This second revelation had the opposite effect on the group. She took advantage of the shocked silence to explain, leaving in the details that could make a person of a certain mindset draw the conclusion that it was her own fault.
That person was predictably the first to react.
“There are times for grand speeches about women’s rights, and that was not one of them,” said Rosemarie, the state chapter’s vice president, strategist and (it sometimes seemed) chief critic of Beatrix. She’d had plenty of opportunity, as Beatrix’s longest-standing tenant.
Lydia’s skirt swished as she paced. “When did he ask your name? Before or after he press-ganged you?”
“Before,” Beatrix said.
“He’s trying to get to me through you.”
“Well—”
“Did he mention me?”
“Yes, but?—”
“The conference is in four weeks. Thatcan’tbe a coincidence.” Her sister grimaced and sank back into her seat. “They’ve decided long-distance interference is insufficient.”
Lydia, head of the state chapter, was lead organizer of the League’s national conference. They’d quickly discovered that powerful people did not want the event to go well.
None of the nicer hotels in Baltimore would rent their ballrooms to the League. The established firms all declined to cater, many of them after initially expressing interest. And—though it could have been an accident—ten of the ninety-six invitations sent to the women heading other state chapters had not arrived. (Thank God their own chapter treasurer stumbled upon the problem and mailed a second set.)
“What do you think?” Lydia asked. “I’m not being paranoid, am I?”
This was directed at Rosemarie. Beatrix, sitting gingerly to avoid staining the seat, wondered how long it had been since her sister had asked for her advice.
Rosemarie Dane, hair a soft gray, could pass for grandmotherly if you didn’t look her in the eye. Her eyes were hard. She baked cookies for no one. Now, tapping her pencil on her notepad, she said, “We’d better assume the Washington magiocracy knows you’re planning to run for League president. And they don’t want you to win.”
Lydia’s laugh was grim. “I’m certainly not going to, if they make it look as if I can’t even manage a conference. And then we’ll have at least four more years of Patricia Gossard, who will lead in exactly the same way we’ve always been led, with exactly the same lack of results.”
Beatrix decided to inject her opinion, asked for or not. “I don’t think Blackwell is part of a plot against the League.”
Rosemarie’s raised eyebrow conveyed her view of this just as clearly as her skeptical “oh?”
“When he walked in the door, I assumed the same thing you did,” Beatrix said, “but then I recognized him. Blackwell’s a scientist, isn’t he? He’s not the type you’d ask to disrupt an activist organization. And he seems disgruntled to be here. This has ‘demotion’ written all over it.”
Lydia shook her head. “But isn’t that exactly why they wouldhave sent him? To lull us into a false sense of security?”
“Well—”
“We must proceed as if our new omnimancer is here to undermine us,” Rosemarie said. “It’s the only way.”
“I’m sorry, Bee, but I think she’s right,” Lydia said. Naturally.
“What he’s done to Beatrix is outrageous,” said Ella, the county chapter’s vice president and Beatrix’s best friend, if “best” and “only” were not mutually exclusive. “We ought to file a complaint with the wizard ethics board.”
Beatrix glanced at the ceiling to stave off the tears that threatened. She appreciated the gesture. But it hurt, and more than she expected, that it hadn’t come from her sister.
“No point—the board’s a joke.” Rosemarie stopped tapping her pencil. “Now, if Washington planned to cut off Lydia’s tuition funds, they needed only to keep the store owners in town from employing Beatrix. Perhaps they think Blackwell can glean some useful information about us through her. But these things cut both ways. Here’s what I propose: Beatrix will use every opportunity to find damaging information abouthim. Even better, about the administration—or wizards in general.”
Oh, was that all. She looked at Lydia, who always decided these things.
“Yes, I agree.” Then her sister glanced at her, eyebrows raised in a question asked out of order. “If you’d be willing?”
Beatrix sighed.
After the meeting, once she’d wolfed down supper, set her clothes to soak, scrubbed the grime off herself and pulled on a nightdress, she found Lydia working at the desk in their room. She appeared to be copying out an essay from a much-revised original, using only the small desk light to save on electricity—and a pen instead of their typewriter.
