Blood Rose Rebellion (Blood Rose Rebellion #1)
Rosalyn Eves
To my sister, Jenilyn—
my first reader and my first fan
But often, in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life; A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course; A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us—to know Whence our lives come and where they go.
—MATTHEW ARNOLD, “THE BURIED LIFE”
London, April 1847
I did not set out to ruin my sister’s debut.
Indeed, there were any number of things I deliberately did not do that day.
I did not pray for rain as I knelt in the small chapel of our London town house that morning, the cold of the floor seeping into my bones. Instead, I listened to Mama’s petition for successful spells and sunshine. Peeking through my lashes at Catherine’s smug face, I yearned to ask for disquiet, disorder, and torrential downpours—calamitous words that might have eased, a little, the restless crawling in my heart. But I swallowed the words unsaid. Even should God heed such a treacherous prayer, my father would not. Though Papa’s weather magic would cost him a headache, my sister would dance under clear skies.
I did not argue with Catherine when she banned me from the ballroom where she and Papa laid the final grounding for her illusions while Mama supervised the servants. “You’ll break my concentration and spoil my spells,” she said, though it had been years since I had spoiled anyone’s spell, accidentally or otherwise.
But then I did not go to the schoolroom, where I was expected to improve my sketching while my brother, James, studied his Latin. Instead, I lingered (Mama would say loitered) in the lower hall, watching the servants scurry back and forth with their brooms and buckets and cleaning cloths, in feverish preparation for the ball. I did not rest, as Catherine did.
Because of those omissions, I was in the hallway when Lord Frederick Markson Worthing came calling. I heard Freddy’s signature knock—two short, three long—and my heart leapt.
Barton reached the door first and sent me a cross look down his long nose. He accepted a small white visiting card from Freddy, and I slipped into the open doorway.
“Lord Markson Worthing!” I smiled up at him, remembering just in time to use his formal name. “Won’t you come in?”
I didn’t have to look at Barton to know his brows were lowering. Our butler disapproved of forwardness in general and of me in particular.
Freddy returned my smile, his gloved hands tightening around the bouquet of roses he carried. “Thank you, Miss Anna. Only for a moment. I don’t want to leave my horses standing too long in this wind.” In truth, Freddy had no need for horses. As a Luminate of the order Lucifera, he could compel the carriage with spells. But he preferred the aesthetic of his matched bays, which drew the eye and required less effort to maintain than magic.
Barton led us upstairs to the Green Drawing Room, so named for the ivy pattern sprawling across the wall and the deep emerald drapes. “I will notify your mother, Miss Anna.”
Freddy and I sat on matching high-backed chairs near the window. Freddy leaned toward me, nearly crushing the roses he held. He smelled of tobacco and cinnamon.
“I hoped I might see you.”
My face grew warm as I met Freddy’s intent gaze. I had first encountered Freddy only a few days after we arrived in town for Catherine’s Season, to launch her into Luminate society. As the son of an old school friend of Papa’s, he had come to pay his respects. But though he had talked to Catherine, he had looked at me. Two days later, our paths crossed by accident in Hyde Park, and after that, by design. My maid, Ginny, might suspect the frequency with which Freddy appeared during our errands about London, but she was the only one who knew of our involvement.
There was no one in the world I liked so well as Freddy. I admired the way his honey-colored hair curled a little above the collar of his coat. I adored his eyes, which were not really grey but a band of blue around a center of brown. And I loved him for the way the corners of his lips trembled when he was impassioned: when he spoke about his plans for a seat in the Luminate-led Parliament, or his dreams of a salon in London where Luminate could mingle freely with artists, poets, politicians, and scientists, where wit would trump magic, and ideals would matter more than money.
There was little room in the real world for people like me, but there might be room in Freddy’s. We would be a good match, equals in passion and intelligence. I would bring the money his family lacked; he would provide the magic I lacked.
“I have something I want to say to you. Will you be at the ball tonight?”
“I am not yet out,” I reminded him. And Mama does not trust me around magic.
“Then meet me. In the herb garden, at midnight.”
The heat in my cheeks deepened. I rearranged my skirts, pretending a composure I did not feel. “Very well.”
“Good girl.” Freddy stood then and adjusted his top hat. “I must go.” He thrust the flowers at me, roses of a red so deep their centers were almost black. The petals spilled over my fingers like blood.
I watched him walk away, admiring the straight line of his back. In the doorway, Freddy spun around to face me. “The flowers are for Catherine. See that she gets them, will you?”
“Anna?” Grandmama stood in the doorway, her fingers tight around her cane. “Has Lord Markson Worthing gone already?”
I looked up from the flowers. “He couldn’t stay. His horses were waiting.”
“And you were alone with him this entire time?” Her mouth was pursed, her Hungarian accent more pronounced. First Barton, now Grandmama. At least Grandmama’s disapproval stemmed from affection.
My shoulders lifted a little. “He left these for Catherine.” I held out the roses and wondered if Grandmama would guess how much hid behind that small truth. Though it was customary to bring flowers to a debutante, I could not fathom what Freddy meant by asking me to meet him at midnight but leaving me with my sister’s roses.
“Do not shrug. It is not ladylike.” Her dark eyes studied my face, guessing at my discontent. “And do not pine so for Luminate society, for the magic and the dancing. You are enough just as you are—and you are not yet seventeen, szívem. Your turn will come.”
“Mama would hide me in the country if she could.”
“Your mama loves you. She is afraid for you, is all.”
I did not believe that. Mama was afraid of me, of my strange lack of magic and my caprices. My fingers found a missed thorn on one of the roses, and I snapped it off.
Grandmama sighed. “Give me those flowers. I will take them to Catherine. You should go upstairs before your mama finds you.”
I relinquished the roses, but their scent followed me down the hall like a promise.