Chapter 1 #6
“No, Miss Crawford, it is true. Simon will not flatter. He does not crawl. Faced with an appeal for his thoughts on a matter of which he knows nothing—the appropriateness of one’s shirt for dinner, for example—he will politely decline to offer an opinion.
But within the areas of his expertise, he is merciless.
He is an expert in scholarship—he says you would be a first-rate scholar—ipso facto, he is not kind, but correct. ”
Irene blushed, and could not think of what to say. She had known the viscount to be a nice young gentleman, but she had not imagined he would be so ready to consider her ideas or rely upon her word, much less back up his friend in his estimation of her cleverness.
James, upon seeing her blushes, reddened a little himself and scrubbed his hands through his hair.
"Well, we have it now," Simon said. “And not a moment too soon; we are but half an hour from midnight, and that is quite the best time for this enterprise. Miss Crawford has her part down admirably, James, and I have written yours for you here. Read it out before you cast, there’s a good chap.”
James steeled himself to the task, and the last term’s work came most handily to his aid, for the Latin was easy, the Greek not too bad, and the Sumerian only a little devilish. He repeated the latter three times before Simon was satisfied, but really made a most credible account of himself.
The benefits, he thought, of women’s education!
Simon then stressed the difficulty of the spell. "Once you begin, you must continue," he said. "It is possible—even advisable—to pause and gather your strength along the way, but this is a very powerful spell. If it is broken, the rebounding forces of the wake may do you real harm."
"Harm?" James said sharply, noting Irene's flinch.
"You may be crippled," Simon said. "If you have gone too far in the spell, and then lose your will, it may destroy you both."
James turned to Irene. "We can find another way," he said. "I ask too much."
Irene shook her head and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "There is no other way, my lord. It must be done, and it must be done tonight, for who knows if another opportunity will present itself in time?"
"I agree," Simon said, sounding unusually severe. "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."
"We aren't assassinating the King of Scotland, Simon," James protested.
"It will take near as much strength of will as that wicked deed did, James, and you must also combine your wills before you even start the spell. I can tell you how it's done, but I cannot prepare you for the sensation, having never felt it."
"Will it be strange?" Irene asked.
"They say it is a peculiar feeling," Simon said carefully. "And it may take some time, so you should begin the attempt at once. If you are ready, Miss Crawford?"
James was beginning to be truly alarmed, and wished that Flora had taken him to account much sooner in his academic career. Of Irene’s ability, he had no doubt; it was his own that troubled him.
"If you please, sir," Irene said, "The Book mentions the combination of wills only in theory, but perhaps his lordship might like to read that section."
James fairly snatched The Book out of her hands and applied himself to the indicated pages, which treated the subject as being between two of the same sex as a matter of course.
The scandalous practice of combining will between man and woman would never be treated by the renowned Mrs. Beeton.
"It recommends we begin facing each other, and thinking of images that are suggested by a third party," he said after a moment.
"And… I must hold your hand. I do apologise. "
"No apology is needed, my lord," Irene said, and though she would not admit it, even to herself, her hand trembled with something other than fear as she placed it in his.
The combination took longer than even Simon had feared.
Irene found it very difficult to fall into the requisite ease of mind and trust in her partner, whereas James discovered that his mind wandered inconveniently about, without fixing on the images Simon patiently built in their minds.
It was hard to picture a tree swaying in the breeze, or a babbling brook, or the motion of waves upon the shore (which Irene had never seen) when Irene's brow was crinkled, and her mouth so pursed up with intent.
But at last, as the minute hand trembled upon the hour, Irene was sufficiently weary, and James sufficiently desperate that the connection was made.
It happened in the space between seconds.
All of a moment, Irene was atrociously aware of his lordship's body.
He had broad shoulders, and she could feel them straining against his coat.
His dark hair touched the back of her neck in a soft caress.
Most shocking of all, the long legs she had observed now gave her a view of the top of her own head.
It must be simple to be so lordly, when one was so tall!
James could also feel every inch of Irene's skin as if it were his own, and it moved him no less. Her left boot was too loose for her little foot, and stuffed with cloth to make it fit. The pins in her hair pricked his scalp. Her corset lifted and supported her—
"Ahem!" James said. "It is most peculiar, isn't it?"
Irene nodded, her eyes very wide.
"It is time," Simon said, his voice urgent.
James lifted his chin. "Very well. Miss Crawford, on the count of three?"
Irene crumpled the dried dandelion roots in her left hand as James scattered the salt with his right. And so they were committed.
There is a school of thought, much favoured by the gloomy-minded, that posits that anything that can go wrong, will, at the worst possible time.
Irene was inclined to follow it, while James was diametrically opposed to any approach to life so lacking in hope, yet they both gasped in unison as the door opened and the Marquess of Chomondley made his entrance.
Flora was on his arm, clad only in her nightgown, and her face was beautiful, but as blank as that of a statue, with no animating spark to give it vivacity. The Marquess paused, and laughed harshly as he assessed the spell in progress.
"What's this? I had thought to find a quiet spot for sport, and instead I find meddlers! Stop," he told James and Irene.
James gritted his teeth against the words that rose within him, for anything he said would interrupt the spell and unleash the devastating wake against him and Irene both.
Though he would take harm and face death to save his sister, he would not condemn Irene to that fate.
Irene began her part of the chant, pronouncing every word with a tranquility she was very far from possessing.
There was no way out for them but through.
"You must stop," Simon said, over the chanting of her sweet, low voice. "Come, man, they have begun, and will not cease; you are already undone. Let Lady Flora go and you may yet have time to flee."
"If they stop now, they may yet live," Lord Chomondley said. "But if they do not, the same cannot be said for Lady Flora." And with no further warning, he placed his strong white hands about Flora's throat and began to squeeze.
Irene and James watched in horror as Flora, still as smiling and empty-eyed as a doll, began to turn red, then blue. It seemed that after all these years of dramatic threat, Flora Wittingham really might simply die.
"You devil!" Simon shouted, and threw himself at the Marquess.
He was tossed back by a crackling wave of blue sparks, rolling to land with a thud against the unforgiving stones of the mantle.
Lord Chomondley, the white aura nearly solid around him, laughed as he returned his attention to Flora's slender throat.
Irene's grip strengthened on James' hand, and he did not leap to his friend's aid as he longed to do.
Instead, he turned his attention to her; her hand, warm in his; her breath, fast but even; her heart, pumping steadily in her breast. He felt her will as if it were his own, its strength and determination, while his own warm easiness flowed between them.
They united, simply and fully, and as James chanted his part of the spell, he felt as if he spoke it with Irene's soft lips.
At that moment, they glimpsed the deepest heart of the other, and that rare miracle occurred, for they saw, and recognized, and adored a complementary spirit.
A dark glory rose in both of them, and with the last of their strength, they turned it outward, to the evil white fog that clouded Flora's mind, blowing that entangling mist away.
The spell left them, as gently as dandelion seeds wafting on the breeze, and they fell into each other as they sank to the floor, replete.
And defenceless.
Lord Chomondley's eyes glittered as he thrust Flora aside and gathered his power.
He glared at James and Irene, who were nearly senseless in the aftermath of their spell.
The white aura glowed, his hands moved confidently through the motions of the death spell—and he staggered, falling forward against the mantle.
For Flora, once released of her bondage, had assessed the situation at once, and, strengthened by her indignation and the righteous horror she felt at the scene enacted before her appalled eyes, had caught up the nearest likely weapon.
Mrs. Beeton's Book of Magickal Management cracked sharply across the back of Lord Chomondley's head.