“I’m sorry,” Beatrix said, sympathy warring with calculation. Did this make it more likely Joan would agree to commit multiple felonies for Lydia and women’s rights?
“They just can’t see past my sex. Or my race,” Joan added. “Either way, my job’s an intentional dead end. Tell the college graduate that ‘secretary’ is just the first step, keep her there until one of the men in the office marries her, then repeat with the next naïve young thing hoping to make something of herself.”
All three of them sighed in unison.
“Do you ever wish sometimes that you could just skip ahead to the future?” Joan said. “You know, to live in an era where we’re treated like real people?”
Beatrix glanced at Ella, who gave her a pointed look as she said, “Three dozen times a day at minimum.”
Beatrix swallowed, testing for pomegranate, a part of her hoping for it. Her throat was clear. Hands shaking, she said, “Could you show me to your powder room so I can … freshen up?”
“Me too,” Ella said, patting her hair. “I’m worried my braid is coming undone.”
Joan’s brow furrowed at this uncharacteristic concern about appearances, but she gestured behind her. “It’s just down the?—”
“Doshow us,” Ella said, putting out a hand to help Joan up.
Joan opened her mouth, apparently thought better of whatever she’d been about to say and got to her feet.
They made an odd little parade, all of their dresses swish-swishing against their ankles in the sudden quiet. It seemed almost unnecessary to put a finger to her lips once they got into the bathroom and closed the door, but she did it anyway. Then she and Ella ran their hands across every nook in the small space, checking for invisible devices that might be listening, filming, spying.
Joan watched, asking no questions. A quick study. A good choice.
Beatrix hoped.
“Seems clean,” Ella murmured.
Joan wrapped her arms around herself. Voice equally low, she said, “You think I’ve been bugged? I thought they only tapped your phone?—”
“As far as we know. It’s not likely you have bugs, but we couldn’t take that chance.” Beatrix dipped her hands into her pockets, feeling the smooth, reassuring solidity of the demarcation stones there. Then she stepped closer to Joan and whispered, “What’s your opinion of magic?”
Joan gave a strained, disbelieving laugh. “What?”
“What bothers you—wizards, magic or both?”
Though the woman still looked nonplussed, her answer was prompt. “Just wizards. The ones keeping typics, and us especially, from having equal rights, I mean.”
Beatrix nodded. She’d expected as much, but she’d never specifically asked, and plenty who belonged to the Women’s League for the Prohibition of Magic believed in the original mission of the group—before her sister took charge and changed it to ending wizards’ stranglehold on the government.
“Well?” Joan whispered.
“There’s something we want to tell you,” Beatrix said, the thud of her heart loud in her ears. “It’s serious, it’sdangerous, and if you agree to hear it, you must promise to keep it a secret.”
Ella, standing just as close on Joan’s other side, added, “Absolutely, swear-to-die promise.”
Joan stared at them, eyes very wide.
“It’s all right to say no,” Beatrix murmured. “This is about women’s rights, in a manner of speaking, but not the League.”
“It’s about magic, isn’t it?” Joan’s voice wavered with some strong emotion. “You wanted to know what I thought about it. That’s it, right?”
Beatrix forced her voice into something resembling calm and said, “You would need to promise before we could explain.”
“I promise. I swear I will keep this secret.Tell me.”
Abruptly, second thoughts rose from the acid in her stomach, wended up her esophagus and gathered like a choking vapor—no hint of pomegranate—in the back of her throat. What was shedoing? They needed to stop right now. They needed to get out.
Joan put a hand on her arm. “Can women do magic?”
