Chapter Twelve
T WELVE
I chat with my uncle for at least an hour, and it might be the most enjoyable hour I’ve spent at Trevelyan.
When Oliver relaxes that benevolent Buddha mask, he can be delightfully cutting in his observations.
He’s careful not to insult any of his fellow wolves, but his sharp wit hints at which ones I can expect to engage in deep conversation, which I can hope to beat at cards, and which I should steer clear of, to avoid either danger or boredom.
When someone raps at the door, I whisper goodbye to Oliver and sprint back to my own room, where I tuck the knife under my pillow. Then I call a greeting, and Tabitha comes in, her gaze lowered.
“I’m afraid I haven’t finished my breakfast,” I say, and when she starts to leave, I quickly add, “That wasn’t a hint for you to go. I’d like the company, if you have the time.”
She nods and stands there, awkwardly.
“This bed is big enough for us both,” I say. “You can sit up here and help me eat this, if you don’t mind cold food. Or, you can pull in a chair from Oliver’s room. But I do need help eating it. Especially all this bread and honey.”
Another nod. She keeps her gaze down but gingerly boosts herself onto the bed, staying on the edge like a wary kitten, and I pass over the bread plate.
“Just pull off a chunk,” I say.
She gives me the smallest smile… and does.
I’ve met many people with infirmities, but I never conversed with anyone who is mute.
Admittedly, it isn’t easy. I feel like one of those boors who talk endlessly of themselves, leaving the other no space to join in.
Soon I adjust to make it more of a back-and-forth, by asking questions needing only a yes or no answer.
Harmless questions—I don’t want to seem as if I’m prying.
But soon it’s clear that Tabitha does—as Bishop said—prefer to listen.
If there’s an intellectual infirmity, I don’t see it. She’s quiet, but her gaze is quick, following my stories with all the appropriate responses, including smiles even when my sardonic observations could pass as serious commentary.
When the door opens, Tabitha starts to scramble up, only to settle back on the bed when Marjorie walks in.
“What’s this?” Marjorie exclaims, throwing her arms wide as she shuts the door.
Tabitha makes a raspy sound that seems to be her version of a giggle.
“Having a lie-in with Miss Cordelia? Both of you still in bed at this hour? What do you think you’re doing?”
Tabitha lifts the honey pot, which she has cleaned out with her finger, and Marjorie gives a dramatic sigh.
“It’s a good thing you came to her rescue,” I say. “She’s been forced to listen to my endless chatter.”
“All right then. As long as she was working. Now, I hate to interrupt, but I’m going to need Tabi to help with the washing. Ann will tend to you, Miss Cordelia.”
“I’m fine on my own,” I say.
“That wasn’t an offer, I’m afraid. Mr. Oliver had to leave, and so someone needs to stay with you until Mr. Bishop takes you to lunch.
Ann can help you change.” She glances toward the door.
“Since she’s not here yet, though, I might take that last piece of bread.
” She lifts the jam pot and peers into it and gasps. “None of this left either?”
Tabitha giggles as she hops off the bed.
“I have a ravenous appetite,” I say. “It’s a shock there’s any bread left.” I start putting the tray back together, but Marjorie shoos me off.
“I do have a question for you both,” I say. “I wasn’t sure whether I should ask Tabitha directly or run it past you, Marjorie. May I teach her some simple sorcerer spells?”
Marjorie goes still, and Tabitha spins my way. Both of them stare at me, Marjorie with concern and Tabitha with what looks like hope.
I say, slowly, “I understand there can be a moral objection to witches learning sorcerer magic, but it would let Tabitha overcome her… restriction. Sorcerer magic is done with hand gestures and conscious intent.”
Marjorie busies herself returning plates to the tray as I move to the dressing table. “That’s very kind, miss, but Tabi has her chores, and Mr. Silas wouldn’t appreciate her time being spent on that. Maybe when she’s older.”
“Which is also when she’ll learn to write so she can communicate?” There’s a tartness in my voice that I can’t hide. I know this isn’t Marjorie’s fault, but I’m irritated.
In the silence, I realize Marjorie is looking at Tabitha, who has moved behind me. Through the mirror’s reflection, I see the girl motioning rapidly with her hands. So she can communicate. A lick of shame runs through me for my presumption.
Marjorie watches Tabitha, and I pretend not to notice as I brush my hair.
“Maybe…” Marjorie starts slowly and then clears her throat. “Everything’s very chaotic right now, and I wouldn’t want to bother Mr. Silas by asking him, but if you wanted to teach Tabi a few simple and harmless spells…”
Behind me, Tabitha fairly bounces, her face glowing. When I turn, she dowses her excitement and only nods meekly.
I look back at Marjorie. “I’d teach her in private. There’s no reason to tell anyone. Like you said, it’s a chaotic time.”
“Yes, miss. Best to keep it a secret.” She quickly adds, “Not to go behind Mr. Silas’s back, but to keep from bothering him. Tabi? If you do this, you can’t practice outside Miss Cordelia’s room.”
The girl nods enthusiastically. I’m about to say more when Ann comes in. She walks directly to my wardrobe and opens it without a word of greeting.
Marjorie hefts the tray. “Tabi? Run along and start the washing. I need to speak to Ann.”
I say goodbye to Tabitha before the girl scampers off.
Ann points at the wardrobe. “Choose something. You should have started already. We don’t have all day to dress you.”
Marjorie calls a cheery farewell to me and herds Ann into the guard room. As I walk to the wardrobe, I can hear them.
“—Mr. Bishop won’t like it,” Marjorie is saying.
“Mr. Bishop is why I’m doing it. Because Mr. Bishop is swept away by a pretty face and hulking pair of tits. He’s lost his damned mind.”
Marjorie laughs. “Mr. Bishop? Swept away? That man has his feet more firmly planted than anyone I’ve met. If he’s never looked twice at any of us, he’s hardly going to lose his mind over Miss Cordelia, however lovely she may be.”
That was me Ann was talking about? A pretty face and a hulking pair of tits? I should be offended, but I’m too busy stifling a laugh at the thought of either “sweeping” Bishop away.
“He knows what he’s doing,” Marjorie says.
“Does he? She’s the daughter of that”—the next word is too low for me to hear—“and her mother is a Levine witch. She’s scheming, and Mr. Bishop will suffer for it.
We’ll all suffer for it. Oh, don’t give me that look.
You’re as bad as Mr. Bishop. A girl pairs a clever wit with kindness, and you fall into her well-laid trap. Both of you. All of you.”
“I’m not saying to trust her. I’m saying stop being such a damn gorgon.”
Ann sniffs and pulls open the door. Marjorie makes a noise of frustration and the door slaps in her wake.
“I’d like this one,” I say, lifting one of my day dresses.
Ann grunts and moves to help me out of the nightgown. Once it’s off, she fingers the fabric, and longing flits across her face. She reaches for the dress and again, she pauses, rubbing the fabric.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” I say. “I have to admit, I’m much too fond of fine frocks.”
She jerks back as if she’s been caught slashing the bodice with a knife. Then her face hardens. “Of course you are. Fine frocks and lovely jewels and silk slippers. All the things a woman needs in this world.”
Damn it, I stumbled into that, didn’t I?
“I didn’t say that,” I reply carefully. “I mean that fine dresses are a luxury I can’t help appreciating. It’s the fabric, mostly. The colors and the feel of it—”
“If you’re trying to engage me in conversation, don’t bother. Somehow, I can’t relate to your taste for pretty luxuries. I have no idea why.”
That cuts, and I shift in discomfort. She had seemed interested in dresses, and I’d been trying to find common ground, but I stumbled again.
“You don’t need to speak to me, miss,” she says. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“If you don’t want to help me, Ann, you don’t need to. I can speak to Bishop.”
She stops, holding my dress, and her voice sharpens. “And what does that mean?”
I blink in honest confusion. “Just what I said. I don’t want to impose—”
“Impose? On the maids?” She snorts. “At least be honest and admit that was a threat.”
“A what?”
She looks me in the eye. “A threat.”
Anger bubbles up in me as I wriggle from my chemise and toss it on the bed. “No, it was an offer. I’ll give you an example of a threat.” I look at her. “You don’t trust me. I understand that. You also don’t like me, and I can’t help that. But if you act against me, in any way, I can help that.”
She snorts, and there’s such derision in it that my teeth clench. “And what will you do? Kill me?”
I shrug, trying to sound casual. “Only if I’m afraid for my life.”
“You wouldn’t find killing me nearly as easy as you think.”
“No? You’re a necromancer. With no bodies strewn about to raise into zombies, your powers are useless in a fight.
I’m bigger than you. I’m stronger than you.
I could defeat you. However, if I don’t, and you manage to kill me, I’ll return and haunt you into madness.
” I step out of my drawers. “Do we have an understanding?”
She fixes me with a dagger glare. “Then let me return the warning. If you harm me in a way that makes me fear for my life—or harm anyone I care about in this house—I’ll kill you. Then I’ll resurrect your corpse, drag you back into it, and trap you there to rot.”
“Fair enough.”
“You think I’m joking.”
I shrug. “I doubt you ever joke. But I’ll add a codicil to your threat. You say you’ll kill me if I harm you or others. I accept that… except in the case where I’m harming you because I’m fighting for my life. You can’t expect me to lie still for that.”
“Are you actually telling me under what circumstances I’m allowed to resurrect your corpse? You do realize it doesn’t work that way.”
“It should. Now, if I’m fighting for my life because I attempted to kill someone dear to you and they retaliated, obviously that’s an exception. You can still kill me and torture my spirit.”
Her mouth hardens. “You do think this is a joke.”
No, but I wasn’t being particularly serious, either. Ann reminds me of Lenora—sharp and guarded—and I’d been trying a new tactic. Once again, I’ve chosen poorly, and I’m beginning to think there is no right tactic here, no way I can show Ann that I’m not her enemy.
“I don’t think it’s a joke at all,” I say.
“If I don’t seem to take it completely seriously, it’s because I’m not afraid of being killed for something I wouldn’t do.
” I turn and meet her gaze as I lower my voice.
“You don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here.
Do we need to make the situation worse?”
Her eyes flash, and she opens her mouth, but a knock at the door cuts her short.
“Cordelia?” Bishop calls. “It’s time for lunch.”
“I’m almost dressed,” I say, and then Ann helps me make that lie a reality as quickly as we can.