“What? Where are you going?” Surprisingly, the thought of losing him hurt. Hargrove had never been exactly warm, but he knew my secrets. That was something.
“Where you’re sending me with that twelve pounds. Or to be more exact, ten pounds and four shillings. The rest of Europe won’t take in a refugee from England, but America might.”
“You’ll never get out to sea.”
“I know the right person,” Hargrove said.
“Who?” Then I recalled Magnus’s mention of smuggler ships that charged money for a clandestine voyage.
“Better if you’re not privy to the whereabouts and who-is-its. All I need is the money, which I’m about to have in full.”
“You’ll leave me? What of the children?”
“The commendation’s in less than two weeks. You won’t need me anymore. I didn’t say I wouldn’t take the children, just that I’d only need one ticket.” Of course, he’d store them inside the magical trunk. “I’m not a total bastard, you know.”
“I thought you wanted to see magicians come back into power.”
His face lost all traces of joviality. “I’ve sacrificed enough for this bloody cause. Let the young fight, if they’ve the will.”
“Did you train me to feel like you’d done your share?” I asked quietly.
“Perhaps. I believed there was a debt I needed to acknowledge.”
“To whom?” I scooted back from the roof’s edge and stood, dusting my trousers.
“Not to anyone in particular,” he said. “Now I consider it paid, because of you.” He smiled. “You’re my last laugh. The sorcerers will honor an upstart magician’s daughter as the answer to their precious prophecy.” He spit once again.
—
“CINDERELLA’S WICKED STEPSISTERS HAD TO WALK behind the wedding party, sulking. The birds, who had seen all the cruelty in their hearts, flew out of the sky and plucked the sisters’ eyes from their heads.” I hissed at the children, bundled up for bed, and they gasped. “But Cinderella, who had been good and true, ruled with her prince for many years.” They sighed at this revelation. Charley’s little sister clung to my skirt and wouldn’t let go. Gently, I took her into my arms and went to sit at the table with Hargrove. He looked pleased and drunk.
“Taste of the spoils?” he said, offering me the bottle. I declined. “Where was I, before you had to change your clothes and tend to these ragamuffins?”
The little girl had already fallen asleep on my lap. I hugged her close. “You were telling me of the magical schism.” Magician history was one topic I’d been interested to learn, and he to share.
“Ah, yes. You’ll recall Henry the Eighth, great hairy king, who liked having things his own way. His first wife, Catherine, couldn’t give him a son. So he went to his Order of royal sorcerers and said, ‘Find a way to let the queen conceive.’ No one knew how, of course, and told him he was being a crazy git. One of them, Ralph Strangewayes, dreaming of fortune and fame, decided to see what he could do.
“For two months, Strangewayes locked himself in his room. He ordered books of all sorts, alchemical, medical, biblical. One day, he summoned the king to his chambers and presented a woman. Some say he fashioned her hair from ribbons, her skin from candlelight, her body from the west wind, and her tongue from three notes of birdsong, but she was the most beautiful and the strangest woman anyone had ever seen. The king fell in love upon the instant. Strangewayes said, ‘Here is the woman who will birth your new sovereign.’?”
“Anne Boleyn?” I said, certain he was playing me for a fool.
“Indeed. So the king divorced Catherine and married this magical creation. For a while, Strangewayes and magicians eclipsed sorcerers in every way. Of course, as history tells us, Boleyn got her head lopped off, and Strangewayes fell out of favor. Ended up in the tower waiting to see if anyone would have him executed. But when Queen Elizabeth came to power, that child of magic and royalty, she commended Strangewayes. Magicians became, for her reign at least, the preferred magical practitioners. Elizabeth was a mule. Did you know that? Born not of human woman, but seeded by human man. Many believe the reason she was the virgin queen was because she had no means to procreate.” He giggled until his dark skin flushed darker still. “You know? Down there? Smooth as the wickless end of a candle.”
I shushed him, nodding at the child asleep on my knee. “I think these are all lies.”
He made a rude noise and drank some more. “You’re a good apprentice.”
“Thank you.”
“Granted, you’re as much fun as pig slop dressed up for a Friday night, but you can’t have everything.” He wheezed with laughter. “Y-you’re so sour that if Molochoron swallowed you, the whole mass of him would pucker!” He drummed his feet upon the ground and laughed like he’d die.
“I know,” I said. “Tell me more of magician history.”
“No, you tell me your history, my little kipper. Why are you such a grim-faced melon?”
“Because I know what I am.” I stared at my hands.
“Which is?”
“As you’ve said yourself. Unlovable.” To my annoyance, Hargrove stuck out his tongue at me.
“You young girls are all the same. ‘Oh, my life is so impossible. No boy will ever desire me, and I’ll live alone in a hovel with sixteen cats. Such is my woe.’?” He said it all in a piercing, effeminate voice.
“I don’t pity myself. I simply know that I’m not easily loved.”
He stopped his mimicry. “What’s so awful about you?”
I’d never told this story to anyone before, not even Rook. Unsure as to why I should relate this to Hargrove of all people, I said, “When I was five years old, my aunt Agnes brought me to my Yorkshire school.” I could recall her vividly after all this time, a tall, proud woman in black clothes who wouldn’t look at me as I clung to her skirt. “I cried as she walked back toward her carriage. I yelled, ‘Please, Auntie, don’t leave me here. I want to go with you. I love you.’ That was when she turned to me and said—” I stopped when a hitch formed in my throat.
“What did she say?” Hargrove lost his smirk.
“?‘You are a horrid child. If only you could be pleasant, I would love you. But how could anyone care for a peevish, whining, solemn little thing like you?’?” The words were exact. I’d run them through my mind at least once every day since they were uttered. “And there you have it,” I said, my voice artificially bright, forcing a smile. “Nothing to be done.” I turned my face away as a tear crept down my cheek.
“Poor child,” he said, his voice soft. He reached across the table, and I gave him my hand. “Poor, poor child.” In that moment, he sounded as tender as Agrippa. “You have a good heart. It wasn’t your fault.” Then he said, so quiet I nearly missed it, “It wasn’t hers, either.”
“What?”
Hargrove released me. Placing his head in his hand, he said, “Please use the porter’s circle. I’m tired.”
“Did I offend you?”
“It’s not enough that I have several little mouths to feed and you to teach. Now I have to be bogged down by these depressing stories.”
Stung, I laid the little girl to sleep and went to the carved porter’s circle. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night. Goodbye.” I lifted my skirt to step inside.
“Henrietta.” He rarely used my name. “You’ve suffered a great deal. Remember that you’re not the only one.” He laid his head on the table, as though he was exhausted.
“It was selfish of me to burden you,” I muttered, and vanished toward home.
—
THE NEXT NIGHT, I SAT BEFORE the parlor fire with Blackwood. He used cards to test my memory on the Ancients. “Zem,” he said. The firelight danced on his features, shadowing his eyes.
“A fire-breathing serpent, as long as a small ship. He’s seen frequently in Hertfordshire and has leveled, at present, two entire villages.” I squeezed my eyes shut in concentration.
“Good. What’s being done in Hertfordshire to defend the citizenry?”