Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
Two days’ worth of festivities were canceled for the dead girl—Henrietta Chilton, the daughter of a Society lady and her husband,
a former protégé. Tragic as her fall was, it also was poorly timed, for Emmy could not tell who was growing itchier from the
gown infestation. She mustered the courage to ask Mary if she’d heard anything about an outbreak, and the poor girl had looked
positively horrified, swearing that she bathed regularly.
“Clara and Grace were the only ones wearing enchanted gowns today,” Jack pointed out after the funeral. He still wore his
black silks, and although they looked handsome on the regal Nathaniel, mourning colors would have been far more fitting for
Jack himself, with his dark hair and even darker smile.
She needed to stop doing that. Imagining Jack’s true face.
Emmy sighed. “That’s only because Clara doesn’t have a funeral line.”
“It’s working.” Jack yanked off his tie as if it had personally insulted him. “But everyone’s too concerned about their reputations
to admit they’re afflicted with critters.”
At least they had reputations to protect. Winnie Fairchild, meanwhile, was still a social pariah. Mrs. Stratton was the only person who’d ever
visited Mistfield. At her insistence, Emmy had called on a few of the other girls her age, but their butlers had claimed they
were not home. Judging by how Clara had nudged any girl who so much as looked in Winnie Fairchild’s direction, Emmy knew who
was to blame.
“We need to be more aggressive.” Emmy paced in front of her window. “The summer pageant is tomorrow, and we haven’t made a lick of progress.”
One week in the Society, and Clara still ran a successful business. The chancellor was still in charge. Grace and Oliver were
rumored to be close to an engagement, despite Mrs. Stratton’s insistence that her son “would never marry beneath him.”
They’d hardly gotten started, yet already, they only had three weeks left.
“I have something that’ll help.” Disappearing back into the hole he’d once again burned between their rooms, Jack reappeared
a few moments later with a stack of books. “Here.”
Emmy ceased pacing. “Old books?”
“Old books on conjury.” He dropped them on her bed, looking all too pleased with himself. “These were from the Fontaine library.
The Society finally returned them.”
Emmy stared at the books. At Jack. “Is the top one what I think it is?”
“The Fontaine grimoire.” He patted it with pride. “Been in my family for centuries.”
Emmy could not get her hands on it quickly enough. Settling onto her bed, she unlatched its black leather binding and savored
the musty aroma of old parchment. The pages were yellowed and handwritten—everything she’d ever wanted in a book.
Jack perched on the edge of the bed. “Obviously, there are no spells like the ordinaries think. It’s more of an account of
our family’s conjury, with some advice along the way.”
“But Rose found instructions on forging her relic in here?”
“Caleb thinks so. She certainly spent a great deal of time with this tome.” Jack rubbed the back of his head. “But don’t expect
to find a step-by-step guide. Our ancestors used to forge enchanted artifacts with our flames quite often, but Rose had to
improvise. Other than ordinary relics, it’s mostly a lost art. More evidence that we’re weakening over time.”
Emmy peered at the thick scorch marks on the back cover. “From magical mishaps?”
“Sort of.” At her arched brow, he shook his head. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not in the mood to make you loathe me even more.”
“Not possible.” She’d meant it teasingly, but his scowl deepened. “Oh, come on, Jack.”
“Fine.” He tugged at his shirt collar. “But first, you have to understand just how close Rose and Caleb were. They had a world
of their own, with little room for anyone else.”
She nodded, but his words struck a bruise. People had described her and Grace like that.
“Rose devoured any book she could get her hands on, but she was most curious about conjury. Like you, I suppose. Anyway,”
he sighed, the tips of his ears pinkening, “one day, when Caleb wasn’t around and she was still refusing to play with me,
I . . . set the library on fire.”
Emmy gaped at him, a protective hand over the grimoire. “You did what?”
“It was a tiny blaze!” He raised his palms, a few inches apart. “Easily extinguished, with the help of the staff . . . and
the fire brigade. We lost only a small section of the library.”
“A small section!” And he’d nearly destroyed a centuries-old family heirloom full of secrets and history and knowledge that
could have been lost forever. “Were you punished?”
“Of course not.” At Emmy’s arched brow, he shrugged. “I was the future head of the family, heir to the Fontaine fortune. Besides,
I never admitted to it.”
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“We illuminated the entire house with our black flames. One candle could have easily fallen over. And . . . I don’t think Rose imagined I was capable of doing something so awful. She thought better of me.” Swallowing thickly, he turned away.
It was a positively unhinged thing to do, even for a child. Still, as Jack struggled to hide the blush creeping over his cheeks,
Emmy felt a tendril of compassion for him. It was too late for him to come clean to his sister.
Emmy traced the silver lettering of the leather cover. “It’s odd, attending a stranger’s funeral today, when we missed the
ones for those we loved.”
“I hate it,” he agreed quietly. “It felt disloyal, somehow.”
Reluctantly, Emmy set the Fontaine grimoire beside her bed. As curious as she was about Rose’s relic, she’d grown accustomed
to using it. The research could wait.
When she looked up, Jack was watching her with his usual intensity. “Plotting?” she asked.
He gave his head a small shake, as if coming out of a daze. “The final ball is the thirtieth of June. That’s only three weeks
away.”
It wasn’t nearly enough time. “Do we stay the course?”
“For now.” He frowned, his lower lip jutting forward. Another quintessential Jack expression on Nathaniel’s face, and it assuaged
her nerves a smidge. “We go to the pageant tomorrow and we try to get closer, to unlock their secrets.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
He glanced at the scorch marks on the grimoire. “Then we get more aggressive.”
Oliver was escorting Winnie Fairchild to the summer pageant, likely at his mother’s behest. Still, as Emmy entered the Claremonts’
residence on his arm, with Mrs. Stratton at her side and Mary dutifully following in their wake, Emmy could not help but feel
victorious.
Grace, unfortunately, was not there to witness Winnie’s grand entrance, but Clara Claremont greeted Emmy with enough fire in her eyes for the both of them.
“Don’t mind her, dear,” Mrs. Stratton whispered as they continued into the ballroom. “She’s in a foul mood because there’s
been an outbreak in that shop of hers.”
Emmy nearly tripped over her gown. “Oh?”
“Lice and bedbugs, if you can believe it. They probably crawled off those ungodly children Miss Montgomery teaches to sew in her back
room. But to be safe, steer clear of her shop.”
Emmy practically choked on her scoff. They were blaming the poor. Again.
“I’ll sign you up to be last,” Mrs. Stratton continued, “which is the best position. And Mrs. Claremont used my florist for
the centerpieces. You have plenty of plants at your disposal.”
Oliver caught her eye. Meddling mother indeed.
The Claremonts’ ballroom was already crowded, its temperature climbing by the second. Even the guards stationed on its periphery
tugged on their enchanted uniforms.
Emmy glanced about the party. The other ladies wore extravagant gowns, but they weren’t enchanted. Luxurious, yes, with statement
jewelry that probably cost more than all of Baxter Street, but the patterns did not twist, or flutter, or move at all.
They had hurt Clara’s business, but she’d ruined Emmy’s life. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“These are the winners of years past.” Oliver brought her over to the trophies, the same ones she’d glimpsed in the Society’s
basement weeks ago. “Remove your glove and give them a try.”
Trying not to bristle at his imperious tone, Emmy touched the trophy labeled Stratton, 1868. It was solid white gold and as frigid as ice. Montgomery bridging conjury, yet again.
“What’s it supposed to do?” Emmy tried to say, but—no words passed her lips. She tried to snatch her hand away, but she couldn’t move. This was the conjury that had kept her still when she’d tried to reach Papa. That had ruined her vocal cords when she’d tried to scream for him.
Oliver grinned as he shifted the trophy away from her. “Each year, the winners get trophies in their families’ honor. We Strattons
have the most.”
There were at least half a dozen trophies with Stratton on them, each one more elaborate than the last. Avoiding those, Emmy mustered the courage to run her fingers along Villadom, 1880 and an illusory genie hovered above her hand.
A wind burst from Windsor, 1876 and flowers grew out of Zermatt, 1862.
For a secret society, they were rather fond of flashy magical things.
Oliver yawned, already bored with the trophies. And her. Pretending not to notice, Emmy scanned the room. Mary waited against
the wall with the other attendants. Jimmy stood beside Jack, who was chatting with yet another pretty Society girl. Sometimes,
it was hard to reconcile the Jack who schemed in her bedroom each night with the one who was at ease in the Society of the
Charmed. Still, Rose had drawn him kissing several girls. One of them might be tonight.
The mere thought twisted her gut.
From the stage, Mrs. Claremont clapped her hands. “Welcome, everyone!”
But the excited chatter continued as the hostess tried—and failed—to catch the attention of her guests. If anything, the roar
of conversation grew louder.
In a breath, the chatter vanished, snuffed out like the flame of a candle.
Stratton silencing conjury, yet again.