syrup onto Annis’s manikin, and then, baring her teeth with the sheer joy of doing it, onto the manikin representing James, Marquess of Rosefield. She spoke her cantrip with relish, enunciating every word, feeling the power in every line.
The power of witch’s blood and claws
Bends your will unto my cause.
Root and leaf in candle fire
Invest you with impure desire.
She added, to intensify the spell:
For each other you will yearn,
Your body will ache and your blood will burn.
Have each other you will, and must,
Nothing less will slake your lust.
It was a strong, clear cantrip. It stated her purpose and focused her mind, just as Beryl had taught her. Beryl would have hated this cantrip. Harriet would have been shocked by it, but that didn’t matter. Harriet was half a world away.
Had Harriet ever employed the maleficia, she would understand the intoxicating effect it had, the irresistible pull of its magic. She would never do it, of course. She was too cautious, too fearful of what such power could do. She would never know this glorious sense of invincibility.
Giddy with the power of it, Frances held her manikins, one in each hand, and waited for their response.
It came with astounding swiftness. First the simulacrum of Annis began to warm and quiver against her palm. That made perfect sense, as she had already begun the process with it. It was attuned to her.
The manikin representing Rosefield took longer, but when it finally answered her summons, there was no doubting it. It grew so warm she feared the wax might melt, and its ugly, awkward limbs trembled in her hand.
Trembled before her cleverness. Her magic. Her maleficia.
The energy of the spell triggered the deep ache in her body, but she was prepared for it this time and barely noticed. Her heart swelled with pride in her achievement. She had done it again.
“You see, grandmothers,” she whispered. “A modern age of witches, and I am the strongest of them all.”
17
James
James went to bed that night in a foul mood, and woke up in an even worse one.
The American girl had humiliated him at dinner. He knew—Perry had confessed as much—that all the staff were talking about it. He had disliked the girl already, but this embarrassment was intolerable. It was mortifying.
The American girls who came to England husband-hunting had the reputation of being spirited, but Miss Allington was more than spirited, beyond outspoken. Her behavior was nothing short of scandalous.
Lady Eleanor came to his room before breakfast. “Rosefield,” she said cheerfully. “Not dressed yet? Good. I want to talk to you.”
He held the door for her and reluctantly followed her to the hearth, tightening his dressing gown around his waist. She took a seat by the fire and he sat opposite her, his hands on his knees, his head aching with tension.
She said, “Well? What did you think of her?”
James was too tired and too angry to be tactful. “Think of her? I don’t want to think of her at all, Mother! She’s utterly unsuitable.”
“What do you mean? Because she refuses to ride sidesaddle?”
“You’ve heard the story. I expect everyone in Rosefield Hall knows it by now.”
“I’m sure they do.” Lady Eleanor leaned back, pulling up the collar of her dressing gown. “You shouldn’t have been so silly, Rosefield.”
“Silly!”
“Silly. The custom of riding sidesaddle is ridiculous.”
“It is not! What about—I mean, young ladies who are unwed—”
“Oh good God!” Lady Eleanor snapped. “Unwed? You don’t really subscribe to the notion that riding cross-saddle destroys a girl’s virginity?”
“Mother!” James gasped. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you!”
“Why?” She leaned forward, and her eyes glittered with impatience. “Rosefield, when did you grow into such a prude?”
“I am not a—”
“Clearly you are! It’s no wonder the staff are having a laugh at your expense!”
“You’re hardly helping matters.” James threw his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. “Surely you don’t want such a—a hoyden bearing our name.”
“Why is she a hoyden? She spoke the truth. I find it refreshing.”
James didn’t open his eyes. It was easier that way to speak his mind to his mother. “Everyone knows riding cross-saddle is a clear statement that a young lady has no virtue to protect.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” Lady Eleanor snapped. “You know, Rosefield, we expect girls to marry and produce heirs—to breed, if you will, like your precious Andalusians—but we don’t expect them to understand how it’s accomplished. Is that fair?”
“Oh my God,” James groaned. “A man doesn’t want to speak of these things with his mother.”