“I’m fine,” Mrs. Vandergriff stated over the rabble of voices.
“I’m fine, truly. It’s nothing that a good tergeo charm won’t fix. I shall summon Gennywik as soon as the play is completed. No, I won’t hear a word of it, Topham. You stay and enjoy the remainder of the performance. It is, I daresay, just coming to the good bit.”
Much to the consternation of her husband and their guests, Mrs.
Vandergriff composed herself, brushed futilely at the mess on her shoulders and skirts, and then lowered back to her seat on the sofa, crossing her gloved right hand over her bare left.
There was a long, pregnant pause as the rest of the room stood by awkwardly, unsure how to proceed.
“The Lady has spoken,” Mr. Vandergriff nodded briskly, changing his expression to a determined smile. “And so it shall be.
Carry on then, loves! Lights, please.” He clapped his hands again, and the chandelier snuffed itself, plunging the room back into dimness.
On the stage, Edmund still stood atop his ottoman boat, his face blank in the spotlight.
“Shall I…” he asked in a stage whisper, looking around at Millie and James, “shall I begin again?”
“I suggest we skip directly to the fight scene with Donovan,”
Millie whispered with a hard glint in her eye, cocking a glance at James.
“And do let’s make it a good one.”
James lay in bed that night listening to the low crackle of the fire in the hearth, staring up at the dim shadows of the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. His mind was full of chasing, whirling thoughts: the inexplicable sensation of Petra’s kiss during the climactic moment at the theatre; the Black estate and its mysterious, portentous title; the sacking of Heddlebun the elf in favor of paid, human servants.
The latter debacle had led to muttered discussion later that night, with the men gathered secretively in the den for cognac and cigars, discussing a word that James had never heard before.
“It’ll come up for vote, this Wexit business. It’s inevitable,” the Ministry official with pork-chop sideburns said matter-of-factly. “It’s the direction of the future. Britain must lead the charge.”
Mr. Vandergriff remained unconvinced. “I don’t know if it should come to that. It’s a monumental step, the entirety of wizarding Britain exiting the Vow of Secrecy. There is no reversing from that decision, should it come to pass.”
“And yet, I wonder if there is any hope in fighting it?” Benton suggested, his voice uncharacteristically somber. “You heard what happened at Hogwarts on First Night. A Muggle family actually drove straight into the courtyard, purely by accident. The lot of them wandered into the Great Hall, for heaven’s sake. Ask James here, he’ll tell you all about it.”
James didn’t wish to recount the event, and didn’t need to. The story had made its way into the Daily Prophet, of course, and become national news.
“Mark my words,” the Ministry official insisted, raising a single, pudgy finger. “Wexit will come to vote, and it will pass. We cannot wait for the Vow to crumble down around our shoulders. This Elven uprising business is just the start. We must act now to minimize and control the revelation while we still can.”
James thought on the man’s words in the darkness of his room, unsure what to make of them, unsure if he agreed or not, knowing that Benton was probably right in saying that it didn’t really matter; the momentum was begun. The Vow was indeed crumbling.
And what, exactly, was the “Elven uprising”?
A low laugh echoed from beneath the bedroom door, as if from a long way off. James glanced toward the door, saw the narrow band of candlelight beneath it. It was unbroken. No one was moving in the hall outside.
He dismissed the sound, returning reluctantly to his sleepless reverie, but a moment later the sound came again, and this time it was accompanied by a shrill whisper.
After a moment’s consideration, James slipped to the floor in his pajamas and padded barefoot to the door. He gripped the brass doorknob and opened the door just enough to peek out.
The hallway was long, decked with gilt-framed portraits, flickering wall-sconces, and low sofas and side tables. At the end nearest the staircase, a figure stood half-hidden within an open bedroom door.
It was Millie’s room, James recognized, but the figure standing there was not Millie.
Frowning in consternation, he recognized the shape as Blake.
The young man was murmuring in a low voice, no longer dressed in his formal coat and tails. Now, he wore a leather jacket and jeans. Millie’s voice was thin and secretive, tittering with laughter. James could make out no words. After only a moment, Blake stepped back to make room for Millie. She exited her bedroom dressed in a heavy jumper and winter hat. Closing her bedroom door with exaggerated care, she bounced lightly on her toes, and then pushed Blake playfully toward the staircase. Together, they crept down and out of sight.
James felt completely stymied. He stared down the now-empty hall feeling a mixture of confusion, jealousy, and surprised spite. What were they up to? Why hadn’t she told him about it, much less invited him along?
Wounded resentment arose in place of his confusion, bringing a flush to his cheeks and pressing his lips into a firm line.
Leaving the bedroom door ajar, he retreated to the enormous wardrobe, yanked out his coat, pocketed his wand, shoved his bare feet into his trainers, and crept quickly out into the hall, closing his own door as quietly as possible.
Blake and Millie were in the main entrance hall when he spied them again from the shadows of the landing. They were still whispering as Blake swung open the front door, heavy but silent on its well-oiled hinges. Cold air carried a raft of snowflakes into the entryway. They alit on Millie’s hair and hat as she followed the young man outside. With a faint clunk, the door closed behind them.
James trotted lightly down the steps, the confused umbrage in his chest heating into a boiling cauldron. A set of tall windows stood on either side of the front doors, each glazed with silvery frost. Leaning so close that his breath fogged the glass, James peered out.
An automobile stood on the curving drive, its exhaust puttering white breath as Blake opened the passenger door for Millie. The car was not new, but it was low and muscular, clearly immaculately cared for, shining a deep midnight blue, with fat racing tyres. Blake closed Millie’s door quietly, then rounded the front of the car swiftly, drawing a hand lovingly across the bonnet before dropping into the driver’s seat. A moment later, as the door swung shut, the car surged forward, crunching on the snow.
James could scarcely believe what he was seeing. She was sneaking out again, and this time without telling even him! Would she and Blake go to the same place that they had all gone the previous night?
Why were they driving Blake’s fancy sports car this time? What was Blake’s intention with the rich blonde witch? Worse, what was her intention with him?