Page 21 of A Sorceress Comes to Call
She stepped out of the room and Evangeline eyed the door with mild dislike. “So many servants,” she muttered. “I’d forgotten how many servants you have to deal with in a great pile like this.”
Cordelia said nothing.
“At any rate,” said her mother, rising, “get some rest. We’ve the dress fitting tomorrow, and you may not plead headache or fall into a faint at it.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I’m doing this all for you, you know.”
“Yes, Mother. I know.”
She waited until her mother had gone, and until Alice had returned with a cup of something strong and herbal. She drank it dutifully, and let herself be put into the great curtained bed.
When the door had opened and closed again and she no longer heard Alice moving around in the next room, Cordelia slipped out from under the covers, moved the curtains aside, and went to the enormous wardrobe that stood in the corner. Her dresses took up a tiny sliver of the space and the floor was bare.
She climbed into it and curled up into the smallest possible ball on the boards. They smelled of cedar, which was too close to wormwood, but there were lavender sachets tucked into the drawers and that changed the scent to something different. Something safer. She pulled the wardrobe door closed. It was solid wood and it was between Cordelia and the room that her mother had been in. It was not enough but it was something, and eventually, in the cedar-and-lavender-scented darkness, she fell asleep.
Alice had found her in the wardrobe that morning. She had opened the door and reached for a gown and then she had frozen with her hand outstretched, while Cordelia stared up at her in horror.
Their eyes met and held for a long few seconds and what Cordelia read there reminded her of Ellen, the same sadness and pity. She was not proud enough to reject the pity, but she feared it nonetheless, because something terrible had happened to Ellen and she knew that she was not strong enough to keep it from happening to Alice.
The other girl reached down and took her arm and helped her to her feet. Cordelia’s back ached from sleeping in such a small space and she made a small sound of pain.
“It’ll be all right,” said Alice, and Cordelia knew that she wasn’t talking about the backache. The maid’s hand gripped hers, and it felt almost like a friend’s hand, not like someone who was being paid to care for her. “It will.”
“It won’t,” whispered Cordelia. Ellen had said the same thing, and look what had happened to her. “She can do such terrible things and I can’t stop her.”
Alice squeezed her fingers. “It will come out right in the end,” she said firmly. Then she released Cordelia’s hand and said, as calmly as if all respectable young ladies slept on the floor of their wardrobe, “Will you be wanting tea or hot chocolate this morning, miss?”
And Cordelia had said, “Tea, please,” and had gotten dressed and was ready when her mother came looking for her.
It was a long drive into the city, though not as long as the one to the Squire’s house had been. Falada was a bright, treacherous light between the carriage shafts. Cordelia looked out across the cold gray fields and pulled the borrowed shawl more tightly around her shoulders, her face as still and calm as practice could make it. She felt as if everyone should be able to tell that the coach was stolen, and furthermore, what had happened to the rightful owner. It seemed like blood should drip from the seats or the wheels should shriek or something equally dramatic.
But nothing happened. Cordelia watched the landscape go by, the fields turning to houses, the great smudge of the city growing on the horizon, and no one came after them screaming, “Stop, thief!”
They rode in silence for a time, and finally Evangeline sighed and said, “Are you still sulking about last night? Really, Cordelia, you’d think that you were five years old.”
“No!” That came out much too explosively. “No, I… I’m cold, that’s all.” That was true enough and not a dangerous observation.
“Oh, is that all? Well, it’s chilly out this morning, that’s true.”
“It is,” said Cordelia, determined to speak and shed the accusation of sulking.
“You’ll be warmer soon,” said her mother cheerfully. “A new coat and muff, I think, lined with fur. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
“That sounds very nice,” said Cordelia. This was also true. It sounded nice. She had not had a new coat in years, and did not particularly expect that to change, but it did sound nice.
Traffic going into the city picked up as they approached. First it was assorted farm carts loaded with produce, then a mail coach, then enclosed carriages that presumably carried passengers. The birdsong of the countryside was replaced with shouting and grumbling and the creak of wheels.
A young man in another cabriolet pulled alongside them and cracked his whip overhead, calling something. Evangeline lifted her chin derisively. Cordelia wondered if he had said something insulting, when suddenly Falada went from a trot to a canter, threading his way between the heavier farm carts with contemptuous ease. Cordelia looked over her shoulder and saw the young man frantically wielding his whip, but his bay horse could not compete with Falada’s speed.
“Fool,” said Evangeline, pleased. “Thinking he could race me with a mortal horse.”
She was not so pleased once they had swung around the outer edge of the city and reached the broad stretch of stableyards that sold carts and carriages and horseflesh. The one that she made toward had an archway over the entrance, with HOWARD’S written across it in spiky metal lettering. The yard was already full of people, working on axles and wheels, touching up paint, and Cordelia could hear the sounds of a blacksmith hammering somewhere in the background.
They had barely pulled in when something over the archway flashed with green light and the air suddenly stank of burning hair. Everyone in the stableyard froze and Cordelia could feel dozens of eyes turning toward them. Cordelia’s mother cursed softly under her breath.
“Back, back, get back, you gapeseeds,” snapped a voice, and a man pushed his way forward. He was short and stocky and his clothing was worn, but he carried himself with absolute authority. Is this Howard?
