Chapter 19 #2
The hallway outside her old bedroom was dark and deserted, and within half a minute, Mina had descended the servants’ stairs and had entered Christopher’s bedchamber.
It didn’t take her long to fill the carpetbag with some of his favorite clothes—a few pairs of trousers, a blue velvet coat, a comfortable pair of shoes and soft woolen socks—along with toys Mina knew that he’d been missing: a small box of treasured toy soldiers, a kaleidoscope Lady Grenfell had gifted him on his sixth birthday, and half a dozen books that Mina hadn’t been able to find at Hatchards.
She also squeezed in his favorite pillow.
“Right, time to go,” said Mina to herself. Even though she hadn’t heard anyone moving about Fitzwilliam House, perhaps she should use Christopher’s wardrobe to teleport back to her room in Kinsale House. It would save her having to go back upstairs—
At that moment, a door slammed and Mina froze. She heard voices—male voices—and then a distinctive booming baritone reminiscent of a foghorn.
Sir Bedivere Ponsonby.
Fae help me! Mina pressed a hand to her chest where her heart crashed in uneven thuds against her ribcage. What on earth was he doing here?
He had his own house here in London, for goodness’ sake!
And then anger sparked. Damn it! Why couldn’t the blighter push off and go and blaze a trail through the Northwest Passage?
Because he needs to prove he’s residing with his ward to continue to access the Fitzwilliam family fortune, Mina mentally reminded herself.
And he’ll only be able to pretend Christopher is with him for so long.
Before others notice the young viscount is missing.
You’ve been fooling yourself that he’ll give up his search.
But he won’t. You know he won’t.
And now, how will it look if he discovers you here, Lord Fitzwilliam’s former governess with a carpetbag full of the boy’s belongings in hand?
She needed to get away, right this instant. Lord Fitzwilliam’s closet would have to be her “magic cupboard.”
But as Mina reached into her pocket to retrieve her leyport key, her fingers wrapped around something small and cold and hard and cylindrical. It wasn’t a pewter key, but a bottle, along with her ley spectacles
Had her pocket provided her with a befuddling potion?
For mercy’s sake. Using a befuddling potion on more than one person at a time would be a tricky undertaking indeed.
Because Sir Bedivere had been talking to another man.
Their voices had faded, but not completely.
Mina suspected that they’d simply moved farther along the hall and had entered the private study of the late Lord Fitzwilliam—Christopher’s father—which was on the same floor, not too far from the viscount and viscountess’s suite of rooms. Mina knew it well because she used to pass it every day to take Christopher to his godmother’s bedchamber and sitting room, which were also on the same floor.
With a frustrated huff, Mina put the carpetbag on the bed, pulled out the bottle, then took it over to the window to examine it in the moonlight. And then genuine surprise flared. It was a dark indigo bottle. Had her pocket provided her with a Glamify potion?
Quickly donning her ley-spectacles, she read the label and confirmed that yes, it was exactly that. And just like last time when she found it in her pocket at the Ablington Railway Station, it said: Drink me.
But when Mina turned it over to check the fine print on the other side, she read something slightly different:
To don a “bespoke” glamour—an illusory disguise of your choice—that will deceive the eyes of others, simply take two sips of the contents of this bottle then utter, “Glamify,” all the while picturing who you want to look like.
Uttering “Unglamify” will reverse the spell.
Please note: Individual results may still vary (but only by a little).
Mina blinked. She could choose who she wanted to look like?
What if … What if she chose the guise of a servant? A male servant. A footman. After all, footmen were always traipsing through corridors and attending to things like checking windows and doors and snuffing out candles and dimming gaslights.
Yes, if she looked like a footman, she’d virtually blend into the woodwork of Fitzwilliam House.
She could conduct reconnaissance—gather some intelligence (even eavesdropping at keyholes might prove useful)—with relative safety.
It certainly would be helpful to know what Sir Bedivere might be up to.
It would be a darn sight better than stumbling about in the dark like she had been doing for weeks on end, wondering when that dashed sword of Damocles might fall.
Two Parasol Academy tenets sprang to mind: Know thy enemy. And Knowledge is power.
It would be silly not to stay and see what she could learn about Sir Bedivere’s agenda, and what he knew or didn’t know about his ward’s disappearance from the Valiant.
If she had the chance, maybe she could even befuddle him and attempt to snatch that cursed ring off his finger.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the opportunity to try out the befuddling potion on him—or the Point-of-Confusion for that matter—before she’d been dismissed.
It had all happened far too quickly. But maybe she could tonight.
Her decision made, Mina uncapped the bottle.
Closing her eyes, she took two sips of the berry-flavored, treacly potion. Then she conjured a mental image of one of the Fitzwilliam House footmen—a tall young fellow with an easy smile by the name of Tristan—as she whispered, “Glamify.”
Just like last time, a shimmering swirling mist enveloped her, gently mussing her uniform and brushing softly over her skin like a warm summer breeze.
When she looked down at herself, she looked the same, but a glance in a full-length mirror in the corner of Christopher’s room confirmed her appearance had changed—she’d turned into an exact replica of Tristan the footman.
Well, almost. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as tall as the young man, and there was something about her—or was it his?
—eyes that weren’t quite the same, but the disguise would do.
Righto. In for a penny, in for a pound. Ignoring her galloping pulse, Mina exited Christopher’s bedroom.
Farther along the dimly lit hallway, the door to the late viscount’s private study stood slightly ajar and Sir Bedivere’s voice blared out, bellicose and trombone-like.
That booming baritone could probably even travel through castle walls.
Another man spoke, but Mina didn’t recognize his voice. It was gruff, the cadence harsh and unpleasant, like carriage wheels crunching over rough gravel. Or rusty iron cogs inside a machine grating against each other.
Mina crept closer, keeping to the thick carpet that ran down the center of the hall. A shiver passed over her, but it wasn’t simply because she was nervous. The hall was bitingly cold; so much so her breath misted in the air. And was that a glimmer of frost on a nearby windowpane? In September?
Sir Bedivere was still speaking. “I’m not made of money,” he grumbled as Mina lingered in the deep shadows by the open door.
“How many more men do you really need? You’re looking for a small blond boy with a purple velvet rabbit, for God’s sake.
Not a mythical creature like a dragon or phoenix.
Or the philosopher’s stone or Holy Grail. ”
The man with the irritatingly harsh voice responded. “Enough to watch all the main parks about Belgravia and Mayfair during the day, my lord. Half a dozen men should do.”
“Half a dozen?” Then there was a muttered, “God damn it,” and the scrape of a desk drawer.
This was followed by the faint scratch of a pen nib on paper.
“Here’s a thousand pounds. I’m expecting results, Cheavers.
If the executor of the trust fund hears that the boy isn’t with me, he’ll cut off my access to the Fitzwilliam coffers—and I need that money to fund my expedition.
Not only that, but my name will be mud. My competency as a guardian will be called into question.
I can’t have just ‘lost’ little Lord Fitzwilliam. He must be found.”
Mina dared a peek through the door. Yes, it was the bespectacled man she’d seen on the railway platform in Ablington, with his salt-and-pepper hair, ferocious-looking muttonchops, and caterpillar eyebrows.
Cheavers spoke again. “Well, until I do locate your ward—and rest assured I will, sir—I must say, moving into Fitzwilliam House is a sound strategy. That should at least give the impression that everything is all right.”
The baronet emitted a snort. “Unless some little snitch on staff here reports the boy missing. I don’t trust the butler, Napier, as far as I can throw him.
Nor that bloody headmistress at the Parasol Academy.
Temple or whatever her name is. I’m certain it was that blasted Parasol Academy governess that somehow stole my ward off the Valiant.
As soon as Meecham described her, I knew Miss Hermina Davenport must be the one behind his disappearance.
If I could just find her, I’m sure I’ll find the boy. ”
Mina’s blood turned to ice. So Sir Bedivere did know—or at least strongly suspected—that she’d been on the Valiant. But it sounded as though Mrs. Temple wouldn’t disclose her whereabouts, thank goodness.
“I’ve been keeping an eye out for the governess too, sir,” said Cheavers. “I’ll be sure to show my men that photograph of Miss Davenport—the one from the newspaper—that you supplied. And they all know she wears a Parasol Academy uniform.”
“Good.” There was a beat of silence in which it sounded as though someone—perhaps it was Sir Bedivere—was drumming his fingers on the late viscount’s desk.
Then the baronet said, “Are you going to try breaking into the Parasol Academy again? There must be some sort of record in the headmistress’s office about where this Miss Davenport is now working.
” Something thumped the desk—a fist perhaps.
“If she’s not in London, I don’t know what I’ll bloody do. ”
“Humph. Believe me, I’ve tried breaking into the Academy,” grated out Cheavers. “My men have tried, too. But it’s impossible. The place is an impenetrable fortress. You’re sure the headmistress won’t tell you anything about Miss Davenport’s latest post?”
“Not a thing,” Sir Bedivere growled. “I’ve tried bribes … The headmistress won’t yield.”
“You could try less conventional methods … I know how to make people talk …”
“What, threaten or kidnap the damn woman?” A snort.
“From what I hear, this Temple character is friendly with the Queen herself. If she disappears, Scotland Yard is bound to get involved and I can’t have them poking around, asking questions about who she’s been talking to of late.
I’ll risk a lot to find my ward, but I won’t go that far.
No, my name must be kept out of it. I cannot afford any scandal to be attached to my name or reputation. ”
“I understand, Sir Bedivere.”
“Do you? Because I don’t know if you truly do,” the baronet sniped. “I can’t afford to dillydally for much longer. I need the boy. I need him on my ship. It’s imperative that I take him north to Queen—” The baronet broke off. “Never mind.”
Queen? Queen who?
Mab?
Mina, who’d wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the bitter cold, leaned toward the door. But as she did so, her shoulder brushed against it, making it creak ever so slightly. Damn. Damn. Damn.
“What’s that? Who’s there?” demanded Sir Bedivere, his voice snapping into the hall like the lash of a whip.
Mina shot across the hallway into the darkened window alcove. Remember you look like Tristan, the footman, she reminded herself. Brazen this encounter out. You can do it.
When the baronet appeared in the doorway, Mina pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin as though she had nothing to fear.
“It’s just me, sir,” she squeaked. “Tristan.” Blast. Her appearance might have changed, but her voice certainly hadn’t.
She cleared her throat and dropped her voice as low as it could go. “The footman,” she mumbled.
Sir Bedivere’s brows plunged into a frown deeper than a well. “What the hell are you doing, lurking out here in the hall?” His gaze narrowed in suspicion. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“Oh … n-n-no … Not me, sir,” said Mina, hoping her tone was deep enough to pass for a man’s. “I’m-I’m just checking all the doors and windows. Like I usually do. Mr. Napier’s orders. I’m the night footman tonight.”
The baronet took up a wide stance and folded his arms across his chest. The gaslight emanating from the study illuminated the man’s dark golden hair and his obsidian and silver ring glinted.
It almost seemed like the stone was winking at Mina.
“Come out where I can see you,” he ordered, his breath turning to fog in the icy air.
“And what’s wrong with your voice? You sound like you’ve swallowed a mouse. ”
Mina did as she was bid, stepping into the middle of the hallway.
At the same time, she reached into her pocket, hoping to find a bottle of befuddling potion, but damn it, nothing was there.
Now would have been the perfect time to test it out.
“Um … er … more like a frog,” she said as gruffly as she could.
“I think I’m coming down with a cold.” Then she put a fisted hand up to her mouth and affected a cough.
Sir Bedivere immediately took a few paces backward into the study. “Well, begone, man,” he commanded, waving his hand. The ring flashed again. “Don’t come anywhere near me. I don’t want whatever plague you’re carrying about.”
“Of course, sir.” Even though she was stiff with cold, Mina somehow executed a deferential bow. “So sorry to bother—”
She broke off just as the study door slammed shut.
But not because of the baronet’s rudeness.
No, the breath had frozen in Mina’s lungs and her voice had failed because in the split second before the door closed, leaving her in the dark, she’d seen something that had chilled her to the very marrow of her bones.
The obsidian stone in the baronet’s ring had winked at her, actually winked like a cold black eye, and a voice like the harsh north wind in midwinter whispered inside her head, Spy! I see you. Then more faintly from behind the closed door, Tell me your name.
In that moment, Mina knew the midnight-eyed woman of ice and snow frequenting Christopher’s nightmares was Mab … and the evil Fae queen had seen straight through the glamour.