Bewitching Season (40 page)

floor, or worse yet, into the circle. She would have to find some other way to deal with him.

“Time grows short,” he said again, and gave her another magical shove. This one nearly

overbalanced her into the circle. With a cry she leapt back from the candles.

“Please, Miss Leland. I don’t want to have to do this to you.”

“Fiddlesticks,” she muttered. “You’re probably enjoying yourself.”

“I assure you that I’m not.”

Something in his voice made her look at him more closely. She saw with a flicker of surprise that

he, too, was breathing hard. Why? Could he be tiring too?

But that made no sense. He was a trained wizard, and a powerful one. Up to now he’d been toying

with her like a cat with a mouse.

She dodged another magical push and watched him. He
was
tiring, his auburn hair dark with sweat

where it fell into his eyes. But why?

Then she remembered: the circle. Sir John had said that much of Mr. Carrighar’s power was bound

into the making of the circle. That was why he needed their magic too—to fuel the spell.

Theoretically, he
was
weakened—weaker than she was, perhaps. But she couldn’t be sure.

Persy risked a glance at her sister, still clutching Ally’s hand as she watched them. Pen looked at

her, and then at the door. Then she did it again.

She was trying to tell Persy to escape.

But she couldn’t leave Pen and Ally alone, at the mercy of these desperate men.

Or could she?

Mr. Carrighar needed her. Without her magic in the circle for him to draw on, Sir John’s plans

would fail. The easiest way for her to foil him and save Ally and Pen, then, would simply be to leave.

If she could just get out of this room and hide somewhere … or better yet, find someone to help—a

footman, anyone.

Sir John hadn’t been able to leave the room until the ward had been lifted. Surely if she threw all

her remaining power into it—focused it directly at the protective ward so that it couldn’t be

redirected back at the circle …

The door was behind her. If she could just move another few feet around, she’d be in the perfect

position to dash for it once the ward was down. Could she do it before he stopped her?

“It’s no use, girl.” He stopped and cocked an ear toward the door. “Do I hear footsteps out there?

Believe me, you don’t want Sir John—”

“
Damn
Sir John!” Persy shouted, and pointed at Mr. Carrighar.

He threw his hands up before him in a shielding gesture, but not before she saw the satisfying look

of shock on his face at her unladylike language. Before he could react, she swung around and reached

both hands toward the door.

“Open!” she bellowed, not even bothering with the focus that spell-casting in Latin usually gave

her. She felt an icy shock as her power cut through his ward and struck the door. It flew open,

crashing back against the wall.

Persy felt as though it had slammed into her as well. She fell to her knees, gasping. She had put

almost everything she had into that one word, and it had ripped the breath from her lungs and the

strength from her legs. This made the headaches she got after too much practice feel like a gentle

caress.

She tried to stand, to run, but everything below her knees seemed to have melted. Well, if she had

to, she would crawl. She wouldn’t give up now.

“No!” Michael Carrighar roared. She looked up through the tears of weakness that had sprung to

her eyes and saw him rush around the circle toward her. She saw his mouth open, saw him start to

form words, saw a mist of power condense in the air around his hands as he spoke. She saw him

extend those faintly glowing hands toward her.

“I’m sorry, Ally,” she muttered, and bowed her head. “Sorry, Pen. I tried.” Then, because she was

a duke’s granddaughter and Ally’s pupil, she straightened. At least she could meet her fate face to

face.

But no blast of magic arced like dark lightning at her. Instead, she saw a small wooden stool hurtle

through the air from behind Mr. Carrighar as if launched from a cannon. It walloped him over the

head, then clattered to the ground.

The wizard swayed, his eyes round with shock, and the spell he had been about to hurl at her

melted into the air.

Persy blinked. How had that happened? Had she done that?

It didn’t matter. She drew up the last spark of her will and cast a feeble halting spell at him.

It was enough. Her magic, unfocused and weak though it was, finished what the chair had started.

He fell heavily to the ground.

In the instant of his falling, Persy felt a commotion in the room, an invisible maelstrom where the

circle had been. Without his conscious will to sustain it and lend it structure, the circle was

collapsing.

“Duck, Pen!” she tried to shout. Magic swirled and eddied around them, lifting her hair and drying

the tears on her cheeks like a physical wind. Sound that was not sound roared in her ears. But before

she could even lift her hands to shield her eyes, the magic drew itself into a point, then vanished with

a loud pop. All the candles in the circle went out, all at once.

And then, Persy collapsed too.

“She
fainted
? Oh, honestly—
girls!
” Charles’s voice oozed disgust.

“Shut your mouth, Chucklehead, or I’ll shut it for you.” Pen’s voice was hoarse, as if she had been

crying.

Persy didn’t bother opening her eyes. “Let’s see you manage all that while laced into a corset,

Chuckles,” she muttered.

Chuckles?

She sat up, which was a bad idea. Her head felt like an overripe melon. If she wasn’t careful, it

would probably roll off her shoulders onto the floor and smash into a pulpy mess. She groaned.

“Not another word, idiot.” Pen slid a steadying arm around her shoulder. “Not you, Perse. Him.”

Persy winced at the movement. “Charles?” she said, and finally got her eyes open.

Though the room was dim now that all the candles were extinguished, lit only by the glowing

braziers and by one small lantern, she could plainly see that her brother indeed squatted next to her,

wearing a grin too large for one boy’s mouth. “Hello, Persy. What did you think of my magic?” he

said.

She shook her head and immediately regretted it. “What happened?”

“I told you
I’d
be the one that figured everything out. Lochinvar and I were standing outside the

door, trying to figure out how to get in and rescue you, when it flew open on its own, and I looked in

and saw that man about to hurt you, and I just felt like I wanted to
whack
him one, good and hard.

Then I saw that little stool there, and …” He shrugged eloquently. “And it just flew up and hit him

over the head. It felt
great,
” he added.

Pen gave him a quelling look. “You broke through the wizard’s ward and got the door open, Persy.

I looked up and saw our dear delinquent brother standing there with his mouth open, and then

everything happened at once. I’m sorry, Persy. I tried to help you. I tried to send you what magic I

could while you fought him, but I c-couldn’t even touch it. It was like it was frozen inside me—”

“And then I did magic to save you,” Charles chimed in, speaking in capital letters and underscores.

“I saved you and Pen and Ally—”

“Ally!” Persy cried, suddenly remembering. Ally in the circle, and Pen … and Michael Carrighar

… but what was Charles doing here? Had he really done magic? She scrambled out of Pen’s arms

and back toward the circle. What she saw stopped her.

Lochinvar knelt by Ally, supporting her as she slowly sat up. She looked dazed but clear-eyed as

she smiled at Persy. “You did it,” she whispered, her face shining with pride. Lochinvar looked up at

her too, but the lantern on the floor behind him threw his face into shadow.

“I …” Persy began to wish that she were still in a faint.

“Aren’t you glad I told Lochinvar about your dream?” Charles hadn’t stopped talking. “He was

worried about you, so he took me back to his house and we borrowed some livery from the coachman

and he brought me with him as his page, in case something bad happened—”

Pen snorted. “As if you’d be in the least useful.”

Charles smoothed his too-large postillion’s coat. “Well, I was, wasn’t I? And I did magic, you and

Lochinvar saw me—”

“Shhh!” Both Persy and Pen lunged for him.

“What’s wrong?” Charles asked, looking astonished. “Oh, don’t worry. I told Lochinvar all about

magic and you two and Ally and everything when we went riding on Lord Chesterfield. That’s why he

brought me along tonight.”

“Charles,” Persy moaned. “What have you done?”

“Excuse me,” said a voice. It was light and silvery and girlish, and Persy recognized it at once. “I

was looking for—oh, dear me. Is everything all right? Aunt, come see. Was this what you wanted me

to see? Who are these people?”

Next to her, Persy felt Pen stiffen as she looked behind her. Then she scrambled to her feet and

curtsied deeply.

“Yes, in here, child—oh!”

Persy turned just in time to see Princess Sophia’s bespectacled face peep around the edge of the

door. She looked at all of them, ending with Michael Carrighar’s motionless form on the floor, and

her jaw dropped.

“What have you done?” she cried. “Oh, you’ve ruined everything! Sir John—I must find Sir John

and tell him.” She gave them all one last tragic look and withdrew. Hurrying footsteps could be heard

retreating down the hall.

Just inside the door stood Princess Victoria in her dress of white satin with lace. She held up a

small lamp and gazed about her with a frown.

“Victoria,” called another voice. A thin, middle-aged woman with sharp features and kindly eyes

now hurried into the room. “It wass most strange,” she said in German-accented English. “Princess

Sophia behaved very oddly. Why, she slammed right in my face that last door. If I had not stopped to

listen, I might not haf found—Heavens, what is all this?” She surveyed them with raised eyebrows.

“Is not that Sir John’s secretary on the floor?”

Princess Victoria took a wary step toward him, holding her lamp before her. “I think it is, Lehzen.

How very odd. Is he ill?”

“Your Highness. If I might explain?” With Lochinvar’s help, Ally had risen. Now she tottered over

to Michael and knelt by him, brushing his hair off his forehead and laying her hand on it. “He is not

ill, ma’am, not in the usual sense. A very great evil has been averted tonight, one that was aimed at

you. Though this man would have done you harm, he was only a tool in his master’s hand.”

“
Mein gott!
That Sir John!” The woman Princess Victoria had called Lehzen—Persy guessed that

it was her governess, the Baroness Lehzen—put her arm around the princess’s shoulders. “Tell uss,”

she commanded. “What did Sir John do?”

Persy leaned her head against Pen and sighed, not sure if she should dare attempt to stand as well,

as was proper in the presence of the princess. It was nice to sit back and let Ally explain things, with

a word from Pen now and again to clarify matters. Ally’s explanations—Sir John’s plans, his

blackmailing of Michael Carrighar, her kidnapping, and Persy and Pen’s roles—washed over her like

the tide. She had made enough decisions and done enough talking for one evening—for a whole year

of evenings, it felt like. She could quite cheerfully lay her head down and sleep through till tomorrow,

right here on the floor, lulled by Ally’s voice—Ally’s
dear
voice—explaining what had gone on.

“A magical duel? Really? This girl here?” said Princess Victoria, looking at her.

Oh, bother. Now she would have to stand. Were it anyone but Princess Victoria …

But before Persy could clamber inelegantly up on her own, a pair of hands closed on her waist and

lifted her easily. She turned in surprise and met Lochinvar’s eyes, very close to her own.

They were very dark now, a sort of teal color that matched his beautiful waistcoat, and his hair

shone gold even in this dim light, like the—like—drat it, why wouldn’t he say something instead of

looking at her like that?

He was reaching into a pocket and pulling something from it. Without a word, he handed the

something to her. Persy turned the soft little bundle over and wished she could sit down on the floor

again.

It was her glove—one of the gloves she had stained with coffee ice at Lady de Courcy’s ball. She

could see her initials embroidered on the hem. Lord Carharrick had asked for one and Pen had taken

the other to examine the stain. Persy had forgotten that she hadn’t given it back. So how had Lochinvar

gotten hold of it?

The ring finger of the glove was wrapped in strands of red thread—seven strands, she counted.

Under the thread, bound to the finger, was a lock of bright gold hair.

Behind her, Pen uttered a small surprised sound. “So that’s why you wanted it. But that means you

—”

“I don’t understand,” Persy mumbled through the ringing in her ears.