In the eastern provinces of this kingdom, I would have already been imprisoned or executed as a witch. Fortunately for me, our region is a bit more tolerant of magical or supernatural things. In Gresoul, the closest large city, there are even shops that sell magical items. I am neither reviled nor hunted by our neighbors, but neither do the local mothers encourage their eligible sons to seek wives at the Fallon house.
The Beresford party could be a chance to meet some new people. Even if I can’t find a husband, maybe Anne will. After all, she’s normal, or what passes for it in polite society.
I have no idea where Beresford’s house is, how we’ll get there, or what we can scrounge up to wear. But it’s achance. Something different, something new. An opportunity I didn’t have when I got out of bed this morning.
If we attend the dinner, I’ll speak as little as possible and keep my emotions under tight control. I tend to summon things during moments of excited speech or high emotion, so I’ll endeavor to stay perfectly calm, dance, smile, and say nothing. It’s what most men seem to prefer anyway.
If I were a better sister and daughter, I wouldn’t go to Beresford’s dinner at all. I’d stay home, letting Anne and Mama attend. But I’m not quite so unselfish. Despite the risk, I can’t resist the idea of a fancy party at the house of a mysterious man.
We can ask someone in the village for the location of Valenkirk. My sister and I can figure out the gowns, too—we’re used to refreshing old dresses with whatever we can find. But the carriage—that’s a problem. I don’t know anyone brave enough to lend us theirs. Once I borrowed the Narbonnes’ cart to take Anne to the doctor, and halfway there a creature with razor forelegs and barbed wings manifested and got tangled up in the traces. I dragged Anne out of the cart and onto the roadside grasswhile the demon tore apart the straps and the harness in its panic. The terrified horse broke free and bolted into the woods, and eventually the demon got free and fled as well.
Anne’s fever broke that night, the horse returned to its stable safely, and Mr. Narbonne didn’t make us pay for the damaged tack. But whenever we encountered him after that, he would give me a doleful look, and his wife would say, in a tone drenched with sympathy, “How are you, Sybil, you poor thing?”
Pity is better than hatred, I suppose.
The front door opens and a rain-washed breeze gusts inside. At the influx of cool air, the fat gopher demon scurries from beneath the sofa and makes a beeline for the entry hall. Exclamations erupt from my mother and sister, followed by Anne’s directive, “Shut it quick, before it comes back in!”
The door slams shut.
I walk to the doorway and peek into the hall. My sister and my mother look wet and bedraggled, but excited all the same.
“Where’s Henry Partridge?” I ask.
“He said he had to go,” Anne replies. “It’s raining hard, and he got quite wet. He was a good sport about it, though.”
“What about that big, blue-bearded gentleman? Did he leave the invitation?” Mama hurries forward. When I hand over the card, she coos with delight. “Oh girls, this is wonderful! A night out, and dinner is provided! What splendid luck!”
I exchange smiles with Anne. We love seeing our mother excited about something.
Mama lifts shining eyes to both of us. “It seems we have a project, girls!”
“The dresses.” Anne winces.
“The dresses,” Mama confirms. “Don’t be despondent, my loves! I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with three fabulous gowns. I may have a little something up my sleeve.”
Byup my sleeveshe means that she has hidden some bit of finery in a chest or a drawer, something she held back even when times got hard. After Papa left, Anne and I never expected presents on Midwinter’s Eve, and yet every year Mama found a way to make us gifts. Even though the presents were made from old relics or scavenged scraps, they always managed to meet a small need for the person to whom they were given.
Mama would beam as we opened the gifts and say, in her merriest tone, “Just a little something I had up my sleeve.”
It amazes me that even now, when things are so dire that we’ve sold most of the furniture, she can still find bits and bobs to create beautiful things.
Mama is one of the reasons I want to find a rich husband for Anne or myself. My mother has been so good to me, every day of my life. When I summoned my first demon, a glowing slug as long as my hand, with barbed horns and about a hundred tiny, oozing eyes, she immediately slammed a pot over it. Then she smiled at me and said breathlessly, “Well, that was interesting. I’ll take it outside, and then I’ll make you a cup of warm milk.”
I’d been terrified, on the verge of sobbing, but her presence of mind made everything all right. She hasn’t reacted so calmly every time, but that first time, when it mattered most, she gave me the reassurance I needed.
Mama is only a few years past fifty, and still beautiful. She deserves to enjoy the rest of her decades in comfortable independence, or perhaps with a good man who loves her. If my sister or I can make that happen, we will. At the very least, we owe it to her to try.
Maybe Anne will meet a kind, handsome man at the party—someone whose good nature will match beautifully with hers. And maybe a man like Beresford is just what I need. As a man of unusual appearance, with a certain wildness of character, perhaps he could be persuaded to overlook the oddities of a life with me.
Or maybe he doesn’t have to know… not until we’re married.
Maybe, just maybe, I have a chance.
2
The next morning, over a breakfast of coffee and two eggs each, Mama says tentatively, “Sybil, darling, do you think you should visit Grandmother Riquet before the party?”
I glance at Anne, who keeps her eyes fixed on her plate. They’ve discussed this together, probably while I was upstairs making the beds.
