Radical (Clandestine Magic #2)

Chapter 1

Beatrix pulled into an empty space on Cathedral Street and stared at the ornate apartment building across the road, a rush of adrenaline making it shimmer for an instant like a Gothic mirage.

Ella—friend, confidante, co-conspirator—shifted in the seat beside her. “Ready?”

If they were caught in the midst of what they came here to do, they’d be thrown in prison. If they’d miscalculated about the woman waiting for them in that building, prison. If this went well but a later step tripped them up—prison.

She would never be ready. But she had to do this. Assuming, of course, that the magically binding Vows she’d taken didn’t stop her.

“Let’s go,” she said.

She jumped out of her car, the old door groaning with complaint, and held up her skirt as she walked through the slush on the street, focusing on her intentions so there would be no mistake.

As Ella caught up with her, Beatrix waited for the warning signs—for the taste of pomegranate in her throat, for her body to stop obeying her.

Peter’s words came back to her, charged with anger and distress: You can’t do it. You Vowed to cause me no harm. You Vowed to cause your sister no harm.

What she now planned was far more daring than what he’d been arguing against. But she made it through the revolving door without incident. She pushed the elevator button and rode with Ella to the tenth floor, nothing forcing her to retreat.

This was the right thing to do. This could save her sister’s life.

Or go terribly wrong. She paused on the welcome mat at Apartment 1012, heart racing.

“You’re certain?” she said.

Ella gave one of her irrepressible grins. “Absolutely.”

Beatrix wished she had Ella’s confidence. She thought of her sister and knocked on the door.

“Once more unto the breach,” she murmured.

The lock turned and the door opened, revealing Joan Hamilton, president of the Women’s League for the Prohibition of Magic, Baltimore chapter. Tall, fashionable, razor-sharp valedictorian of her class at Hazelhurst College.

“Hello,” she said, pressing an errant pin into deep-brown hair. “Oh—I thought Lydia was coming, too.”

Lydia, Beatrix’s sister, had no idea what they were doing.

Lydia and strategist Rosemarie Dane were meeting with Schoen’s Sugar union leaders downtown to convince them to bring the rank-and-file to her planned march on Washington in June—she wanted both sexes there in substantial numbers.

After that, they had two meetings in walking distance with Baltimore legislators in preparation for the impending session.

Beatrix wasn’t on the hook to pick them up for hours.

How her sister would react if she did know what they were up to was a question Beatrix tried not to dwell on.

“She couldn’t make it,” Ella said breezily.

Joan’s lips twitched. “Well—I’m sure the three of us can manage. Come on in. Tea?”

Beatrix sat on Joan’s couch—a Béfort like the one in her own sitting room, except new and immaculate—and wished there were a spell for reading minds.

Joan seemed an ideal first choice for their underground effort.

She was one of the few local leaders in the organization who lived absolutely alone—not with parents, not with a husband, not in a boarding house or on campus.

She had none of the financial problems that pressed their treasurer to turn spy.

She’d helped Lydia from the very beginning, when Lydia was just a freshman at Hazelhurst. And something about her wry smile implied she wasn’t easily shocked.

But none of that guaranteed she wouldn’t be horrified by what they wanted to do.

“Were you able to get January fifteenth off?” Ella asked.

That was the day the General Assembly convened. Lydia wanted to meet with legislators—again.

Joan let out a sigh that fully communicated her answer before she gave it. “No. I’m sorry—I did try. ‘Oh, no, Miss Hamilton, I couldn’t possibly do without you. Who would take my notes and fetch my coffee?’”

Ella tsked.

Beatrix licked dry lips. “What about the promotion? Have you heard anything new?”

“An outside hire got the job. No college degree, six months less experience than I have. And yes,” Joan said, a sardonic edge creeping in, “a man. Imagine that.”

“I’m sorry,” Beatrix said, sympathy warring with calculation. Did this make it more likely Joan would agree to commit multiple felonies for Lydia and women’s rights?

“They just can’t see past my sex. Or my race,” Joan added.

“Either way, my job’s an intentional dead end.

Tell the college graduate that ‘secretary’ is just the first step, keep her there until one of the men in the office marries her, then repeat with the next na?ve young thing hoping to make something of herself. ”

All three of them sighed in unison.

“Do you ever wish sometimes that you could just skip ahead to the future?” Joan said. “You know, to live in an era where we’re treated like real people?”

Beatrix glanced at Ella, who gave her a pointed look as she said, “Three dozen times a day at minimum.”

Beatrix swallowed, testing for pomegranate, a part of her hoping for it. Her throat was clear. Hands shaking, she said, “Could you show me to your powder room so I can … freshen up?”

“Me too,” Ella said, patting her hair. “I’m worried my braid is coming undone.”

Joan’s brow furrowed at this uncharacteristic concern about appearances, but she gestured behind her. “It’s just down the—”

“Do show us,” Ella said, putting out a hand to help Joan up.

Joan opened her mouth, apparently thought better of whatever she’d been about to say and got to her feet.

They made an odd little parade, all of their dresses swish-swishing against their ankles in the sudden quiet.

It seemed almost unnecessary to put a finger to her lips once they got into the bathroom and closed the door, but she did it anyway.

Then she and Ella ran their hands across every nook in the small space, checking for invisible devices that might be listening, filming, spying.

Joan watched, asking no questions. A quick study. A good choice.

Beatrix hoped.

“Seems clean,” Ella murmured.

Joan wrapped her arms around herself. Voice equally low, she said, “You think I’ve been bugged? I thought they only tapped your phone—”

“As far as we know. It’s not likely you have bugs, but we couldn’t take that chance.” Beatrix dipped her hands into her pockets, feeling the smooth, reassuring solidity of the demarcation stones there. Then she stepped closer to Joan and whispered, “What’s your opinion of magic?”

Joan gave a strained, disbelieving laugh. “What?”

“What bothers you—wizards, magic or both?”

Though the woman still looked nonplussed, her answer was prompt. “Just wizards. The ones keeping typics, and us especially, from having equal rights, I mean.”

Beatrix nodded. She’d expected as much, but she’d never specifically asked, and plenty who belonged to the Women’s League for the Prohibition of Magic believed in the original mission of the group—before her sister took charge and changed it to ending wizards’ stranglehold on the government.

“Well?” Joan whispered.

“There’s something we want to tell you,” Beatrix said, the thud of her heart loud in her ears. “It’s serious, it’s dangerous, and if you agree to hear it, you must promise to keep it a secret.”

Ella, standing just as close on Joan’s other side, added, “Absolutely, swear-to-die promise.”

Joan stared at them, eyes very wide.

“It’s all right to say no,” Beatrix murmured. “This is about women’s rights, in a manner of speaking, but not the League.”

“It’s about magic, isn’t it?” Joan’s voice wavered with some strong emotion. “You wanted to know what I thought about it. That’s it, right?”

Beatrix forced her voice into something resembling calm and said, “You would need to promise before we could explain.”

“I promise. I swear I will keep this secret. Tell me.”

Abruptly, second thoughts rose from the acid in her stomach, wended up her esophagus and gathered like a choking vapor—no hint of pomegranate—in the back of her throat. What was she doing? They needed to stop right now. They needed to get out.

Joan put a hand on her arm. “Can women do magic?”

Too late.

Gulping air, Beatrix took out the demarcation stones, two in one palm, two in the other, and laid them in each corner of the bathroom.

Joan stared at these lesser-known symbols of magic use, evidently confused.

Then she looked up to see Ella assuming a spellcasting position with a pair of oak leaves in hand—magically preserved, as green as the day they were picked—and sucked in a breath.

“Lang rēad lēoht,” Ella said. The leaves puffed to vapor in her hand.

Red light washed over the bathroom and everything in it. No spots of white appeared—no spells were cast here before, at least not recently. That, at least, was a relief.

Joan sagged against the sink. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” She pressed her hands over her eyes. “Oh my God.”

Ella reversed the spell, soundproofed the bathroom and returned the stones to Beatrix. Only then did Joan manage another word.

“How many—how many women are doing magic?”

“Just three that we know of,” Beatrix said. “The two of us and Rosemarie—not Lydia.”

“We’re protecting her,” Ella said. “The wizards are trying to kill her.”

“What?” Joan jerked forward, eyes on Beatrix. “What do you mean?”

Beatrix couldn’t answer. Her lungs burned.

She tried not to listen as Ella explained, but the memory of that night surged at her anyway.

The massive crane arm cracking, falling, her sister directly below.

Her own horror as she watched, helpless, from hundreds of feet away.

Teleporting there without having any idea how and pushing Lydia out of the way.

She’d expected more attempts. They all had. But more than two months had passed since Lydia barely escaped death, right after winning the election for national president of the League. Two months. What were the wizards planning?