursuit begin!”
At Mr. Villadom’s signal, the staff in the field touched something in their hands.
The landscape shimmered and shifted as illusions burst to life. A dramatic waterfall cascaded into the pond. Cliffs of tall
rocks shot from the southern edge of the field. A forest blinked into existence in the east, cloaked in an eerie dark fog.
Bonfires and swamps and even a few exotic-looking animals appeared all over the field. Illusions. Dozens of them.
So awed was Emmy, Mrs. Stratton had to nudge her twice. “Hurry!”
Oliver’s mother moved with such surprising vigor, Emmy struggled to keep pace with her.
The rest of the guests also darted about the field in a flurry of excitement.
As they hurried, Emmy nearly fell into a pit in the ground, courtesy of two earth conjurers who were attempting to bury themselves.
An elderly couple stepped into the pond, their faces tense under conjury’s strain as the water moved from their path like Moses splitting the Red Sea.
Mrs. Stratton frowned at them. “That was my spot last year.”
Conspiring together must have forged some sort of bond between Emmy and Jack, because she was perpetually aware of his whereabouts,
even across the field. Flanked by two young ladies, he conjured a ring of fire that made the girls scream with delight. Shameless
flirt.
A burst of agitation shot through Emmy, and she turned away.
“Be careful, Miss Fairchild.” Mrs. Stratton nodded at Oliver sauntering toward them. “The last time my son played a game with
you, he was far from a gentleman.”
“I’m sure Miss Fairchild has a sense of humor.” Oliver’s smile wasn’t the least bit contrite. Between his pale yellow suit
and his golden sunglasses, he ought to have looked ridiculous, but confidence oozed from him as he held out his arm to her.
“A quick word?”
Emmy blinked in surprise. She glanced toward Mrs. Stratton, who sighed. “Very quick.”
“My mother,” he murmured as Emmy stepped away with him, “wants me to apologize.”
“That’s quite an apology.”
“Look at it from my perspective. You materialize out of thin air. Your cousin rebuilds Mistfield Manor while no one is looking,
and the three of you are granted temporary status by my father without a formal vote.” He smiled at a cluster of water conjurers
turning a small section of the field into a swamp. “I know when a game is afoot.”
It was only their second Society appearance, yet Oliver was already sniffing her out for the fraud that she was. Still, Emmy’s
face betrayed nothing. “And what game is that?”
“Beautiful. Unattached. Set to inherit five million dollars.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “Your brother has not
been subtle in his desire to see you matched this season.”
A laugh slipped from Emmy. Even if he was not far from the truth, she would have died before revealing a thing. “You think I wish to marry you?”
“You’ve taken quite an interest in my mother.”
Emmy freed her arm from his. “You find me so hideous that I must trick your mother—”
“Of course not, it’s just—”
“Commander Stratton.” Emmy stole a quick glance around, half expecting to see Grace watching. “No matter what my brother has
said, I won’t be marrying anyone this season. And I certainly won’t be scheming to trap the self-absorbed son of the chancellor,
no matter how many times his mommy writes his name on my dance card.”
Her hands shook something awful as she stormed away. Caleb had laid it on too thick. Pretty girls from wealthy families were
old news to the Stratton heir. But she’d seen how he’d looked at Grace while the two of them were dancing. Grace, who’d kissed
him while she still lived in Five Points. She was a different sort of challenge. And Oliver Stratton was a chronic gambler
who, like the rest of these cursed people, loved to play games.
“Wait.”
She kept walking.
“Miss Fairchild, please.” He touched the small of her back, and she had to swallow her disgust. “If you tell my mother, she’ll
never let me hear the end of this.”