Read Online Wilful Impropriety by Ekaterina Sedia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ekaterina Sedia
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with the supplies that my dear Blennie found for me in Vienna, I am more than prepared to take on this last spell. And I think we can agree, can we not, that I am the only person in this room with both magical power
and
the spells and supplies that are needed for it?”
Agatha looked from her aunt to Miss Blenheim. Her chest tightened.
She had wanted so badly to believe herself free.
“What are you planning?” she asked, through dry lips.
“That,” said Clarisse, “is entirely up to you. If you are a good girl and follow your part in the plan, like every Tremain girl has before you for the past hundred years, I won’t need to do a thing—and you may have your payment in return as soon as your own daughter is old enough to be sacrificed.
“If not, though . . .” She shrugged gently. “I have both the supplies and the spellbooks to make you mouth any words I wish until you are safely wed and drained. I could not care less which choice you make.”
Agatha stared at her aunt’s face, so similar in shape to her own father’s. “And you would really do that to me, after everything that was done to you?”
Her aunt’s blue eyes were as cold and hard as sapphires. “My darling niece,” she said. “I would do anything, and sacrifice anyone, only to be warm again. In twenty years, I daresay you will feel exactly the same.”
Bright, hard flames leaped in the fireplace, and Agatha tasted the bitterness of defeat. If only she had managed to salvage a single grimoire, a single sanctioned brazier . . .
Wait
. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, with the flames shut out, she was in the darkness again. And in that darkness, she was not alone.
She heard Isobel’s laugh echoing in her ears.
Who told you that?
Agatha had always believed she could do magic only by mouthing an expert’s words. But Clarisse said magic rippled in her veins . . . and unlike her aunt, great-aunt, or grandmother, she had been allowed to devote two full years, as an unmarried girl, to the uninterrupted study of her father’s grimoires. She understood the very essence of the spells she had performed, better than any Tremain girl before her.
Sparks ran up and down Agatha’s skin, and this time, she knew that Isobel had been right. The sparks were magic—
her
magic, sparking through her. Her own personal magic, which she had never believed in until tonight.
Her magic, which she would never allow anyone to take away from her again.
“This is an Age of Progress,” she said. “Things are changing for all of us, now. We don’t have to follow the old ways anymore.”
She opened her eyes and looked from her aunt to Miss Blenheim. “Do you know what the last spell was that I worked on, back at Tremain House?”
Clarisse frowned. “I can’t imagine that it would be relevant, dear.”
Miss Blenheim sneered. “Do you think we care about any of your little games, miss?”
“No,” Agatha said. “But I’ll tell you anyway . . .”
She smiled as she finished: “Transformation.”
She lifted her arms and magic swept out from them, changing the world around her.
• • •
The Tennants’ ball was packed with ladies in sparkling diamond tiaras, ropes of pearls, and gowns that swirled across the crowded floor. Footmen bellowed out the names of each new arrival. Officers smiled down at admiring girls, and black-coated gentlemen swept their dance partners around the room.
Agatha ignored them all. Whispers rustled around her as she forced her way, unchaperoned, through the crowd, but she barely even noticed.
Her hair was pinned into a plain bun with no ringlets or waves. It was all that she could manage without the help of a maid. Her corset was undoubtedly laced too loosely for an absolutely perfect waist, and her new blue gown didn’t fit as well as it had in the modiste’s fitting room.
In the dark, though, none of that would matter. If only she was still in time . . .
She stepped into the ladies’ retiring room
and
the spells and supplies that are needed for it?”
Agatha looked from her aunt to Miss Blenheim. Her chest tightened.
She had wanted so badly to believe herself free.
“What are you planning?” she asked, through dry lips.
“That,” said Clarisse, “is entirely up to you. If you are a good girl and follow your part in the plan, like every Tremain girl has before you for the past hundred years, I won’t need to do a thing—and you may have your payment in return as soon as your own daughter is old enough to be sacrificed.
“If not, though . . .” She shrugged gently. “I have both the supplies and the spellbooks to make you mouth any words I wish until you are safely wed and drained. I could not care less which choice you make.”
Agatha stared at her aunt’s face, so similar in shape to her own father’s. “And you would really do that to me, after everything that was done to you?”
Her aunt’s blue eyes were as cold and hard as sapphires. “My darling niece,” she said. “I would do anything, and sacrifice anyone, only to be warm again. In twenty years, I daresay you will feel exactly the same.”
Bright, hard flames leaped in the fireplace, and Agatha tasted the bitterness of defeat. If only she had managed to salvage a single grimoire, a single sanctioned brazier . . .
Wait
. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, with the flames shut out, she was in the darkness again. And in that darkness, she was not alone.
She heard Isobel’s laugh echoing in her ears.
Who told you that?
Agatha had always believed she could do magic only by mouthing an expert’s words. But Clarisse said magic rippled in her veins . . . and unlike her aunt, great-aunt, or grandmother, she had been allowed to devote two full years, as an unmarried girl, to the uninterrupted study of her father’s grimoires. She understood the very essence of the spells she had performed, better than any Tremain girl before her.
Sparks ran up and down Agatha’s skin, and this time, she knew that Isobel had been right. The sparks were magic—
her
magic, sparking through her. Her own personal magic, which she had never believed in until tonight.
Her magic, which she would never allow anyone to take away from her again.
“This is an Age of Progress,” she said. “Things are changing for all of us, now. We don’t have to follow the old ways anymore.”
She opened her eyes and looked from her aunt to Miss Blenheim. “Do you know what the last spell was that I worked on, back at Tremain House?”
Clarisse frowned. “I can’t imagine that it would be relevant, dear.”
Miss Blenheim sneered. “Do you think we care about any of your little games, miss?”
“No,” Agatha said. “But I’ll tell you anyway . . .”
She smiled as she finished: “Transformation.”
She lifted her arms and magic swept out from them, changing the world around her.
• • •
The Tennants’ ball was packed with ladies in sparkling diamond tiaras, ropes of pearls, and gowns that swirled across the crowded floor. Footmen bellowed out the names of each new arrival. Officers smiled down at admiring girls, and black-coated gentlemen swept their dance partners around the room.
Agatha ignored them all. Whispers rustled around her as she forced her way, unchaperoned, through the crowd, but she barely even noticed.
Her hair was pinned into a plain bun with no ringlets or waves. It was all that she could manage without the help of a maid. Her corset was undoubtedly laced too loosely for an absolutely perfect waist, and her new blue gown didn’t fit as well as it had in the modiste’s fitting room.
In the dark, though, none of that would matter. If only she was still in time . . .
She stepped into the ladies’ retiring room
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