Mind you, considering what Alex had done with his tongue last night, perhaps it was worth admitting his value for that alone.
As the ladder swerved from side to side, Charlotte clung to it so tightly her hands burned. But she was unafraid, knowing the pirate would not let her fall. And if he did, she always had her own magic to catch her. They swooped over a cluster of pine trees and flew east toward the sea, leaving behind four breathless policemen, an unpaid innkeeper, and a highly shocked chambermaid.
13
miss plim knows best—witchcraft in their lips—great meddlers think alike—how not to be seduced—mrs. rotunder knows better—the tiger is roused—something’s in the air
There was nothing Judith Plim would do for those who were really her friends. She had no notion of loving people; it was not her nature. Vague stirrings of affection every now and again kept her from outright villainy (presuming one did not count robbery, tax evasion, and a penchant for Marmite-and-banana sandwiches as villainy). But actual love—the powerful, coiled instinct that so often springs without warning, putting out an eye so people don’t see all the things that should keep them from committing to their beloved—was in Miss Plim’s case a mere boiled noodle.
And yet, when she received word from the police that Charlotte had willingly evaded them with Captain O’Riley, the noodle stirred. She had contacted as many of the Wicken League as were in London, summoning them to a coven gathering at Pettifer House—her own house being far too clean and tidy to have that gaggle of overdressed miscreants traipsing through it.
“My dear friends,” she addressed them once everyone was seated around the dining table. “Thank you for coming at this troubled hour.”
The witches murmured words that sounded pleasant but, if recorded, slowed down, and separated from the mass of sound, would be clearly heard equating Miss Plim to the devil and suggesting some unmentionable (and surely uncomfortable) places she could store her spectacles.
Tea and tiny pink cakes had already been served, for food is a great weapon when dealing with women whose power resides in their throats. A witch with a mouthful is a witch disarmed, and Miss Plim knew no enemy worse than the coven she led. However, in a deft counterattack, each cake had been altered in some small way by its recipient: the icing scraped off, the glazed cherry removed and placed neatly to the side, where it effected a silent, subtle insult to the hostess throughout the meeting.
Such militant passive-aggressiveness was practically de rigueur for witches. Although the Wicken League had been formed as a mutual support agency, witch uplifting witch (often with the consequence of heads bashed against ceilings and ankles broken upon descent, until they got the hang of the magic), its ongoing unofficial mission was to provide an exercise ground for hostility. Unlike pirates, who clashed openly and literally—swords, battlehouses, cannonballs—witches employed a discreet and dignified violence in their friendships. Invitations arriving late. A slow, precise blink of the eyes upon noticing someone’s new hairstyle. Cucumber slices removed from sandwiches with a grimace that shifted immediately into a polite smile. This culture served to keep everyone in their place, so that few witches had the self-confidence to take their magical powers, not to mention their knowledge of who performed criminal acts of witchcraft, and go dangerously rogue.
Until, that is, the League president’s own heir ran off in the company of a pirate.
Or, as Miss Plim put it: “Our dear, brave Charlotte has nobly sacrificed her own safety and comfort by kidnapping a ferocious pirate in a valiant effort to regain Beryl’s blessed amulet for our League.”
“I read that she was the one to be kidnapped,” Miss Habersham said. Miss Plim nodded tolerantly, for it had cost her an expensive favor to get that information in the newspaper so as to protect Charlotte’s public reputation and make her more visible for recovery efforts. But before she could explain this, Miss Habersham continued: “Not a good example of supposed Plim superiority, if you ask me.”
Miss Plim scowled. She drew breath to argue—
“I heard she was working in cahoots with Lady Armitage,” Mrs. Vickers added, looking around the table while nodding vigorously, as if this would make everyone else automatically agree.
“I heard the amulet theft was just a diversion, and actually she eloped with the pirate,” Eugenia Cuttle-Plim said. She gave a nasty little flick of her head that would have had Charlotte grasping Alex’s arm and saying, “See what I mean?” had she been there to witness it.
“Descendeo,”Miss Plim muttered through tight lips, and Eugenia’s head-flick ended in her hat falling over her face.
“Lottie would never elope,” Mrs. Pettifer countered staunchly. “She dreams of having a large wedding, with a beautiful gown and magnificent white cake.”
Miss Plim rolled her eyes. Delphine had always been deluded about Charlotte. Many times Miss Plim had tried to explain that the girl was not a romantic, would never marry, in fact had no interest in men whatsoever. But Delphine could not bear to listen, her identity too fused with what she supposed Charlotte’s to be.
“Charlotte is entirely immune to the supposed charms of CaptainO’Riley,” Miss Plim insisted. “I myself saw them together the other day and can assure you there is nothing between them but disregard and disdain. Charlotte almost certainly took an opportunity to commandeer his house so as to join in the pursuit of Lady Armitage. It shows excellent leadership skills, unsurprising in a Plim.”
She tapped the table in front of Miss Edwardina Fox, who was keeping the minutes of the meeting. “Excellent leadership skills,” she repeated, and watched as Miss Fox wrote the words in the special shorthand she had devised when first she was voted secretary (and had since mostly forgotten, as a consequence of which “excellent leadership skills” was noted down as “excellent vegetable socks”).
Satisfied that her perspective had been recorded for perpetuity, Miss Plim returned to scowling at the group. “While we must give the public impression of her being a victim, so as to forestall any talk of marriage, privately we must acknowledge Charlotte as the finest example of witchery. It only goes to prove that she is indeed—”
“The Prophesized One and True Heir of Beryl Black,” the group intoned with a weariness born from twenty-one years of reminders.
“Just so. Besides, I don’t notice any of you rushing off to find our precious amulet.”
The room filled with mutters. Sicknesses were evoked, twisted ankles displayed, times declared to be difficult, husbands castigated as tyrants, and several other excuses presented as to why the ladies present were not in current hot pursuit of Beryl’s amulet. Some swore they had begun—but then a stray cloud or random blue symbol had prophesized trouble if they continued. Others had been on their way out the doorthis very morningto start the pursuit when Miss Plim’s summons came.
She looked down her nose at them all. “Charlotte is doing important work for the League. She must be supported at this time! I’m calling for volunteers.”
See above for the response to this.
Miss Plim sighed and shook her head. “Ladies, ladies, are we witches or are we worms?”
“Witches,” murmured the group sulkily.
“Excellent. The first thing we must do is prevent the newspapers from publishing any further articles on the subject. They have served their purpose admirably thus far, but we don’t want to allow them free rein. Journalists are always sneaking around uncovering facts, solving crimes, and generally being intrepid in the most insufferable of ways. I need volunteers to—”
