Chapter 17 #2
Gwen tossed the letter down on the table’s surface. ‘Do I not have a good reason to do as he says? Or am I no longer needed to play knight to protect those under his power?’ She didn’t look at Isobelle as she spoke.
Sylvie and Hilde were watching them, eyes darting one way and then the other, as if they were spectators at a match of jeu de paume, watching the players hit the ball back and forth. Jane was watching her tea, a furrow in her brow.
Orson cleared his throat. ‘Let’s not be hasty. Leaving is an option – we can discuss it, certainly.’
‘Leaving may not be wise.’ Tabitha broke in before Isobelle could come up with something, anything, to say.
‘Whoever did this, if they are using magic, then leaving would make no difference. With enough determination, a witch can reach someone on the other side of an ocean if they wish to. Whatever magic is targeting you now … may follow you wherever you go.’
Her eyes slid towards Isobelle’s, meeting them with a quick intensity.
Isobelle knew what she was really saying.
The magic affecting Gwen – magic of which Gwen seemed unaware – would not stop if they left this town.
And if they left, they’d have no way of finding out who was behind it, or why they had fixated upon Gwen and Isobelle.
‘Well, it’s not as if we can round up all the potential suspects and go through them one by one,’ Sylvie broke in, uncharacteristic exasperation colouring her ordinarily cool voice.
‘For one thing, it’s every single person in this town.
Not to mention whatever evil may or may not be lurking up at the tower.
For another, the paladins already did that a decade and a half ago, and look where it’s got us. ’
Orson got to his feet, pacing first one way, then the other, coming to rest with his hand on the back of Sylvie’s chair. ‘You’re not wrong,’ he mused. ‘Nevertheless, we need some way to find out who’s doing this.’
Tabitha’s brow furrowed with concentration, her eyes distant. ‘There may be a way,’ she said slowly. ‘A spell.’
Orson sat back down, and Sylvie let out a long, barely audible sigh. But Isobelle leaned forward, too cautious to give in to hope, but unwilling to banish it either.
‘A spell to find out who’s behind this?’ she asked.
Tabitha nodded. ‘A modification of a spell that returns curses to their senders. I’ve never tried anything quite like it, but with some tweaking I think I could design it so that the sender reveals themselves to us, instead.’
Gwen straightened, losing that distant look and finally taking her eyes from the window. ‘How, exactly? They start glowing or their image appears in a crystal ball or something?’ Despite her scepticism, she was as eager to cling to a shred of hope as Isobelle.
Tabitha’s cheek twitched, but her expression was surprisingly fond.
‘Nothing so ridiculous. Magic is unpredictable – like water, it tends to choose the path of least resistance. It might simply sharpen our intuition or reveal a vital clue. It might cause the original caster to make a critical mistake.’
‘But all that could just be coincidence,’ Gwen protested. ‘How can you prove someone making a mistake or having a flash of inspiration is down to a spell?’
‘How can you prove it isn’t?’ Tabitha shot back.
Isobelle prised her fingers loose from her teacup and grasped the edges of the table, her thawing insides finally coming back to life. ‘How soon can we do it? What do you need?’
Tabitha considered the question, clearly doing mental calculations. ‘I think I can gather everything I need by tonight. We should do it outside of town, under the trees, where the energy is calmer. But I will also need you both, Isobelle and Gwen.’
Gwen’s eyebrows rose. ‘You … you want us to be a part of your spell? What on earth for? How could we possibly help?’
Tabitha had the enviable skill of remaining imperturbable in the face of criticism and doubt.
She merely smiled a little, dipping her finger in a spot of spilled tea and tracing it in a circle on the tabletop.
‘Because I need something of the original caster’s to target the spell, and you …
’ There she paused, caught short, and glanced swiftly at Isobelle.
Isobelle’s mind had, grudgingly, begun to work once more. For the first time in what felt like days, she plunged into the conversation and found the right words waiting for her.
‘Because we’re the ones who stirred all this up,’ she finished for Tabitha. ‘This caster is fixated on us now, just look at what happened to my room.’
And because you, Gwen, are under their spell.
Almost as if Gwen could read her mind, the other girl hesitated, watching Isobelle with furrowed brow. Then her expression cleared. ‘You’re the expert. We’ll do what we can to help.’
‘In the meantime, I’ll go see if I can wring any further information out of Bingleton,’ said Orson, swallowing his last mouthful of breakfast and letting the spoon drop back into the bowl with a clatter. ‘He knows more than he’s telling us.’
‘And we’ll go finish cleaning up Isobelle’s room,’ said Hilde, nodding to Jane and Sylvie. ‘There might be a clue you missed, with all the …’ She glanced between Isobelle and Gwen. ‘All the discussion last night.’
Gwen’s face, which had been ghost-pale all morning, took on a hint of rosy colour as she realised that the entire party had no doubt heard their raised voices and emotional upheaval. ‘I’ll … I’ll go finish my sword. I might need it when we find out who’s behind this.’
Hastily, she rose. She paused by Isobelle’s chair, steps uncharacteristically clumsy, as though one foot wanted to keep walking and the other was glued to the floor.
She half raised a hand, and though Isobelle’s face turned towards her, Gwen’s eyes fixed on Isobelle’s shoulder rather than meeting her gaze.
She hesitated there – the others were silent, tense. Isobelle caught Jane and Hilde exchanging a glance, and Sylvie’s shrewd stare never wavered. They were all watching.
Gwen muttered something profane under her breath, dropped her hand and fled.
Still, Isobelle felt a strange lightness in her chest as the others all swooped into action, breaking into individual conversations punctuated by the scraping of chairs as they all stood and began to gather up their dishes.
They had a plan. A next step. And Gwen was still here, though she was angry and hurt. Neither of them had given up.
Absently, Isobelle slid her untouched bowl of porridge close again and reached for her spoon.
Tonight, there would be magic.
Reader, it occurs to me that you may have been wondering: where has Olivia been all this time?
Isobelle’s maid, a young woman with an inexplicably wide array of skills – the very woman who taught her wayward charge how to rappel down from her balcony in case of emergency – is never far from her lady’s side.
To come at the point another way: if you have not been wondering where Olivia has been all this time, perhaps you ought to have. That business about taking leave for a ‘family matter’ back on page 36 seemed a bit thin, even if Isobelle was too polite to press for details.
Let us visit Olivia now.
Here she is, seated at a desk piled high with correspondence and liberally decorated with half-finished cups of tea. It is difficult to make out her exact location – no window is visible, and there is no hint of her locale in the plain furnishings we can see.
Through a complex network of forwarding arrangements, Isobelle’s letter has just reached her, and we are present as a young man hands it to her with a deferential nod. She recognises the handwriting immediately, lips curving into a smile as she breaks the seal. Her fondness is unmistakable.
But watch, now, as she starts to read. Her face freezes, her lips parting with a quick intake of breath. Watch as her eyes flicker back and forth over the lines, desperately hoping the contents will change.
Watch as she launches herself from her chair, grabbing a rucksack that always sits in the corner, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Watch as she slings her go-bag over her shoulder.
We’ve seen Olivia in a number of difficult situations thus far.
We’ve seen her protecting her lady as she undertook a most unwise gambit with a village girl of no particular distinction.
We’ve seen her single-handedly taking out a room full of guards to effect a prison break.
We’ve seen her talking her lady out of despair, making plans to escape a castle, and maintaining Isobelle’s highly complex wardrobe while doing it. We’ve seen her facing down a dragon.
But we’ve never seen her look … frightened.
Watch, now, as without a backward glance, Olivia turns for the door and begins to run.