“You said that if only Rook had been born into my position, we would be exactly alike,” he snapped. “Well, you’re wrong. We are fundamentally different.”
“If you’re so certain,” I said, my voice rocky and low, “that the poor are born inferior, then all the shame in the world on you for not protecting them. If people are born generation after generation into poverty and deprivation, it is your duty to look after them, not sacrifice their lives to save your own!”
I threw down my napkin and fled from the table. I raced up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I struggled to tear myself out of my dress. My fingers burned so badly that I had to stop to perform the calming exercises that Agrippa had taught me. I breathed in and out to the count of four, imagining a cool stream of water running down my hands. Slowly, the fiery pain left, but I still trembled with rage.
There was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I asked.
“Lilly, miss.” She entered and surveyed my crumpled state with a sad eye. “They said you’d gone to bed. Let me help you.” She moved to unlace me, when there was another knock.
“May I speak with you?” a familiar voice asked. Lilly opened the door. Agrippa stood upon the threshold. He cast a quick, miserable glance around his daughter’s old room. How often, if ever, did he come inside? “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m sorry.” Agrippa didn’t deserve people screaming at his table. I kept my eyes on the floor. “I can’t believe I said those things.”
“Don’t apologize. When you’re commended, you’ll also be the founder of the Howel line. Part of your responsibility as a seal bearer will be speaking up in Order assemblies. Besides, I was pleased.” Surprised, I looked up. He made as if to enter but stopped. “What you witnessed tonight was sorcery’s ugliest face. Many believe that common men and women are inferior. I hope,” he said, lowering his voice, “that you can do more for this country than help destroy the Ancients. There are minds that need changing.”
“I can’t imagine that’s something Lord Blackwood will like.”
“Nonetheless, it’s what I believe. Don’t fret, and don’t think too harshly of George. He dwells on his responsibilities to a punishing degree. I’m sure he’ll brood on what you said for the next few days.” Agrippa glanced about the room once more. My stomach lurched at his obvious sadness.
“Do you wish me to change rooms? I can’t stand how much pain my being here seems to cause you.”
“No, this is as it should be.” Agrippa closed his eyes. “I’ve gotten to avoiding this wing of the house. This room needed a new occupant, and I’m happy to find a lovely young lady living here again. Now get to sleep.” With that, he was gone.
Lilly took my dress off, put it away, and unlaced my corset. I pulled the pins from my hair, cursing Blackwood under my breath. I got into my nightdress and stared at my reflection in the mirror, feeling bone-weary.
“I don’t know how I can face them again.”
“I think the gentlemen are more with you than not,” Lilly said. “?’Least that’s what Jimmy told me, the first footman. Says Mr. Magnus in particular is on your side. Apparently he had some strong words for His Lordship after you left.”
“That’s good to know.” The thought of Magnus berating Blackwood was pleasing. I was sure he’d done an excellent job.
“You should rest now, miss. Gram used to say it looks better in the morning.”
“Thank you, Lilly.”
She stopped at the door. “Miss, Jimmy told us downstairs what you said to Lord Blackwood.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I come from Potter’s Borough, south of the ward. Thank you.”
She left before I could respond.
—
I WOKE FROM A DREAM OF Gwendolyn lying beside me, silent and rotting in death. I didn’t think I could go back to sleep after that image. Outside, it was pitch black. I lit a candle and stepped, shivering, onto the thin rug beside my bed. I hastily threw on my wrap and headed downstairs. Candle in hand, I retraced my steps to the library. The fastest way to calm down after a nightmare was by reading history.
When I crept into the room, the fire was, surprisingly, still lit. My hands were cold, so I moved before the hearth. I craned my neck and looked at Agrippa’s portrait. He’d been younger when it was painted, his hair black. What must it have been like to have Agrippa for a father? For a moment, I selfishly wished my own father hadn’t been William Howel, a faceless phantom I’d never met.
There was the picture of that great estate again, the gleaming white one hidden in a dark valley. I turned to it, entranced by its serene and somehow terrifying beauty.
Someone coughed, startling me. Blackwood was seated with a book open on his lap. He appeared as bewildered as I.
“What on earth are you doing here?” He stood hastily. He had not been to bed, never taken his jacket off.
“I wanted something to read.” I didn’t know where to look. Just seeing him again made my stomach cramp.
“Ah. Anything in particular?” Even his voice irritated me. His eyes brushed the length of my body, and then he looked away.
“I hadn’t given it much thought.” I pulled my wrap even closer around me.
“Might I make a recommendation? This is a basic introduction to the Ancients. It’s been instrumental in drawing up plans to attack them.” He offered me the book in his hand, The Seven Ancients: Theories and Observations by Mr. Christopher Drummidge. The book was slim but handsomely bound. I opened to a sketch of R’hlem the Skinless Man. His exposed muscles almost glistened on the page; whoever had painted this had done an excellent job.
The first chapter was titled “Origins.” “Do they know where the Ancients came from? I’ve only read one book on the war. It said the Ancients were demons from hell, but I don’t know that I believe it.”
“Drummidge makes a case that perhaps they are monsters summoned from the planet’s core.” He sounded amused. “I like his work, but I don’t agree with all of his ideas.”
“Thank you.” I pressed the book to my chest and stood there, silent, while a log crackled in the fireplace. The clock struck three.
I was about to make a hushed exit when he said, “What did you mean about the headmaster?”
“Pardon?”
“That he was cruel and violent. What did he do?” God, how could one go about describing Colegrind in any decent way? I flushed, and that was all the answer Blackwood required. “I see.” His eyes widened. He looked younger, almost sad. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I wish…” He turned away so I could not see his face. He straightened his shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you, but it couldn’t be helped. That’s the one thing you refused to understand at dinner.” That condescending tone had returned. He didn’t look at me, though.
“It’s nice to know it’s all down to my lack of understanding.”
“You have a right to be upset, but you don’t comprehend my situation.” He turned, took my candle, and led me to the other side of the room. Portraits gazed down on us from above. Blackwood gathered the candle flame in his hand, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it to float up, up to a portrait that hung several feet above our heads. The fire held there, and the light revealed the image of a man, young and handsome and just like Blackwood. No, not just like. There were subtle differences in the face; the eyes crinkled at the corners in some secret merriment, and the full mouth rested in a comfortable smile.
“That’s my father, Charles Blackwood, eighth earl of Sorrow-Fell.” His voice was soft, somehow bitter. “He was one of the most tireless workers in the war against the Ancients. That’s why his picture hangs in this room.”
“Of course.” Why was he telling me this?
“My father was a great sorcerer,” Blackwood said, running a hand through his hair. “He believed that we, the Blackwood family, had a responsibility to rid England of these monsters.”