Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Emmy could have kicked herself for taking her eyes off Clara.
“Miss Fairchild?” Mrs. Claremont gave her a funny look. “Are you ready?”
A giggle wafted from beside the stage. Clara.
Emmy rubbed the relic in her sleeve, refreshingly cool against her skin. She hadn’t the faintest idea what she was going to
do, but she had to do something.
Tugging a thread loose, Emmy called to the brume as she unraveled it. A rush of that ethereal fog answered her call, and she
envisioned the thread as a delicate vine, the sort that crawled up the trees deep in Mistfield’s woods. She laid the ever-shifting
vine on the ground, giving it sharp roots to penetrate the wooden stage. Stepping away, she spread her arms to release more,
more, more of the vine, transforming its shade until its leaves were as emerald as her eyes.
The crowd gasped. As far as they knew, she had conjured a plant from thin air. Emmy draped it across the judge’s table, making
the leaves wider, greener. Once they held several yards of vine, she let go of the thread, sweeping her hands over her creation
while she made her way back to the stage. Bright flowers bloomed between the verdant leaves. Purple petunias like the ones
on Grace’s gown, interspersed with blood-red poppies like those on Clara’s. Not able to help herself, she peppered those crimson
petals with little black spots that gave the illusion of insects. Anything to keep that clock running at least a few seconds
longer than Grace’s time.
Gripping her knees, Emmy made a show of catching her breath while the Society rose to their feet, delivering a thunderous applause.
It was a risk; Winnie Fairchild had declared earth conjury, but this plant was far from real. Anyone who looked closely enough
might notice its subtle waxiness.
Then again, no one truly knew a thing about Winnie Fairchild’s talents.
“Participants,” Mrs. Claremont called, cutting Emmy’s applause short, “please return to the stage while the judges deliberate.”
“How talented you are, Miss Fairchild!” Grace called as she joined Emmy onstage.
Emmy stiffened. Grace still smelled like Grace, somehow, despite the fancy perfumes. Even more unnerving, she looked as pleased
as Clara had just before Emmy’s turn. Her gaze found Jack’s and he lifted his brows, but she did not need him to handle Grace.
“It would be generous of the judges to let one of you elemental conjurers win, for once.” Grace’s smile was all sharp edges.
“Especially since there are so many of you.”
Before Emmy could muster a clever response, Mrs. Claremont returned with a small square of paper. Standing in the center of
the stage, she made a show of unfolding it. “The Prince of the Charmed of 1882 is . . . Commander Stratton.”
The Society cheered exuberantly for their young commander. And though Emmy pretended to clap, she did not allow her hands
to make a single sound.
“And for the young ladies”—Mrs. Claremont made a showing of unfolding the next square of paper dramatically—“the Princess
of the Charmed is . . . Miss Winifred Fairchild.”
Emmy turned up her nose at Grace as she took Oliver’s waiting hand.
The winners’ garb was brought to the stage, the same cloaks and sashes that had been in Clara’s dress shop, only updated.
Scarlet gemstones now lined their hems, their glittery shade matching the velvet swirls of flames that covered the cloaks.
Curious whispers spread through the crowd, and more than once, Emmy thought she heard the word infested.
Cloaks in place, Clara rose from her seat and clapped her hands, just once.
A glittery haze curled around Emmy, rolling in waves off her sash. For a second, she thought Clara might have set her on fire,
but she wasn’t burning. Instead, minuscule fireworks burst from the fabric, sparking in vibrant pink, purple, and gold. The
adoring crowd drew closer, positively enthralled by Clara’s latest creation.
They’d hit Clara’s pride with the bugs, but she’d punched back by creating something so extravagant, people would be willing
to forget that she was the source of their outbreak. By the end of the night, Clara would have dozens of new orders.
Emmy was ready to scream.
“It’s customary for the winners to perform an encore,” Oliver spoke directly in her ear to be heard over the applause, and
Emmy fought the urge to wriggle away. “Better you than me. Unless, of course, you’re volunteering to take a punch.”
He laughed at his own joke, but Emmy ignored him, raising her arms. After her winning performance, she needed to at least
pretend she was almost drained. Reaching for her power, she felt the heavy presence of the brume—but not quite as heavy as
usual.
Had she reached the relic’s limit? Impossible; she’d only conjured some vines.
Emmy’s gaze snapped to Oliver. “Are you suppressing me?” The impact was subtle, and with the relic, hardly a hindrance. But
if he was testing her, she had to play along.
He shot her a strange look. “Why would I do that?”
Because he was on Grace’s side. Because he wanted her to look like a fool. Because he’d suppressed her conjury when she’d been but a stranger trying to prove her innocence.
The applause slowed to a trickle. Mrs. Stratton nodded encouragingly to Emmy. And from the front row, Clara’s grin spread
from ear to ear.
“Miss Fairchild? Commander Stratton?” Mrs. Claremont’s smile grew impatient.
Emmy caught Caleb’s eye and shot him a meaningful look. Listen to Clara’s thoughts.
Given his confused expression, he could not hear her.
“We’ll give you an encore after the winners’ waltz.” Oliver led Emmy toward the center of the dance floor, where the crowd
formed a circle around them. Wonderful, she now had to dance in front of the entire Society.
Listen to Clara’s thoughts. Emmy’s gaze bore into Caleb.
What is it? Caleb whispered in her mind, and Emmy could have collapsed with relief.
Listen to Clara’s thoughts. I think she’s trying to limit my power somehow.
“Are you all right?” Oliver asked as he took her hand.
“Just a little weak. I could have sworn I had a bit of conjury left.”
If Oliver knew anything about Clara’s machinations, his face revealed nothing. “Well, I’ve stalled them for now, but they’re
still expecting an encore.”
Emmy swallowed her frustration. He had as much empathy as a statue.
You’re right, Caleb whispered. She enchanted the winners’ garments to do far too much. They’re ten times the strength of her usual gowns, and she’s hoping
it wipes you out completely.
Mind racing, Emmy spun away from Oliver. But what does that have to do with— Oh.
Clara was a charmlinker like Grace, Jack had said. Their enchantments were temporary, though Clara claimed hers had so much
power, they’d “outlast us all.”
But the clouds on Emmy’s debutante gown had stopped meandering in Grimsbane.
And at the lawn party, the cardinals on the dead girl’s gown had ceased flying.
Clara’s garments did not work on ordinary people because they drew power from the charmed. That was why they never ran out of strength. She was siphoning her customers’ access to the brume, unbeknownst to them.
At the first ball, the dealer who had faltered had been wearing an enchanted suit.
And at the lawn party, that poor girl’s gown had drained her. It had killed her.
Conjury was growing weaker. And Clara’s creations were at the height of their popularity.
You’re right. Caleb’s internal voice trembled with excitement. You can ruin her right now. Make an announcement. The Society will be outraged.
Oliver must have said something to Emmy, for he was looking at her expectantly. She missed a step, and someone giggled rather
loudly. Grace.
Would the Society believe Winnie Fairchild when they hadn’t believed Emmy Vallillo? Perhaps. Winnie had money. Ties to a respected
charmed bloodline. She might be able to convince them . . . but Clara was not their only target.
You tell the chancellor, she said in her mind. Pull him aside.
If Caleb demonstrated how useful he could be to the chancellor—if he slipped him important information—then maybe, just maybe,
the chancellor would begin to trust him.
As Oliver twirled her, Caleb cut through the crowd to the chancellor, nearly bumping into Jack, who watched the winners’ waltz
with his arms tightly folded over his chest.
Emmy stopped dancing, wavering on her feet. Time to put on one hell of a performance.
“What is it?” Oliver could hardly hide his annoyance.
“I’m fine, I’m just—I feel so strange.” Pressing the back of her hand to her forehead, Emmy transformed her complexion to
a paler shade, a thin sheen of sweat upon her brow. Fluttering her eyes closed, she let her legs give out.
Oliver caught her just in time to soften her fall.
The violins screeched to a halt, and Emmy tried to lie as still as the dead. It was a rather dramatic performance, but she
committed to it wholeheartedly. Someone lifted her head. Someone else pressed a glass to her lips. She made a show of fluttering
her lashes as she roused.
For a few minutes, Mrs. Stratton fussed over Emmy while nearby onlookers murmured criticisms of Clara’s choice of velvet in
the summer. Oliver stood beside his mother, looking inconvenienced. A gentleman indeed.
Jack kept trying to catch Emmy’s eye, looking downright panicked. Good; he was playing his part well. And behind him, Caleb
was whispering furiously to the chancellor. By the time Oliver had eased Emmy into a chair, the chancellor climbed the stage
and, lifting his arms, commanded everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Society of the Charmed.”
It was overwhelming, the flood of hope that washed over Emmy.
“Something terrible has been brought to my attention.” He let his words hang over the ballroom, his face grave. “Miss Claremont,
please step forward.”
Emmy might actually faint this time.
Clara’s pleased smile froze in place. Whatever she’d been expecting the chancellor to say, it hadn’t involved her.
“Is there a problem, Stratton?” Mr. Claremont pressed a hand on her shoulder.
“I requested your daughter.”
From Clara’s other side, Grace took a subtle step back.
“Surely it can wait—”
“It cannot.” The chancellor kept his penetrating glare on Clara. “Young lady, if you do not come here, my guards will bring
you, and they won’t do it kindly.”
Whispers followed as she tentatively approached the stage.
“Oliver, bring me your cloak.”
Robbed of his usual air of impertinence, Oliver obeyed.
The chancellor examined the cloak, which continued to shoot miniature fireworks—but only when he touched it. When he laid
it on the stage, the enchantments ceased.
Satisfied, he called Keeper Windsor to join him and Oliver onstage. As they dipped their heads in hushed whispers, the air
surrounding them shimmered like the iridescent surface of a bubble. A wall of air, erected to block listening ears from eavesdropping
on the triumvirate. Given the rapt expressions of the other guests, this was no common occurrence.
With a final nod, Chancellor Stratton stepped forward, and the iridescent wall vanished. “Miss Claremont, you are under arrest.
Guards?”
Under arrest. It took everything Emmy had not to grin like a madwoman.
Gasps flooded the ballroom, none louder than that of Clara, who tried her best to appear confused. But Emmy saw the fear in
her eyes. She knew.
“On what grounds?” Mrs. Claremont demanded.
“She has been siphoning the Society’s power, bit by bit, for her own profit.” The chancellor pinned Clara with an icy stare.
“Everyone who wears her clothing has been forfeiting their strength.”
“I have done no such thing!” Clara pointed at Emmy, fury on her face. “She only pretended to faint!”
Emmy lifted a gloved hand to her mouth, the picture of ladylike bewilderment.
“Henrietta Chilton fell to her death conjuring in one of your gowns.” He stepped toward her, his guards closing in behind him. “You claim that your enchantments last for years. How?”
Clara paled. “I’m quite strong. I’ve practiced.”
“You’re nineteen years old. How much practicing could you possibly have done?”
“You think I log every hour?” Her shrill voice echoed through the ballroom.
The chancellor only blinked at her. “Is there anyone else who is familiar with Miss Claremont’s conjury? Someone who can speak
on her behalf?”
“How dare you sully my daughter’s good name!” Mr. Claremont bellowed. “She is of the utmost—”
The chancellor turned away from the silenced father. “A non-relation, perhaps?”
A murmur swept through the crowd, and Jack caught Emmy’s eye, his uncertainty a mirror of her own. Clara would not go down
without a fight.
Grace stepped forward. “I would like to speak.”
The sting of betrayal was swift and unmistakable. So Grace would speak on Clara’s behalf. Grace was capable of loyalty. To
Clara.
“As a dear friend of Miss Claremont, and as chairwoman of a charity that trains needy children in her sewing rooms, these
accusations shake me to my core.”
Utter lies.
“But as a humble member of this esteemed Society,” Grace continued, “and as a Christian, I feel compelled to speak the truth.”
Clara’s head snapped toward Grace’s.
“Everything Chancellor Stratton said is true.” Grace’s voice carried across the ballroom, as clear as bells. “Miss Claremont confessed it to me herself, only last week, when she was making these cloaks. The knowledge has been eating away at me, and I am ashamed that I did not come forward sooner.”
That clever little liar.
Surely they could not be so easily swindled. The only reason Grace was coming forward was so that Clara did not take her down
with her. Maybe her bridging conjury was somehow involved in the nefarious fabrics.
“And why,” spat the chancellor, “didn’t you approach the triumvirate right away?”
Grace’s lower lip wobbled. “Misplaced loyalty, sir. She told me she’d speak to you directly. If I’d known she’d reduce poor
Miss Fairchild to a pale, sickly looking creature . . .”
Well, that was unnecessary.
Mrs. Windsor rushed forward to comfort her niece. It was enough to make Emmy sick.
“Very well, Miss Montgomery.”
Grace curtsied to the chancellor before her aunt guided her away.
Clara watched, her pink mouth agape. If she was truly surprised that Grace Montgomery was capable of betraying her friends,
then she hadn’t been paying much attention.
“Miss Claremont,” the chancellor said sternly, “you will remain in Grimsbane Tower until your trial. Guards, seize her.”
“Grace is lying!” Clara screamed. “She’s—”
As the chancellor silenced Clara, Emmy offered her a secret little smile of her own.