Chapter 6 #2
‘Silly witch. I’m not using the post.’ Aunt Rowan’s lips tilted in a smug smile. As an earthwitch, she could influence both flora and fauna. Finding a willing winged creature to carry her missive would be a simple trick.
‘I’m interviewing Lady Burrows tomorrow. How can I help Uncle Lachlan if I can’t hear anything she’s thinking?’
‘You’re a woman. Use your intuition. You don’t need any special magic for that.’ Aunt Rowan’s smile was not comforting.
‘And you can still hear the thoughts of everyone else,’ Ellie replied cheerfully. ‘Focus on them. Maybe you’ll discover something from the staff that might help.’ She patted Helena’s hand, her kindness impossible to shake off. ‘As for feeling jealous of Cynthia—’
‘I’m not jealous.’
Ellie continued as though she hadn’t been interrupted. ‘Just remember, no new friend I make will ever replace the love I have for you, Hel. There’s no reason to be threatened by her.’
Cynthia was threatening more than just Helena’s confidence in her coven. For reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, she was churning the calm waters of her soul. Helena didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Cynthia couldn’t stop rubbing the uneven streaks of black staining her skirt.
The hasty dye job didn’t completely hide the pattern of what had once been her favourite day dress.
A white and blue floral affair with lace around the collar and sleeves.
Still, needs must and a widow couldn’t possibly be seen in such bright and cheerful colours the day after her husband’s death.
Her laundress had done the best she could with so little time, but Cynthia noticed the grey aftermath on her fingers.
She could only imagine what the rest of her body looked like.
I’m turning into a shadow. Or perhaps, I’ve always been one.
She would need to order a new wardrobe in black.
Black for a full year only to be followed by grey and lavender for another year.
Two years of social isolation to mourn a husband who had never cared a whit about Cynthia.
It was an insufferable fact that even in death, Hubert controlled her.
And society was happy to act as his enforcer.
There wasn’t a peer in the realm who wouldn’t leap at the chance to condemn Cynthia if she dared shirk her responsibilities as a dutifully mourning widow.
Would she never be free?
I won’t if I can’t convince Superintendent MacDougal of my innocence. Being cut direct hardly compares to my neck in a noose.
The locket in her pocket hung heavy against her thigh.
Her corset made it difficult to take a deep breath, and her bustle seemed unaccountably itchy.
She longed to unbutton the top of her bodice and feel the sunlight on her skin.
A curl tickled the back of her neck as she resisted the urge to fidget.
‘Tea, Superintendent MacDougal?’
The gentleman shook his head.
‘Miss Blair?’
Helena wore a silk blue day dress. The colour reminded Cynthia of a wave just before it crested. It set off the woman’s grey eyes and dewy skin while the simple cut brought attention to her long, lean lines.
Her legs must go on forever.
Cynthia’s cheeks heated at the inappropriate thought.
What is wrong with me? I should be focusing on grieving, not trying to imagine what her legs look like in silk stockings.
But instead of feeling the ache of loss, something new stirred within her soul. A bright, sparkling fizz that transformed the world around her.
Cynthia had been unable to sleep after her discovery the night before.
Instead, she sat in her shift at her favourite spot on the windowsill.
Overlooking the back gardens, she could forget she was in the heart of London.
Breathless, she watched the silver moon rise in a blue-black sky.
Opening the window, Cynthia bathed in evening breezes, her lungs expanding for what seemed like the first time in forever.
Hyacinth and roses flavoured the air. The haunting melody of a song thrush filled her room, and relief swept through her like a wave.
Life pulsed around her. The beat of the earth brought with it wild freedom, frightening in its magnitude.
She remembered this long-ago feeling. Once, she had understood the whispered stories of the bubbling brook, felt the warm embrace of summer’s sun, and danced with the trees in autumn’s wind.
Forgotten and free, she ran wild in the fields of her parents’ country estate for seven blessed years.
Her parents had left their children to be raised by a kind but rather negligent nanny.
Cynthia spent more time out of doors than inside, finding her sanctuary in the wooded grounds of her father’s endless property.
She had been happy. Until her birthday when everything changed. Her nanny was dismissed, Thomas was sent away to school, and Governess Smithers arrived.
A pleasant smile and soft hands hid the soul of a tyrant.
Cynthia learned quickly that a proper young lady did not spend her time pretending to talk to field mice or sharing secrets with the bumblebees.
She quickly mastered perfect manners, domestic accomplishments, and unwavering obedience.
The birch switch taught her well, and when she left the country estate at sixteen for finishing school, she hardly remembered what it felt like to sit under the willow on a rainy afternoon and listen to the earth breathe.
But on the first night of her widowhood, soaking up the silver moonlight, summer’s midnight song serenading her soul as her perfectly ordered life fantastically fractured, she started to remember.
No longer was she beholden to the will of her father, her brother, or her husband. She was untethered, able to fly on the wind wherever it might blow.
Completely free.
How could she pretend sadness after experiencing such a rush of unadulterated joy?
Her future might be uncertain, but it finally belonged solely to her.
What a glorious gift. She would have to leave her current residence, but she would receive a dowager house near Cotswold, a tidy little townhouse a few streets away, and an annual income hardly comparable to Hubert’s total wealth, but certainly ample enough to ensure Cynthia would live very well for the remainder of her days.
There were also funds she inherited from her father that Cynthia retained after her marriage.
Hubert’s death had granted her more independence and income than she would have ever enjoyed as his wife.
Unless I’m convicted of his murder.
She refused to consider the possibility. It was imperative she convince Superintendent MacDougal and his infuriating (beautiful) niece that she was innocent. Because she held the fragile and fearsome gift of freedom in her hands, and she wasn’t about to relinquish it to anyone.
Certainly not a waterwitch who could entrap me like a siren.
She was brought back to the present as Helena reached for the cup and saucer.
Their fingers brushed together. Fireflies erupted in Cynthia’s bloodstream, racing through her body and leaving trails of light behind.
The vibrations of their wings kissed her chest, flicked against her pulse points, and tickled just beneath her breasts. It was the most extraordinary thing.
The curious bolt of energy zinging through Cynthia was even more powerful than it had been yesterday, and thrice as enticing.
Why does Helena Blair make me feel like I’m touching a current of electricity?
Cynthia’s heart thumped loudly as Helena held her gaze captive.
Did she feel it too?
Impossible. I’m nervous. That’s all.
Helena’s grey eyes glimmered, reminding Cynthia of last night’s moon before darkening to a more natural colour.
She sat back in her seat. ‘We have some questions for you, Lady Burrows.’ Her hair, all the glorious colours of autumn in the middle of summer, caught the sunlight.
She could have been Calypso, holding Cynthia captive on an island lost in sea foam. But Cynthia would not succumb.
Forcing her thoughts away from fancy, she determined to attack first. ‘I understand why Superintendent MacLachlan has questions for me. What I can’t puzzle out is your role in all of this.
’ Cynthia held Helena’s gaze, refusing to let her hand tremble as she sipped her tea.
‘Tell me, what magic do you conjure?’ She kept her tone carefree, but she was desperate to know.
Her brother once told her that a skilled soldier always learned his enemy’s strengths so he could overcome them.
It was sound advice. She had almost asked Clio the night before of Helena’s powers, but the clever witch would read too much into Cynthia’s interests when she was purely focused on protecting herself in this investigation.
Helena fisted her hand and something dangerous flared in her eyes.
Magic, no doubt. I suppose I should be careful before baiting a witch.
Only, she didn’t want to be careful any more. She wanted to be reckless and wild. She wanted to find that child, lost so long ago to rules and expectations, and hold her close. She wanted to stand in the centre of the storm and let the wind whip her skin as the rain soaked her soul.
There’s nothing like the threat of a hangman’s noose to bring things into perspective.
‘Are you not worried my powers might frighten you?’
‘Fear does not control me.’ At least, she didn’t want it to control her any longer. Life was too fleeting to waste trapped in trepidation.
‘I read thoughts, Lady Burrows.’