“I am Constantinopla Brown,” the girl declared in a pompous tone. And when the ticket agent only blinked: “I have chatted with Her Majesty the Queen in Her Majesty’s bedroom, and thereforeobviouslycan be trusted in your silly little museum.”
“I had breakfast with the Russian empress this morning,” the agent responded with a smirk. “She advised me not to sell tickets to lying schoolgirls.”
“Now see here—!”
“For heaven’s sake,” Charlotte said, leaning past the person ahead of her to frown at the ticket agent. “She’s obviously either an overindulged aristocrat or a pirate. Both possibilities suggest you should let her in if you wish to avoid a commotion.”
“Very well,” the agent relented and gave the girl a ticket. She exited the queue triumphantly and waved the ticket at Charlotte.
“I owe you!”
Charlotte looked at her blankly. “I cannot imagine any instance in which a sixteen-year-old girl might assist me.”
“Oh, but I’m only sixteen chronologically speaking,” the girl replied, then trotted off on a pair of snazzy yellow shoes that were at least one size too small for her. Charlotte watched with disapproval. Over the past two days she had seen the number of pirates and witches visiting the museum increase as word spread about Beryl’s amulet. In fact, some hours it was impossible to actually see the displayed items beyond all the ruffled dresses and madly decorated hats. At least everyone had been well-behaved. Thus far, the only damage done had been to egos as the two societies engaged in conversational combat while scouting the room and assessing the guarded, glass-domed amulet.
But it was also fair to say that if manners got any sharper someone was going to end up needing emergency surgery.
As she looked away from the girl, her gaze happened to meet that of a pale-haired gentleman loitering beside a brochure stand. He was staring at her with an expression so icily intent, Charlotte shivered. His dull suit and shabby brown overcoat suggested he was no pirate; what else might explain the way he kept staring, even after she stared back, as if he wanted to peel off her clothes and skin to scratch at her heart for evidence of—
“Fire! Fire! Evacuate the museum! Fire!”
Charlotte blinked, her thoughts scattering. A young man dashed through the hall, arms flailing as he screamed his warning. The patrons looked at him blandly. This was the sixth false fire alarm since the exhibition had opened, and nobody was fooled. The young man reached the front doors without effect and, blushing in embarrassment, turned around and trudged back to the Grenville Library.
In the meanwhile, the queue had moved forward. Charlotte glanced again toward the brochure stand, but the pale-haired man had vanished. No doubt he had just been an ordinary citizen, transfixed by the elegance of her hat. She purchased a ticket and made her way toward the library.
Over the past two days, she had prepared a cunning plan to obtain the amulet.Heramulet. As Beryl’s true heir, according to Wicken prophecy, she was clearly also beneficiary to Beryl’s possessions—and while old maps and pearl necklaces did not interest her, an amulet with the power to break magic, break buildings, and subdue even Aunt Judith, certainly did. Just thinking of it almost brought a smile to her face. With such power, no one could prevent her fromsitting in a quiet corner to readruling the League uncontested.
So she had stood before glass cabinets, gazing at rows of books while surreptitiously loosening screws in the cabinet door frames. She had located all the light switches. The most significant pirate threat, Miss Darlington, was attending an urgent consultation with her long-suffering doctor after Charlotte delivered to her house a box labeled “measles.” And several witches whom Charlotte considered rivals had been lured across town by a supposed sale on rug cleaners (“guaranteed to get tea and blood out of your carpets!”). Charlotte needed no crystal ball to assure her of success.
“Excuse me.”
She looked up to see a handsome blond man smiling at her socharmingly her inner Lizzie Bennet swooned dead away. Instead Fanny Price arose, tut-tutting.
“Can I help you?” she asked plimly (which was even more snootish than primly).
“I noticed a lady drop her handkerchief,” he said, “but I’m unsure if it would be polite for me to approach her. Would you be so kind as to do so instead?”
Charlotte eyed the handkerchief he held out. It was a delicate, lace-trimmed thing with pink Asiatic lilies embroidered on it, the sort of confection carried by a lady who had no intention of using it to actually clean anything. “Very well,” she said, taking it gingerly. “What lady?”
“She’s in the Black Beryl exhibition now. Pale blue dress, red-gold hair in a pure and bright mythic braid. Would you please tell her I think she’s beautiful?”
“Good heavens. Can’t you do that yourself?”
He blinked his long eyelashes coyly. “I’m ever so shy. Do you mind?”
Charlotte hesitated. Fanny Price advised her not to think well of this man who was no doubt sporting with some innocent woman’s feelings. But another part of her would have everybody marry if they could, and was imprudent enough to help the fellow toward that possible aim.
“Not at all,” she said.
He tried to offer thanks, but she was already escaping the conversation before he couldsmileat her again.
Entering the Grenville Library, Charlotte paused on the threshold, taking a deep breath as she tried to assimilate the noise and vehement colors of the crowded room. Almost everything in her wanted to escape to some quieter library where the only sound came from the turning of pages, but determined ambition propelled her forward. She noticed her mother flirting with one of the museum guards, and Mrs.Chuke directing her lady’s maid to pick the pocket of a second guard, and half a dozen other familiar faces amongst those crowded around what was presumably the amulet display. Charlotte could not see it past their voluminous dresses, but she couldfeelits magic tugging on her witchy instincts.
At last she located the red-haired woman in pale blue, inspecting a book open on display and possessing such an air of effortless poise and femininity that Charlotte immediately both hated and fell a little in love with her. Here was a woman fit for a romantic story!
And here was Charlotte, tasked with being a servant in that story.
Swallowing down an emotion for which she had no literary reference, she strode over and extended her arm, handkerchief dangling from her fingers. The woman turned to regard the lacy cloth with wariness, as if it might be a weapon, and then with gentle confusion. Her gaze flickered up to Charlotte’s face, and one elegant eyebrow lifted in a question.
