Page 64 of A Sorceress Comes to Call
She was almost ready to set the book aside out of sheer exhaustion when the author launched into a lament about so few of his countrymen believing in the “Great Flood of Devilreys that now Surround us” and how “such as was Common Knowledge in days past is now Treated as the Base Ramblings of Superstitione and Rumore.” (Where is he getting all of these e’s? Hester wondered. Did they simply have more of them lying around back then?) He blamed it on the work of devils, who he thought had taken great pains to hide their presence and to present sorcery as little better than “the Actes of a Charlatan and Mountebank,” but then tossed off, in passing, a passage from a letter that he had received from a scholar who suggested that sorcerers were much like panthers and would not tolerate one another in their territories. “And thus the Stronger take pains to defeat the Weaker, but ignore the Weakest as a Man ignores the Buzzing of the Midges, and thus the Strongest are few and the Weakest many, and Those that a Man might encounter are always the Weakest and seem Laughable and far from doing True Harm, while the Strongest walk Unseen and work great Mischief and Devilreys without Detection.”
Hester set the book down and took a sip of tea. It had gone stone cold by now, but she barely noticed.
Like panthers, each with their own territories. She tried to imagine Doom tolerating a rival and felt a stab of grief. She wouldn’t even tolerate Penelope, and that rivalry was mostly in her head. If another sorcerer appeared, I can easily believe that she’d fight to the death.
It was easy to believe, too, that she might ignore someone that she considered weaker or beneath her contempt. She ignores me, after all.
Hester stared down into the cold tea. Suppose that the unnamed scholar was right. Suppose that over time, the powerful had killed off the middling, leaving only those with just enough talent to cheat at cards and disguise a nag as a racehorse. Of course people would start to think that sorcery was just a silly bit of illusion.
And how does it work, anyway? No one seems to know.
Divers Remarkable Sorceryes offered at least three competing theories, including deals with the devil, alignment of “Celestial Bodies of Greate Wickedness,” and, peculiarly, that sorcery was a birth defect akin to a calf being born with two heads, only less visible to the naked eye.
Would that be a talent some people are born with, then, like perfect pitch or being able to roll their tongue? Is it hereditary, passed from father to son and mother to…
… daughter?
Hester set the teacup down with nerveless fingers. Was Cordelia a sorcerer too? Did she possess whatever strange talent her mother did?
A log fell in the fireplace and a large crackle startled Hester into a snort. All these stray e’s must be going to my head. If Cordelia was a sorcerer, she wouldn’t be letting her mother drive her around like a puppet. If Hester tried very hard, she could concoct a scenario where Cordelia attempted to enlist her help to depose a stronger sorcerer—her own mother, in this case—but the image of such a cold mastermind fell down immediately when placed beside reality.
No, if Cordelia had any such talent, she either wasn’t using it or didn’t know that it existed. Perhaps, like perfect pitch, such a talent required training to come to its full potential, and of course Evangeline would never train a potential rival. Or perhaps it had simply skipped a generation. Hester had bred enough geese over the years to know that even the most carefully chosen parents could produce a gosling that took after neither of them. She’d once had two positively elegant parents throw a confused little beast who fell over whenever he tried to run. Hester had been absurdly fond of the little creature and hadn’t had the heart to cull him.
The door opened. Hester looked up and saw that Willard had entered the room, which immediately struck her as unusual because Willard could practically ghost through doors. If she’d actually heard the door open, it was only because he meant her to.
She set the teacup aside, puzzled, and he met her eyes with an open sympathy that immediately set her on guard. “Tom…?”
He cleared his throat. “Your brother to see you, madam,” he said, which was also completely unnecessary. Willard never announced family. They weren’t that kind of household.
Samuel came in behind him, looking unusually grave. That itself was even more ominous. Has something gone wrong? Did Doom make up some story about me?
“Wanted to see you, Henny,” her brother said, dropping down in the chair next to her. He hadn’t called her Henny in years. He didn’t meet her eyes, and Hester’s alarm grew, even as Willard slipped out of the room as silently as a shadow.
“Is everything all right? Is someone hurt?”
“No, no. Nothing like that! Wouldn’t worry two pins about telling you if someone was. You’ve always kept your head through things like that. No nerves at all, that’s my Henny. Why, I remember the time you helped sew up that gash on Blaze’s off leg when the old stablemaster was laid up with gout! Cool as a cat, you were, and him fit to kick down the stall the minute we let him.”
“Then what is it?” asked Hester, trying to stem the flow of brotherly reminiscence.
He took a deep breath. “It’s Richard,” he said. “He asked my permission to court young Miss Cordelia.”
Hester felt herself sag with relief. Oh thank heavens. That’s all it is.
“I suppose you are going to be her guardian,” she said. “It’s only right to ask you.”
Samuel leaned forward and took her hands. “Henny,” he said kindly. “I know you’ve always had a soft spot for him. And honestly, I was always surprised he didn’t come up to scratch—well, never mind all that.”
“We’re good friends,” said Hester. “That’s all. I never expected more.” Liar.
Her brother’s eyes finally met hers and she was struck suddenly by how lucky she was to have him. A little shallow, perhaps, but he’d always stood by her.
“I haven’t said yes or no yet,” he said. “I almost told him no, but I wanted to talk to you. If you’re still holding a torch for him, by god, I’ll send him away with a flea in his ear, no matter how good a match it is.”
“Oh good heavens, don’t do that. It is a good match. He’s wealthy and well-connected, and he needs to wed. Most men his age have an heir and a spare by now. And he’ll be kind to Cordelia. You know he will.”
Samuel nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t have thought twice if it wasn’t Evermore. She won’t do better. Though Eva’s talked about having a season in town for her, and I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“She could still have her season,” said Hester, who privately thought that Cordelia would rather gnaw her own arm off than go to balls and assemblies and parties in town. “An engagement announcement would keep all the more obnoxious sorts at arm’s length, though. If you like, I’ll even go along to chaperone her.” Inspiration struck her suddenly. “In fact, while you’re off on your honeymoon, why don’t Cordelia and I go into town and see about opening up the old town house? It’s bound to be in a dreadful state, and since you haven’t given me an enormous wedding to plan, the very least I can do is see about getting it in a presentable state.”
