Authors: Marissa Doyle
“Because my sister is an idiot and did a love spell on him, and now she’s doing her best to chase
him away because she doesn’t want his love if it isn’t freely given.” Pen sounded impatient. “But
Persy, you—you let him know you’re a witch! I can’t believe that you—”
“It was the only way I could think of to put him off once and for all,” she said, still staring out the
window.
“That must have been a doozy of a love spell,” Lorrie said thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?” Persy turned again.
“Most love spells only work if there’s some natural inclination already in place between you and
the object. You can’t put a love spell on someone who doesn’t know you, for example. Which one did
you use?”
Persy sat down on the bed next to Pen. “It was one I found in Ally’s room, with her books. A
candle, some rosewater, a copper basin, ten spoons—”
Lorrie made a strange sound and sat up straighter. “And a pair of bootlaces?” she asked
breathlessly.
“Um, yes. Is it a well-known one? Of course, Ally never taught—” She stopped in astonishment as
Lorrie Allardyce burst into peals of laughter.
“Oh my goodness!” she said, gasping for breath. “I … oh!” She dissolved again until at last she had
to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. It’s just that … well,
I
wrote that spell when I
was about twelve. It was a joke on my brother, Merlin—he was in love with the girl in the apothecary
shop across the street, and I just couldn’t resist. Rosewater makes him sneeze, you see, and Mama had
only eight silver spoons so he’d have to go find two more somehow, and the bootlaces were just so
silly … .” She giggled. “I sent it to my sister afterward—I can’t imagine why she saved it.”
“But—the paper—it looked so old!” Persy felt as if the rug had been pulled from under her feet.
“Of course it did. If there’s plenty of anything in a bookstore, it’s bits of old paper. I took it from
the back of an old medical book that had been around forever. Dear, dear me.” She wiped her eyes
again.
Pen, however, wasn’t laughing. “So it wasn’t a real spell, then,” she said slowly. “But that means
—”
“No, not real in the least—oh!” Lorrie’s humor evaporated. Persy felt the weight of their regard on
her as a numb horror froze her in place.
She
hadn’t
enchanted Lochinvar into loving her. Everything he’d done and said—his words, his
kisses—had been
real.
He’d fallen in love with her of his own free will. And she’d been dreadful to
him and done everything she could to drive him off, and it hadn’t worked … until last night. When
she’d shown him that she was a witch.
“Persy, I’m so sorry.” Pen slipped an arm around her shoulders. “How were you to know it wasn’t
real?”
“If I’d known that anyone would ever find that silly spell and try to use it, I would never have
written it,” Lorrie declared. “Are you sure that you—that he—”
“I’m sure,” Persy whispered. The memory of his eyes, wide with shock after she’d halted him, still
haunted her. He had loved her—he had. If she hadn’t been such an idiot after the Gilleys’ party, they
might now be betrothed—planning their wedding, stealing kisses when nobody was looking … .
This was it, then. She couldn’t stay here and keep going out into society, where surely Lord
Carharrick would snub her for what she’d said to him, if he didn’t gossip about her heartless
treatment of him … and where she’d have to endure Lochinvar’s scorn and disgust. She would go to
the ball tonight, and be gone before morning.
A knock on the door interrupted her gloom. “We’ll be bringing in your bath in a moment,” the
housemaid’s voice called. “Her ladyship suggested you ladies might want it sooner rather than later.”
“Why don’t you go first?” Lorrie said to Pen before anyone could speak. She gave Persy a look that
was as good as a command, and Persy was once more reminded of Ally. She followed Lorrie meekly
down the hall to the small room that Mama had designated for their maid, when they finally found one.
Lorrie’s trunk was already there.
Lorrie perched on top of it. “Sit,” she commanded, and pointed at the narrow chintz-covered bed.
“And tell me why you want to run away from home.”
Persy froze in midstep. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. I read it plain as the newspaper when you came to see us the other day. That’s the
other reason why I came today—to stop you. I need you around to help find my sister. Why do you
want to leave, anyway?”
Persy swallowed hard. She wouldn’t cry—she wouldn’t. “It’s just the best solution to—to a lot of
problems.”
“Hmmph,” Lorrie said. “Bet my sister would be mad as a weaver if she knew.”
“I can’t help it!” Persy buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Vaguely she felt the edge
of the bed sag as Lorrie sat down next to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“Lochinvar—he’s the Lord Seton that came with you to the shop a few times, isn’t he?” she asked
gently.
Persy remembered Lochinvar’s patient expression as Lorrie’s brother preached to him about book
bindings on their second visit to the Allardyces’. She’d been strongly tempted to kiss him for his kind
forbearance, letting the ham-fisted Merlin keep him occupied so that she and Pen could talk to Mr.
and Mrs. Allardyce. She nodded.
“Listen to me, Miss Persy. Don’t run away tomorrow. Let’s work on finding my sister. If we
haven’t been able to find her by the end of the season, you can leave—and I’ll come with you.”
“What?” Persy lifted her head and looked at her.
“I—well, to be honest, I ran away too. Partly to help look for my sister, but mostly because I don’t
want to get married, or let my brother boss me about the bookshop for the rest of my days,” said
Lorrie, staring down at her lap. “That’s why I’m here as Clements. I want to make my own way
without anyone telling me what to do. So if you decide you want to run away, I’ll go with you. We can
stay with friends of mine until we decide what we want to do. Between the pair of us, I’ll bet we’d
land on our feet just fine.”
“You can’t be—you’d do that? Really?” Persy wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed, relieved,
or happy, and settled for a mix of all three.
“Really,” affirmed Lorrie. She held out her right hand and Persy solemnly shook it. They smiled at
each other over their joined hands.
“Right.” Lorrie nodded briskly. “Well, you go off to the ball tonight and see if you can’t get that
Princess Sophia to stop being a goose and be helpful. And I’ll get that bundle under your bed put
away so the housemaids don’t find it, shall I?”
A
s their carriage inched into the queue of vehicles traveling toward St. James’s, Persy gazed out at
the masses of smiling men, women, and children lining the streets. No wonder Papa had wanted them
to leave an hour and a half early for the ball. “So many people,” she murmured.
“You and your sister aren’t the princess’s only admirers,” he replied and patted her hand. “They’ve
been lining up since dawn, wanting to catch a look at her on her way to the ball.”
“I do hope Lochinvar and Charles will be all right.” Mama took one last look at the crowds and
lowered the blind on her window.
“What?” Persy and Pen asked at the same time.
“Lochinvar sent a note around after he and Charles went out on that horse of his, while you two
were getting acquainted with Clements. It seems they got caught up in the crowds, and rather than
trying to get him back, Lochinvar brought Charles home with him for the night. He assured me that his
valet would take care of him while he attended the ball. I thought it a little odd, but I trust Lochinvar’s
good sense. And Charles deserves a bit of an outing after all these weeks. He does worship
Lochinvar, doesn’t he? I just hope he will behave himself.” Mama sighed.
Papa smiled. “I am sure he will. He won’t endanger his visiting rights with Lochinvar’s horse.
Stop worrying about the boy, and let us enjoy the evening.”
Persy settled back in her seat and looked out at the crowds as their carriage crept toward St.
James’s Palace. She would rather have leapt out and run all the way up the mall than be stuck here,
trying to contain her anxiety and excitement. Would Ally be there tonight? She tried to draw a deep
breath but couldn’t. Lorrie was as bad as Andrews when it came to tight lacing for ball dresses.
It was fully dark before they emerged from the carriage into the fine late-spring evening. There was
an unusual glow to the sky from the illuminations that had been set up all over the city in celebration
of Victoria’s birthday, and a rumble of sound from the crowds that filled the surrounding streets.
Joyous excitement filled the air, tangible as a London fog.
“Hurry up and wait again, is it?” Pen said, nodding at the queue of elegantly dressed people
waiting to enter.
“Would you rather slip in a side door and miss seeing the princess?” Papa asked, opening his eyes
wide in feigned surprise.
Pen frowned at him reproachfully and did not reply. All at once Persy’s anxiety lifted, and she felt
like shouting just like the crowds around them, or taking off her silk shawl with the deep fringe and
waving it around her head like a banner. This was it. She would finally get to see Her Royal
Highness, the Princess Victoria.
That is, if this line would ever move.
Fortunately, the line moved far faster than the carriages had. In less time than Persy expected they
had moved past the powdered footmen in their splendid liveries at the door and through the hall to the
long staircase leading up, up … .
Pen fanned herself furiously. “It’s too hot,” she complained.
On the contrary, Persy’s hands and feet felt icy, though her face felt hot, too. The same feeling of
distant unreality that she had felt at her first ball gradually enfolded her as they progressed up the
staircase. She felt like a spectator watching herself and the others around her in their elaborate finery,
a sea of rich colors and nodding plumes on the older ladies’ headdresses. When she heard a distant
voice announce, “The Viscount and Viscountess Atherston. The Honorable Misses Leland,” it took
her a moment to realize that it was talking about her.
Wake up, Persy. Don’t float away now, or
you’ll miss everything
. She hurried after Mama.
They were approaching a small raised platform crowded with sumptuously dressed women. With a
small start of surprise Persy recognized Princess Sophia among them. But instead of her usual slightly
shabby and old-fashioned clothes, Princess Sophia wore an evening dress of the latest fashion in
violet satin, with an embroidered tulle Italian cap on her faded gray-blond hair. Her usually dreamy
blue eyes were sharp behind her spectacles as she surveyed the crowd, and she wore a small frown,
unlike her usual placid expression.
“Look at Princess Sophia,” Persy whispered to Pen. “She looks different tonight somehow, doesn’t
she?”
“Never mind
her
,” Pen shot back. Her voice trembled with excitement.
Then Persy saw her.
She was surprised by how tiny Princess Victoria appeared at first glance. She was nearly a head
shorter than Persy and Pen.
Why, Charles is taller than she is, and he’s only eleven.
But her smallness was deceptive. Though Princess Victoria’s manner was appropriately modest
and demure as became a girl of eighteen, Persy saw that it was merely a garment, a veil. Underneath
that maidenly diffidence a majesty, an innate regal presence, lay in waiting. Unconscious of it though
she might be, it was clear that she could fill the room with that presence if she so chose. But for now,
she was content to be an eager young girl at her coming-out ball. Persy’s heart swelled as she felt that
royal aura, so concentrated in that small, slender frame.
Then she began to notice more. The princess’s eyes, very large and very blue in her round face,
shone with excitement, and when she smiled she showed a mouthful of white teeth. Her thick, light
brown hair hung in fashionable ringlets on her bare shoulders, and her gown—satin with blond lace,
Persy noted through her haze of hero worship—was exquisite. She smiled and nodded as guests filed
past, and occasionally exchanged a quick greeting with acquaintances under the watchful eye of the
Duchess of Kent. Persy remembered her beautiful, bell-like voice, and wished that she could hear it
again.
“Drat! We aren’t presented to her?” Pen whispered.
“No presentations tonight, or there wouldn’t be any time left for dancing. I don’t think Her Royal
Highness wants that,” Mama murmured back. “Dear me, Princess Augusta is getting stout. It’s a shame
Their Majesties were not able to be here tonight.” She shook her head at the king’s plump sister, who
stood at the princess’s left in place of the queen.
“The king is not at all well,” Papa replied in the same low voice. “But determined to live until this