Chapter 6 #2
The first and most important lesson she learned when her magic first manifested at seven was to always maintain control.
Anything less was irresponsible at best and deadly at worst. A witch without control was a witch who didn’t deserve her magic.
Yet whenever she was with the infuriating man, it was like touching a live wire that scrambled her concentration.
The heat shield at Gunter’s had been minimal at best, but strong enough to dissolve the rain into mist and certainly noticeable. And more importantly, unintentional. It caught Grey’s attention which exceeded carelessness. Her slip was dangerous.
Stupid, arrogant witch!
Aunt Rowan would have had a fit of apoplexy had Clio told her about it the night before.
So instead of admitting her failures to her aunt, she had kept her whispered confession to Ellie and Helena as they huddled on Clio’s bed to gossip before bidding each other goodnight.
Her sister and cousin responded exactly as Clio knew they would: with unwavering support.
It was one more reason why the three women were irrevocably intertwined.
‘He deserved far worse than a heat shield. You should have used your witchfire to burn off his eyebrows!’ Helena was the most bloodthirsty of the three. Her copper hair shone in the wavering candlelight.
Ellie’s eyes grew wide. ‘What if he discovers your powers? Would he report you?’
‘To whom? The magistrate? Uncle Lachlan? The House of Lords? He would sound like a mad fool.’ But Clio’s argument was weak, and they all knew it.
‘Did anyone else notice?’ Helena’s grey eyes darkened with her mood.
‘I’ve no idea. The street was crowded. Perhaps.’
Ophelia scampered out of Ellie’s pocket.
Her sister was sitting cross-legged on Clio’s bed.
The simple cotton nightgown Ellie wore created the perfect hammock as it stretched over her knees.
Ophelia circled three times before curling into a comfortable ferret ball in the centre of Ellie’s skirt and chittered happily.
‘I just can’t believe you lost control. You are always so careful. We all are.’ Ellie’s voice was troubled. Her pink lips formed a perfect circle as she sucked in a whoosh of air. ‘You don’t think this is…? No. Never mind.’
‘What are you talking about, Ellie?’ Helena ran her hand down her fox’s back.
Hamlet’s rich copper coat perfectly matched Helena’s hair.
She was sitting opposite Ellie at the foot of Clio’s bed.
Her fox stretched next to her leg, his gaze on the ferret.
They were infatuated with one another. It was the inspiration for their names.
Aunt Rowan had suggested Romeo and Juliet, but Helena had strong opinions about Romeo being a milksop, and Ellie always thought Hamlet and Ophelia needed a second chance to find their happy ending.
Ellie’s gaze bounced from Helena to Clio. ‘A spirit match.’ She mouthed the last two words as though voicing them would lend power to the syllables, like a spell.
Clio had rolled her eyes the night before, and she did so again as she briskly walked the few blocks from her house to Viscount Beachley’s.
But in the grey morning light, every cell in her body hardened into a protective shell at the very thought.
Ellie’s suggestion was impossible. Clio had been quick to point that out the night before.
‘There is no such thing as a spirit match. In all the lore, a person would have to be willing to accept every part of the witch to be a true spirit match, and no man is willing to do that. Our powers are too threatening. They would either use our gifts for their own advantage or force us to reject our magic. We know this. We all saw it happen to our mothers. Those teachings are just silly superstitions. Fairy tales.’
‘Our entire existence could be summed up as silly superstitions.’ Helena’s dry sense of humour wasn’t always funny.
‘What are the signs?’ Ellie was speaking to herself. A habit the others barely noticed any more. ‘He provokes your magic.’
‘Grey only provokes my anger.’
‘You can share your elemental power with him.’
Clio shook her head. ‘I can’t even share that I’m a witch with him, let alone my witchflame.’
‘Your abilities extend to him when they shouldn’t. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but…’ Ellie looked hopefully at Clio.
Seeing memories from his past, even when he isn’t dead?
Clio had ended the conversation at that point, blaming her early-morning appointment with Viscount Beachley’s staff. She needed to focus on something real: the investigation.
Uncle Lachlan had told her about the coroner’s report and Grey’s demand for her presence at the unsightly hour of ten in the morning on one of the few precious days Ellie had the morning shift, stealing any chance Clio had of sleeping late.
She had a few suspicions as to who the blood belonged to, the viscountess sitting at the top of her list, but couldn’t begin to guess who had poisoned the viscount.
Poison was thought of as a woman’s weapon, but ruling out anyone seemed silly at this point.
She clipped down a drizzly street when she could have been snuggled in her bed and muttered curses on Grey’s head. There was no reason they couldn’t have conducted their investigations at a much more reasonable hour on her morning off. If he had deigned to enquire as to her schedule.
The arrogant, insufferable…
Sparks tingled from her palms to her fingertips. Stopping in the damp morning air, she took a deep breath and let the London chill cool her.
Even if one believed the witch lore about spirit matches – which Clio certainly did not – Ellie was stark raving mad if she thought Clio and Grey could ever be one.
They were two opposing forces destined to destroy each other.
Whatever allowed Clio to see his memory twice – the first time hardly counts – wasn’t because of any spiritual connection.
It was a ridiculous suggestion by her soft-hearted sister.
Ellie’s belief in ‘true love’ was na?ve at best, dangerously delusional at worst.
She shook her head and continued her way to Viscount Beachley’s. She had more important things to think about than fairy-tale spirit matches or rogue visions about a certain lieutenant general.
I just need to focus more intently on my control. Seeing his memories was an inconsequential misfiring of magic. It means nothing, and it won’t happen again.
She froze mid-step. Because the inconsequential misfiring of magic was happening again.
Wind blew down the street, catching her skirts and throwing them around her ankles as the vision swept her into another place. Another time.