The tiles in the middle slid aside. Magic surged in a translucent wall, forming a tall column. Inside it something sparked. Flames burst, roaring upward at the sky, perfectly contained by magic—a perfect imitation of an ancient bonfire.
The bluebloods applauded. He clapped with them, watching Charlotte and Sophie out of the corner of his eye. The ground was prepared. It was up to Charlotte to set her trap.
*
TIRED, Charlotte descended the staircase from the front entrance where their rented phaeton waited, the driver holding the door open. Sophie walked next to her. They conquered the last few steps, got inside, and sank onto the soft cushions of the seats. The driver shut the door, and, a moment later, they were off.
Charlotte pulled her shoes off and thrust her feet onto the opposite seat. Across from her, Sophie groaned and did the same. They wiggled their toes at each other.
“Ow, ow, ow.” Sophie bent forward and massaged her toes. “Why do the heels have to be so high?”
“First, because they elongate your calves and make your legs look leaner. Second, because you couldn’t possibly do any work in shoes like this, so if you own them, you must live a life of leisure.” Charlotte leaned back. “All in all, it went very well. We owe Lady Olivia a favor.”
“What did you give Angelia?” Sophie asked.
Charlotte grinned. “You saw that?”
“I was looking very carefully.”
“She was already infected with Dock Rot, a very strong, virulent form of herpes. I just coaxed it into an outbreak.”
Sophie’s eyes went wide. “Is that one of the sexual diseases?”
Charlotte nodded. “Oh yes. They call it Dock Rot because it’s often found among port prostitutes. It’s curable, but the regimen is long and expensive, and it’s quite easily preventable through the use of the male sleeve and vaccination.”
“So why wasn’t she vaccinated?”
“Probably because it didn’t occur to her that she might catch it. The question is how did a blueblood flower such as Angelia end up with a dock-prostitute rash?”
Sophie grinned. “That’s an interesting question.”
“Isn’t it?” Charlotte rubbed her hands together. “I think we’re going to contact Lady Olivia and make sure Angelia gets an invitation to a tea. Mmmmm, about two days should do.”
“You’re scary,” Sophie told her.
You have no idea, sweetheart. You have no idea. “Yes, but I’m on your side.” Charlotte reached over and squeezed Sophie’s hand. “You did so well today. It will get easier, I promise.”
“It was . . . exciting.”
“I’m so glad.” Charlotte grinned. “Did you notice George?”
Sophie leaned against the back of the seat. “I know! He is so perfect, it’s sickening.” Her eyes grew wide. “That woman next to me, the one with the green rose in her hair? She leaned over to the other lady, and she said, ‘I bet I could teach him a thing or two.’ And the other woman said, ‘He’s just a boy,’ and the green rose woman said, ‘That’s the best time in a man’s life: they’re easy to steer, and they can go and go and go.’ Can you believe that? She must be thirty! It’s disgusting.”
Sophie stuck her tongue out and made a retching noise.
Charlotte smiled. “I don’t think George is in any danger. He does the distant, I’m-above-it-all impression quite well, and the duchess would fry anyone who looked at him the wrong way.”
Sophie’s dark eyes turned serious. “Is that how it’s supposed to be?”
“Is it how what’s supposed to be?”
“Are we supposed to be obsessed with sex?”
She’d asked it quietly, and Charlotte sensed the answer was very important. “It depends on the woman. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. Some women mature faster, some slower; some actively seek out sexual pleasure, and some don’t value it as much. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t want to do it.”
Charlotte tilted her head, trying to get a better look at Sophie’s face. “Which part?”
“I don’t want to have sex,” Sophie said. “Maybe later. But not now. I have friends. They kiss each other. The boys are . . . you know. Hands.”
“Mhm.” Charlotte nodded.
“I don’t like to be touched. One of them tried, and I told him I didn’t like it. He acted as if there was something wrong with me.”
Charlotte paused. There was so much she wanted to explain, but the little bond of trust they had between them was so fragile. She had to find the right words.
“There is nothing wrong with you. Your body belongs to you alone. Touching it is a privilege, and it’s up to you to grant it. Some boys—and men—don’t handle rejection well, and they will try to shame you or pressure you into letting them do what they want because they feel entitled. They’re not worth your time. Also, there is nothing wrong with not enjoying sexual touching or kissing. For some girls, their sexual awakening comes early, for some, later. I was almost seventeen before I became aware of men sexually, and even then, it was because of a particular boy I liked rather than men in general.”
Sophie looked out the window.
Charlotte couldn’t tell if she had said the right thing or the wrong thing. This is what parenting must be like. The duchess was right. Never knowing if you had done harm or good was awful.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “It’s just that I don’t have anybody else to ask. My sister is gone a lot with William. My aunts always want to know who is it and what’s his name. And I can’t ask Richard.”
“Oh gods, no, don’t ask Richard.”
“He would be scandalized.” Sophie pressed her lips together, as if trying to hold something back.
“If he gets an idea that someone tried to touch you against your will, he’d kill them.” Charlotte cleared her throat and tried to produce a reasonable imitation of Richard’s raspy voice. “I’m going to decapitate that ruffian. Please don’t hold dinner. No need to trouble yourself on my account.”
Sophie squeezed her lips tighter, but the laughter burst out anyway. “He would say that! ‘I shall bring you his head. You may use his skull as a vase. No use in wasting a perfectly good cranium.’”