Page 72 of A Sorceress Comes to Call
“We’re trying to stop her,” Cordelia promised. “Hester and I. And Lord Evermore.”
That’s good. Someone should probably avenge me. That seems like the polite thing to do.
“Errr.” Penelope seemed awfully blasé about the whole thing. “Aren’t you angry?”
I probably should be, shouldn’t I? Proper murdered ghosts always go shrieking and wailing about, or enchanting harps that shriek their killer’s name aloud or something like that. But it seems like so much work. And I’ve always been a very lazy person, you know.
Cordelia smothered a laugh.
There you go. I’ve always said that a sense of humor can carry you through anything. Apparently I was more correct than I knew. There was a brief, indescribable sensation inside Cordelia’s skull, like a person drumming their fingers thoughtfully, except that it seemed to be happening against the back of her eyeballs. Really, though, we must stop her. We can’t just let her go on killing people. Is there some way that I can help?
“Uh…” Cordelia hesitated. Was there? A ghostly spy seemed like an incredibly useful thing, but if Penelope only saw things as blobs…
She sticks out the same way you do. Still a blob, but a three-dimensional one. I saw her riding the horse-thing, but I didn’t put two and two together.
“Did you just read my mind?”
Did I? I’m sorry, that was very rude of me. You must have thought it rather loudly.
“Do you think you could read her mind?”
I suppose I could try. Not when that horse is around, though. I’m pretty sure it could see me if I went traipsing around in front of it.
And not right now, I’m… oh blast, it’s slipping again…
Cordelia had a brief sense of garbled speech fading away, and then the inside of her skull was silent except for her own thoughts.
When she looked out the window again, she saw a pale shape trotting past, and knew that Falada was once again on his appointed rounds.
CHAPTER 26
The day of the wedding dawned warm and overcast, and was not attended by thunderstorms or earthquakes or cyclones, despite Hester’s opinion on the matter.
“So difficult to get good cyclones at this time of year,” murmured Imogene, sliding down the church pew with Hester.
“It might have made an effort.”
“The ceremony hasn’t started yet.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the priest, who hurried up to tell Lady Hester how very gratified he was to see her, how honored he was that Squire Chatham had chosen their little chapel, how lovely the flowers looked, how exceedingly honored he was, and how much happiness he wished for the bride and groom. Hester smiled warmly and told him that it was well-deserved, that she knew her brother was grateful that the priest had managed to arrange the wedding so quickly, and that they would not forget his kindness. The priest pressed her hand, gasped something incoherent, and had to hurry behind the altar to regain his composure.
“Has he been like this the whole time?” Imogene asked.
“Very nearly. Poor boy.”
“He barely looks any older than Jacob. I can’t imagine calling him Father and pouring out my sins.”
“Fortunately I haven’t been to confession in a very long time.”
Imogene clucked her tongue. “I shudder to think of the state of your soul.”
“I’m sure it’s no worse than yours.”
“I go to confession whenever the guilt gets to be too much.”
“And how often is that?”
“It hasn’t happened yet, but you never know. Our dear Father Reynard lives in hope, anyway.”
