I, June
Dear Gwen,
I have just finished reading your letter in the confinements of the old barn where I sit surrounded by straw and cobwebs. I've climbed the wooden ladder—not without caution, as I shall never forget the summer when I had to have my bone set by the village Healer after falling off the top step—to the loft, which is, as you are well aware, the only place in the entire barn where a person can find enough light to read by. My retirement to the barn can be explained in one breath: Grandmama. However, for the sake of clarification, I will tell you the entire story.
It all begins where my last letter left off—with Grandmama screaming her lungs sore. To tell it briefly, Grandmama's tantrum was caused by none other than Doran, who had somehow found his way to the Night and Day cake I had baked earlier. When I caught sight of them, initial worries aside, I found the view quite humorous. Grandmama, who was coated in vanilla cake and chocolate icing, was chasing Doran around the kitchen, throwing plates and cups after him in an attempt to scare him away; Seeing her then, you would never have guessed that she had been bedridden with muscle sickness that entire day. All the while, my intelligent little bird hopped from one counter to the next, giving Grandmama the most triumphant of looks—I suppose Doran thought she was merely entertaining him with a game. It came as no surprise that, although Her Excellency didn't come out of the ordeal unharmed, scraping and banging herself on furniture in her enthusiasm to get to Doran, my bird avoided all of Grandmama's attempts to inflict pain.
So that brings me to my current accommodation which, although it had been quite a meeting place for us when we were younger, is not one bit welcoming when one has to sit in it alone. But there is no escaping it. I must wait in the barn for Doran, who has been forced to feed himself since Grandmama forbid me from feeding him from our own provisions, and make sure that he doesn't have another encounter with Her Excellency so soon after the last one. Fortunately, Doran knows to come directly to me when he first arrives home.
Now that I have explained the reason behind the hastiness of my last letter, I will continue with the events of the Festival. You'll remember my saying that I was quite surprised to see Evalina accompany us on the carriage ride to the town hall. Evalina isn't a day older than Cassie, and Bendis knows Grandmama would have a fit if I should ever suggest that Cassie attend such a mature event. This is probably as right a time as any to tell you that Eva didn't, in fact, attend the Festival, as neither did her mother.
I'm sure that you are as surprised in reading this, as I was when I had first learned that Mrs. Boyd wasn't going to honor us with her presence during the festivity. At first, I was so intrigued by the decorations adorning the town hall, and the beautiful toilettes of the Townspeople, that I almost missed Mrs. Boyd's departure. As it is, I turned around just in time to witness Mrs. Boyd taking the reins and, with a brisk command to the mare, leading the carriage in the opposite direction.
"Where is your mother going, Sanders?" I remember asking. But once again, Sanders chose to ignore me.
"Sanders," I pressed, "Are you honestly telling me—or not telling me, I suppose—that I am to be left without a chaperone? Grandmama will have a fit!" I was more curious about the interesting turn of events, than any reaction of Grandmama's, to be quite honest. But I didn't intend on telling Sanders that.
When he refused, once again, to respond, I became angry, "What are you playing at anyway? Why did you, of all people, invite me…?"
"Be quite and stop dwindling," Sanders interrupted.
"Well!" I said, my voice quivering with anger, "I will not move another foot until you explain yourself, Sanders Boyd." We had just reached the large gates surrounding the town hall when I made my threat to remain motionless, placing Sanders in a most uncomfortable arrangement; either he told me what I wanted to hear, or he would be forced to explain to Mr. Sorin and the youths arriving by his communal carriage why we insisted on blocking their way.
"The hell you won't," said Sanders under his breath, as he attempted to budge my stationary body. But, as you know, Gwen, in dire need, I can be as stubborn as a mule. And Sanders is not nearly as strong as he imagines himself to be. No matter how hard he tried, he could not provoke me to move; although my saying Constagito—the spell we would say to keep ourselves still during Hide and Peek—might have explained his inability to stir me more than would, say, my stubbornness.
"Either you start moving, or I'll enter the House of Culture without you," said Sanders, ominously. What a ridiculous threat, Gwen! Nobody—not even a hooligan like Sanders—would descend the steps within the town hall alone—without even a friend or simple acquaintance—on a Festival day! I immediately knew that he was bluffing.
"Can I have your word on that?" I asked wickedly.
Sanders groaned. He must have been at his wits end because, upon seeing the approach of a couple of town boys, the jolthead pulled me roughly by my hair, placed his mouth near my ear, and whispered:
"You'll start moving those dainty feet of yours if you know what's good for you." Sanders' rude behavior—not that he hasn't tugged at my hair before—disrupted my control and, yielding to his strength, I allowed myself to be drawn into the town hall. I was too livid to notice that my curls had come loose. Only when I arrived home later that night did I notice that I had lost your ribbon.
In that moment, what I wanted most was to sock Sanders one in between the eyes—the way I had on special occasions when we were younger. But I calmed myself with the promises of a postponed revenge, for I doubted that the Sacalans would thank me for directing a display of violence at such an open occasion. And, of course, images of a frowning Grandmama could not escape my mind.
As we passed the burgundy doors of the town hall, a flash of blue light engulfed us, taking both Sanders and me by surprise. Sanders paused, opening his mouth as if to speak. Then, shaking his head, he tugged at my elbow to suggest that we move on. I considered telling Sanders that the blue light was an effect of the contrasting coatings of Deliberate Dye adorning the building. But then, I liked seeing him squirm—Sanders always did behave oddly around the Power.
My dear Gwen, the inside of the town hall was so lovely, so spectacular that I can by no means hope to properly describe it to you with my paltry words. But, knowing that you shall never forgive me if I don't relay all that I can of that day, I will do my best.
I may tell you, unashamedly, that the moment my boots touched the velvet carpet within, I was captivated. It took all my strength to recall the lessons Madame Adrienne—one of my earlier instructresses of dance and etiquette—had taught me about social conventions, and not commit an action of indelicacy. Luckily, I remembered to close my slightly parted lips before anyone took notice.
Inside, the House of Culture never looked more refined than it did on that precise Festival day. There must have been a dozen tables, each capable of sitting no less than twenty guests. On the white embroidered tablecloths laid the most exquisite dishes: hand-painted tureens and sauceboats, silver utensils, foot-high centerpieces, sparkling wine glasses. Because pigeons are not allowed indoors during Sacalan festivities, tiny larks and sparrows could be seen perched on portraits and statues, readying themselves to deliver the cartes du jour. In the middle of the hall, there lay a striking fountain of angels, sprinkling, instead of water, colorful lights that appeared to stroke our skin and clothes before fading. Just behind the fountain, an orchestra of the finest musicians played through Antonio Vivaldi's 'The Four Seasons' to lighten the mood as the townspeople arrived. The Court Illusionists—for there were at least a dozen—walked about, bowing to a group of arrivals before producing bouquets of flowers for the ladies, and provoking the fountain's sparkles to form poetic verses in the air.
After formal introductions were made, a lark flew past us and dropped a note in my hands—Sanders and I were to sit near the center of the table farthest on the left. As we made our way across the room, my eyes rested on Mayor Tudor, who was anxiously greeting the Alchemists arriving from the city. Although it isn't spoken about openly, it is no secret that the extravagance of this year's Festival was owed largely to the support of the city Alchemists. For one, we have never before had so many outsiders attend a Sacalan Festival. And never has the town hall sported so many of the Alchemists' symbols; though the townspeople are undoubtedly Alchemist supporters, Mayor Tudor is the party's only official representative in Sacala and he has rarely insisted that his party's emblems be displayed about town.
Suddenly, in the midst of my thoughts, I felt someone grab my right arm.
"Adamine! I did not dare expect to find you here," sang an animated voice behind me.
I turned to look at the speaker. She was wearing an open-robe gown with a white bodice and pink overskirt, and her pale hair was pinned high above her head with a headdress of pearls. Her already painted face was flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling with delight. It took me a while before I could recognize her, and when I did…
"Regina!" I almost shouted. "Is it really you? I haven't seen you in over three years!"
"It has been a long time," said Regina, looking at Sanders, and throwing me a questioning look. I suppose she was as surprised in seeing me at the Festival with my childhood rival, as I was in finding that I would be going with him.
Giving Regina a look that suggested I would explain everything later, I introduced Sanders as my escort for the night—as is required at formal festivities.
After nodding politely to Sanders, Regina asked, "How have you been, Addie?"
"As well as any person can be when having to spend the summer with Constanta Iancu," I replied softly, not wanting anyone but Regina to hear me speaking ill of Grandmama.
"You aren't here alone, are you?" Regina asked with concern.
"Regrettably, I am. Cassie was bedridden all winter with fever and chills, and Father and I thought it best if she spend the season with Gwen's family. Sir Philip's Healers are among the finest.
"Poor Cassie," Regina murmured. "Is she doing better?"
"Gwen's letters suggest that she is improving, and the Healers have finally allowed her to leave her bed. I can only hope that, after a convalescence, she will be able to place all illnesses behind her."
"I pray that she will, Addie," Regina said sadly. Regina could not have forgotten Cassie's long history with illnesses—not when Cassie had first fallen ill the very summer we were all in Sacala together.
"How is Anton doing?" I asked, changing the subject. "Is your brother still sweet on Cassie?"
We both chuckled, remembering the day, three summers ago, when a nine-year old Anton approached Cassie with a prairie rose, offering to be her protector in a game of Manor-keeping.
"But isn't everyone in love with your sister?" Regina asked lightheartedly. Cassie, whose features are as flawless as a hand-painted china doll, is as kindhearted as she is beautiful. And so, as you know Gwen, nearly everyone Cassie meets falls in love with her instantly.
"I suppose so," I said, smiling. "How long will you be in town this summer, Reggie?"
"A mere three weeks," Regina said sorrowfully. "My father has business to see to in the city, and he has made it quite plain that I am to accompany him. How about you? Are you truly here for the entire season?"
"Yes—"I began. Sanders, who had been standing on my left, and frowning the entire time I spoke to Regina, began tugging at my elbow again. "Please excuse me, Regina. It appears that Mr. Boyd desires a private conference." Regina placed her Battenburg fan over her mouth to cover a giggle.
"What is the matter with you, Sanders?" I asked, while pulling him to a secluded corner of the hall. "I haven't seen Regina in ages, and she's one of my closest friends. I'm not asking you to be pleasant, just to be reasonable."
"Hadn't you two chattered enough?" Sanders asked disdainfully. "Besides, we were standing in the light of the arriving townspeople. I am surprised that you, of all people, did not recognize that as offense of etiquette."
"Oh, really?" I asked, fuming. "Are you attempting to give me a lesson in etiquette, Sanders? Because if you insist on speaking to me about the rules of social conduct, perhaps you should first wipe that frown off your face. Or have you forgotten that it is 'an offense of etiquette' for a person to maintain an invariable expression when amongst company? And perhaps you have likewise forgotten how improper it is to interrupt when others are speaking!" It took all my restraint to keep from placing my hands on my hips, and stomping my foot in anger—but I succeeded, knowing that my speech would be meaningless if I succumbed to rage.
"Well?" I asked, after a long silence, in which Sanders refrained from producing a retort. I looked at him quizzically. He was acting very oddly—looking around frantically as if watching for someone or, rather, trying to ensure that someone took no notice of us.
"What are you on about now?" I asked, impatiently. "Afraid people will not recognize you for the fiend you are, in that respectable garb?" That night, Sanders, whom I have rarely seen without a plain shirt and breeches, was wearing a black cutaway tailcoat with a high waistline, pinstriped trousers, and bowed shoes. "Because—you really have nothing to worry about."
"Come on, let's move. Almost everyone's seated," said Sanders, pulling me in the direction of our seats. " And aren't you one to talk? Or, do you think, Miss Ross, that the town has forgotten your appreciation for the practical joke? As last I recall it, the baker still hasn't forgiven you for loosing him his most loyal customers a few summers ago. He swears whenever you come to town. And he curses the day when that other big silly—Gwen, is it?—tags along with you.
"If she's a big silly, than you're the backside of a boar!" I said, having about enough of Sanders' frustrating temperament. "Although I'd give the boar's backside more credit for its intelligence."
I deliberately ignored Sanders' comment concerning one of our wicked pranks. Although it had been a comparatively unkind one, the baker had more than deserved it. He was absolutely horrid to his horse, Spitfire, and no lash on that animal's back wasn't paid for with criticisms for the baker's inability to make a simple fruit pie. Not that I feel wholly guiltless—I won't forget that Grandmama was one of the baker's customers that day. But who can deny the shrewdness of our prank? Nobody could have predicted that you and I would Powerfully switch the sugar and pepper when, only seconds before, the baker had tasted the contents of the shakers himself.
While I was recalling the details of that summer's exploits, I almost missed Sanders saying, "Please forgive this undeserving boar for not paying you and your friend the respect you deserve. No, not respect. Honor." He said the last word with heightened scorn, and gave a little mock bow to emphasize his disgust. "And I'm assuming you'll run for the Chair of the Alchemist Party with those oratory skills of yours. But, perhaps you should refrain from using 'backside' in any of your speeches. It'll surely give the town gents indigestion."
Finally arriving at our seats, Sanders pulled out my chair—rather roughly, I might add—and gestured for me to sit. The moment we were both seated, the swan-shaped napkins on the right of the silverware took to the air, flying in intricate patterns, before unwrapping and settling in our laps.
"Very likely," I retorted, after taking a sip of water. "If you would go so far as calling Mayor Tudor a gent, the way he butters up to the heads of the Alchemist Party."
Rather rapidly, Sanders swung his head about, looking me directly in the eye for the first time that night.
"We never were good enough for you, were we Addie-of-the-City?" he asked, his gray eyes sparkling. The freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks seemed to thicken in the dim light.
"That's not it at all, and you know it," I said, refusing to look away. "I have never considered myself to be superior to any Sacalan. However, if you expect me to watch as Baker Ion beats his horse until there is nothing left but blue hide and broken bones, or to turn the other way when Mayor Tudor allows poachers into the town, giving them care that not even the Queen of England can attest to… well… then you'll have another thing coming!
"Have you ever thought that, perhaps…just perhaps…Baker Ion and Mayor Tudor, like be self-seeking brutes?" Sanders asked, spelling the words out carefully, as if I were a child requiring a plainer elucidation. "And that they possibly dislike being taught, by an English noble no less, that their ways are flawed?"
"But you admit it, Sanders," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Some of their customs are erroneous."
He shrugged. "No town is perfect. Every town has its drunkards and its lawbreakers ('You would know,' I said here). But I assure you, you will not find a townsperson who wouldn't rather deal with those criminals—whom at least they've known for years—than a foreigner with a cause to impose her Western education upon them."
"A foreigner?" I asked, attempting to look stunned. "Have you forgotten, Sanders? I've known this town longer than you have! I was born here, as my mother before me, and her mother before hers.
"But you left when you were too young to appreciate this country's traditions. You come back every once in a while, believing that you can just carry on from where you left off a summer, or three summers ago. Frankly, Miss Ross, that's a better illusion than what the Court Illusionists have fashioned for us this Festival. The more you are away, the less Sacalan you become, and the less any one of these Sacalans want to have to do with you."
All at once, the orchestra stopped playing, and the Deliberate Dye transformed the town hall to a bright gold; Mayor Tudor was ready to give the first formal speech of the evening, which was quite fortunate for me because, for the second time this summer, I was rendered speechless.
"Bună seara, doamnelor şi domnilor," Mayor Tudor began in his monotonous drawl. Good evening, I repeated to myself. Is it truly a good evening? Andhow would it be if the Mayor spoke with sincerity for once? Regardless of his steady voice, Mayor Tudor was already turning a vivid shade of crimson, his eyes transfixed on the visitors occupying the seats at the ends of each table. The Alchemists, I remember thinking. If the night doesn't go as they intend, poor Mr. Tudor might find himself removed from the only respectable position he has ever claimed. And from the awful look on his face, that is about he can think of.
I couldn't bring myself to pay any more attention to the speech. Instead, my thoughts drifted to Sanders' last comments. Yet again, my adversary had forced me to rethink issues that I had, only seconds earlier, felt so certain about. Did the townspeople truly despise me? And how many of them felt the way Sanders did? I tried to remember encounters with Sacalans for whom I have always had perpetual respect, and determine whether their kindness had been sincere, or forced. Eventually, I concluded that my actions were fruitless. If I wanted to discern how the townspeople truly felt about me, I would have to do a little prodding of my own.
By the time I had suspended my thoughts, Mayor Tudor was concluding his speech, ending with these words:
"And so, it is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to the most magnificent Festival Sacala has ever boasted!" A soft applause filled the room.
As soon as Mayor Tudor took his seat, over a hundred servants—who were initially positioned behind the tables they were to serve—sang the Dinner Chant, coaxing the sparkles from the angel fountain to fall into our tureens and produce the first course of the night—vegetable soup and boiled fish.
It was while I was admiring the servants' ingenuity with the Power, that I noticed who was sitting across from Sanders and me—two of Sanders' irritating friends, Bogdan Pasca, and Cami Codorean, who were evidently attending the Festival together. Bogdan, who was wearing a green velvet coat with silk embroidery—'did his mother order it for him?' I was tempted to ask—was smiling wryly. Cami, who might have been pretty if she hadn't damaged her nose in the last three fights she insisted on participating in, looked at her plate smugly, as if the dish was made expressly for her.
There couldn't have been two more ill-mannered ruffians in Sacala—other than Sanders, himself—sitting across from me. Even Baker Ion had trouble with these two. Only last week, he chased them across town with a rolling pin, yelling largely incoherent words from which I was only able to make out, "think you can insult me!"
Catching my eye, Bodgan winked, his chubby face full of mischief.
"Oh Sanders," said Cami, taking her cue from Bogdan, "You brought the Lady. How do you do Miss Ross? Or is it Baroness Ross? Or Chairwoman Ross?"
"More like Maid Ross," said Bogdan, and the two guffawed loudly.
I stared at them furiously. To be honest, I didn't quite know how to handle myself. If we were anywhere but at the Festival, I would have said exactly how I felt about those two, in words Grandmama doesn't even suspect I know. But there were people all around us who knew enough about social conventions to frown upon the smallest intimation of a vulgar display. They wouldn't have necessarily been bothered if Cami or Bodgan did anything foolish that night. But word would have spread all across town—and I would have soon found it stroking Grandmama's good ear—if I were to act indecently. So I said nothing.
"Oh my goodness, Bogdan. I believe our little noble is a mute, as well as a phony. Tell us Addie, darling, have you been carrying around any more pig feed lately?"
As Bogdan and Cami laughed, I turned to face Sanders. He had told them about my wish-it-were-anything rounds! Well…he wouldn't get away with it that easily.
"Only for my meetings with Sanders," I finally replied, turning back to look at Cami. "I know how much he likes the fragrance." Bogdan continued to laugh, until Cami nudged him to stop.
I looked at Sanders again, daring him to say something. But the next comment came from Cami.
"Oh darling, don't flatter yourself. We know you enjoy rolling in the muck, don't we Bodgan? As much as you enjoy waiting on that eccentric grandmother of yours. Which reminds me, I've always wanted to ask—Do you also chew Constanta's food for her, with everything else that she requires you to do?
"That's Mrs. Iancu to you!" I growled. Now Gwen, I don't know what came over me, but I have never felt so angry as I did in that moment. With all that Sanders had said and done to annoy me that evening, it wasn't until Cami insulted Grandmama that I had truly lost control. I felt my Power boiling inside of me—it's never stronger than when I'm angry—and one of the spells that Mr. Chalmers taught you turn inside my mouth. I haven't stopped thanking Bendis that it wasn't the latest one you wrote me about.
"Nove…" I began, only to feel a clammy hand clamp my mouth shut.
"What are you doing, Adamine?! Are you mad? Or have you forgotten where we are?!"
It was Sanders' hand, and for the first time that night, his face had lost its frown. Instead, there was a look of pure horror on Sanders' face—an expression I have never seen him wear before. It was enough to faze me, and enough to make my anger subside, but not before the harm was done.
With Sanders hand still covering my mouth, I turned my head to look at Bogdan and Cami. Hanging haughtily over Cami's head, was her tureen of half-eaten vegetable soup. Cami, who had stiffened when she saw her dish move, stared up at the tureen, spellbound—it's startling how much the Powerless fear magic.
"Hold it up, Adamine. Don't terminate the spell," Sanders said anxiously, while leaning across the table in an attempt to grab the tureen.
"I don't know how," I murmured. Oh…I was in a fix! I didn't know for certain how long the spell would last, and try as I might, I couldn't get the tureen to budge. Anger had made me use my Power in haste. Once my anger had subsided, I couldn't help but think of the trouble I had gotten myself into.
"Novere… Novere…" I whispered, trying to coax the dish back onto the table. I even pointed that second time, but nothing happened. Perhaps the levitation spell only works in one direction, Gwen?
I don't know if it was because I had lost my nerve, but only moments later—but not before someone yelled, 'Oh, look over there. A dish is soaring over that lady's head!'— the tureen tipped over, and the vegetable soup fell on Cami's head, followed shortly by the tureen itself.
"What have you done?!" whispered a furious Sanders, who had almost succeeded in reaching the tureen before it had tipped over.
I got up slowly, afraid that I would find a roomful of eyes on me. Fortunately, everyone was too busy inquiring about the 'flying tureen' to pay me any heed. Not wanting to be around when Sanders finally told them what had happened, I rushed out of the town hall, sparing not a single look back. When I reached the burgundy doors, I was once again engulfed in a blue light, but this time I didn't falter. I sprinted down the steps hurriedly—something I soon learned was to be another mistake of the night.
Before I reached the last step, the heel from mama's left boot caught a crevice. I felt myself soar and, moments later, I was lying flat-faced on the ground—fortunately, I fell on the grass, and not the brick path leading to the gates.
"Oh bother!" I shouted, convinced that I was alone. "Will anything else go wrong this night?"
Pulling myself into a sitting position, I examined the afflicted shoe.
"It is ruined," I whispered, feeling, if possible, worse than I had before. Not up for anymore running, I sat down on the very step that had sent me flying, tracing that blasted crevice with my finger. Then, all of a sudden, I started laughing.
Gwen, I hope you do not suspect for a moment that I was given to hysterics, because, to be quite honest, in that instant, I was feeling more lucid than I had all night. I laughed so hard, tears were springing to my eyes; I simply could not stop picturing the look on Cami's face when that tureen had tipped over. Cami, who fights with half the boys in town, and warms the beds of the other half, and then spreads awful hearsay about everyone she meets—foulmouthed Cami looked ready to heave into bed and hide herself under her coverlet!
I didn't even care if the English royals were to hear of my improper performance at the Festival that night. I was in awe—I had attempted the levitation spell a good many times since you had described it to me in your letters, and never was I so successful. I apologize for not writing you of my attempts sooner—then, you might have had Mr. Chalmers explain to you what I was doing wrong—but I didn't want to write you until one of my attempts had triumphed. Well, Gwen, it should remain without saying— that night I had, perhaps in more than one way, most definitely triumphed.
For a long while, I sat on the steps outside the town hall, unable to stop laughing. Then I remembered Sanders' face when he discovered that I was using my Power, and I sobered up instantly. Bendis! He looked as if someone had died back there. I've always known that Sanders dislikes the Power—and with good reason, since you and I had given him an unforgettably Powerful welcoming when he had moved to town five summers ago. But I thought I saw something else in that look of horror that had overcome his face. Promising myself to give the matter further thought when I arrived home, I smoothed out the wrinkles in my gown, and inspected Mama's shoe one last time.
After permitting myself a few good sighs—and assuring myself that, given the right spell, I would be able to restore the heel—I prepared to leave. But before I got to my feet, I heard a noise coming from the rose bushes twenty leaps from where I had fallen. Squinting my eyes, I was able to distinguish two figures in the darkness—one of a skinny boy with wavy brown hair, and another of a young girl with unruly auburn hair held together, conveniently, with pins and leaves. I immediately identified the figures as Alin Săuan and Lisabeth Perde. Amidst their giggles, Alin spotted my gaze. His eyes clouded over with worry. Whispering something to Lisa, he moved away from the rose bushes, and walked in my direction.
"Shouldn't you be inside?" Alin asked, not unkindly.
"I could ask the same of you," I responded.
"Yes…well…you see…" Alin spluttered, running a hand through his hair.
"Oh, stop stammering Alin!" I said, watching him shrewdly. "I promised not to spill, and I'm not going back on my word."
"That's not it. I mean…" Alin began. Then, seeing the look on my face, he changed his mind and said, instead, "Well, in that case. I can't say I'm not relieved. You know what Lisa's mother and grandmother are like—they'd send her away if they knew she was courting the likes of me."
"Oh, I know my aunt and cousin very well," I said, aware of Aunt Maria's desire for her granddaughter to marry a noble. "And, it might interest you to know that I was bluffing. I understand when it's not my place to say anything."
"I never could tell with you or Gwen." Alin said, chuckling to himself. "The number of stories you two have fed me. And me, being all of two years younger, actually believing them."
He paused, and then added, "It is good to have you back this summer Addie—lightening things up a bit."
"More like putting a damper on the town's patience." I said absentmindedly, remembering my conversation with Sanders.
"What?" he asked, as he took a place next to me on the step. "Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter," I said, cross at myself for speaking my thoughts aloud. But, after looking at Alin's perplexed expression, I said, "You cannot deny it—the townspeople don't exactly take pleasure in our pranks."
"That is a matter of opinion, Addie," said Alin. "Sure you have a few grumblers who hate you for making them the butt of your jokes—but they'd probably dislike you even if you hadn't given them reason to. Most Sacalans find your tricks quite amusing. One year, they were even betting on your next target down at the village tavern."
"Really?" I asked. That, I hadn't known about.
Alin nodded approvingly.
"And I know I've been on the—well—unfortunate end of your pranks a few times, but I'm not one to hold a grudge," he continued, a huge smile on his face. "I've learned to laugh at myself, and most of the townspeople have too. Even when you're not around, Addie, someone always has to be the object of a hoax."
"I suppose you're right," I said, blushing with embarrassment. Though I was thankful for the comforting words, I thought it time to change the subject. "You should probably get back to—," I said, pointing to an impatient Lisa. The girl, who had seen me look in her direction, seemed uncertain of what to do— jump behind a tree, or acknowledge my presence with a greeting. Relief flooded her face when Alin waved to her enthusiastically.
"Right," said Alin, turning back to look at me. "Are you okay?" he asked, gazing at my right hand, which was clasped tightly over Mama's boot.
"Really Alin," I said, importantly. "When have I not been okay? You know as well as anybody, if there is a lady in this town who can take care of herself, it would be me."
"How true," he said, getting up. "Well, if you need me to walk you home later—seeing as I can't walk Lisabeth home anyway—"
"I'll know where to find you," I finished his sentence, pointing teasingly in the direction of the rose bushes. He laughed, and turned to leave.
"Alin?" I said, calling after him.
He turned around.
"Yes?"
"You'd do well to find a better hiding spot. I've managed to catch you two twice already." Alin gave me a smile, and walked off.
And, Gwen, that's about all that I remember of that night. Soon after my conversation with Alin, the Orchestra resumed playing, indicating that the Sacalans had just finished their main courses and would soon take to the floor. I would have liked to dance the Minuet once that night, but I didn't dare return to the Festival with one good boot and a wrinkled gown. Anyway, I wasn't certain if Sanders had not already informed the townspeople about my part in the account of the "flying tureen", in which case, it would have been best for me to keep my distance; As amusing as I had come to find the incident, I wasn't ready to meet the critical stares of over two hundred people.
And so I went home, picking up a stick to use as defense against stray dogs; I would usually have trusted my Power to be protection enough, but, because of my performance at the Festival, I was too fazed to put too much faith in any one thing. I didn't have to use the stick because, like the townspeople, the dogs had better things to do that night.
When I arrived home, Grandmama was still absent. I undressed and threw myself upon my cot, wondering about Grandmama's other 'engagement'. When I had awakened the next day, I found Grandmama in bed, propped up against a pillow. Neither one of us spoke about the night before, which, although I was curious to know where she had been, was probably for the best.
I've learned from Regina—who has paid me a few visits since the Festival—that the townspeople are befuddled when it comes to the details concerning the 'flying tureen'. There are many rumors, but, thankfully, none of them engage my name. It appears that Sanders hadn't spilled after all, a point that is making me even more eager to inquire about his questionable behavior at the Festival.
Soon after reading your last letter, in which you informed me of David's impending visit, I had Doran deliver a letter to the local horse breeder. According to Mr. Codrea, David should arrive well before "a healthy-sized horse could encircle the town thrice." By that, I suppose David must have already arrived. I will excuse myself from Grandmama, and take Miţi—the only horse Grandmama has not sold—for a ride to the horse breeder's stables around midday. With any luck, I will find David there.
I am relieved that your cousin is to be here this summer—he'll be able to help me solve the many mysteries that I have encountered since coming to Sacala. But I regret that his coming will leave you without an appropriate ally with whom you can fight your own 'spirits,' so to speak. I'm fazed, and also a bit worried, about the unworldly episodes that have occurred in York. Just like you, I have never before come across any real apparitions, and so have little advice to give you. I can only thank you, now more than ever, for deciding to permit Cassie a puppy, and hope that Aunt Beatrice doesn't give you too much grief about it.
Earlier today, Grandmama spotted me holding my brass-tipped quill pen, which, I had forgotten to tell you, had stopped sounding a letter ago, and urged me to transmit a message to Aunt Beatrice through you: please ask Aunt Beatrice to send Grandmama some of her Muscle-ache Cream—perhaps you or Mr. Chalmers can create a Power-infused cream, which, although I can't convince Grandmama of it, I know would be better.
Although you've yet to mention it—and who could blame you, with all that is going on there?--I'm anxious to learn if Mrs. Hardbottle's informal parties are as grand as they were famed to be last year. I hope that, amid your spirit-chasing, you will be able to attend one of her festivities this season.
Well, my dear friend, having just spotted Doran flying towards the barn, I am going to conclude this lengthy letter. Please greet all your cousins for me, and tell Cassie that I miss her dearly.
Patiently awaiting your response,
A.C.R
XXVII May
My Dearest Addie,
This situation is too horrible to bear! I'm sure that you recall from my last letter that the crashings in the hall sounded like (to use my own words) "another family is moving in." The scary part was that I was right, but it is not that Mama or Uncle Charles has returned, but the Hardbottles are coming! This is too awful - how will I stand them here!?
Wait…I know that I am overreacting -I can handle this. No, I can't! Addie, I'm afraid that I must wait a few days, maybe until I receive your next letter, before I can continue writing mine, as the shock is too much.
IV June
Well Addie, the Hardbottles have been here a week and I am still alive and sane, though heavens knows how. I'm sure that you're wondering what made the Hardbottles move onto these estates and what has happened during their time here. I shall do my best to make all clear to you.
Just as I was closing off my last letter to you (as you recall) I heard all of the crashing in the hallway. I gave Lightning my letter, put on my dressing gown and then stepped out to see what the commotion was, only to discover Mrs. Hardbottle, Oliver, and Wendell out in the foyer with the servants dragging in trunks and pieces of baggage.
"What's going on here?" I asked Oscar (one of the footmen).
"The Hardbottle family is moving in ma'am," he replied.
"Why?" I demanded to know.
"I'm afraid that I wouldn't know ma'am. I was simply told to move their belongings up to southeast suites," he answered.
Then, Papa strode in.
"Papa, what's happening?" I insisted, after pulling him aside.
"It seems that the foundation of the Hardbottle's manor suddenly gave way – their whole manor is slanted and some of the inner walls are destroyed," he answered. "I've offered them a place to stay until either workmen can repair it, or until they decide to go back to the city when the Season begins."
"So they'll only be here for a few days, right?" I maintained. "Right?"
"No, Gwen, I think that they'll be here for the rest of the summer. You remember how badly the London heat and smog affect Mrs. Hardbottle. There's no way, in good conscience, I could send her back to London just when the heat is beginning to build up. And you know that her family lives too far away to travel to, especially in the growing heat," he replied.
Addie, for a moment it felt as if the room was closing in on me as I realized I would be living under the same roof as the Hardbottles for two whole months.
Then Papa had another horror to add.
"Oh, and Eric and Kathy Hardbottle will also becoming," he mentioned.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hardbottle have more children than Oliver and Wendell!?" I asked, amazed. In truth Addie, now that I stop to think about it, I've rarely seen Mr. Hardbottle and the fact that there are more Hardbottle children has never occurred to me.
"But Mr. Hardbottle must be coming too," I added hopefully. For, as you recall, Mr. Hardbottle trained with Uncle Wilfred in the cavalry; he certainly would be the man to control the family.
"No, he will only be dropping in. Then he must return to town to do business," Papa added tiredly.
After that, I truly felt bad. Papa has had so much to manage in these past few weeks. Besides the whole family's business matters, he's dealing with the manor, financing Margaret's Season (and, I suppose the possibility of her finding a husband), and those ghosts. And here I am complaining to him.
"I'm sorry Papa," I said. "Why don't you go up to your room with a cup of tea and go to bed? It is late," I pleaded. "I'm sure that I can oversee the Hardbottles and the servants tonight."
"Thank you my dear - you truly are growing up," Papa said, leaning down to give me a kiss. Then he turned and went upstairs. I smiled at him as he went up the stairs, then sighed and squared my shoulders. I thought that surely if Papa could deal with all of his work, David could handle being suddenly shipped off, and you could handle Grandmama, I could certainly deal with the Hardbottles.
"Right. Oscar, please gather together the rest of the footmen and place the Hardbottle's luggage in the southeast wing. Polly, please send some maids up to air the sheets and have some firewood sent up. Mrs. Hardbottle, would you like some tea before retiring? (a nod and a request for chocolate biscuits). Polly, please have Cook send up a tea tray with some cookies to Mrs. Hardbottle's room," I said.
"We'd like some (here, I glared)…tea too…" whined Oliver.
"Thank you Polly, Oscar. Mrs. Hardbottle, let me show you and your sons to your rooms," I added.
And that's what I spent the first night doing – I showed Mrs. Hardbottle to her rooms, made sure she was settled, and glared the Hardbottle brothers into silence whenever either opened their mouth. I'm actually surprised that my glares were so effective. Do you think that they were Powerful glares? I must remember to ask Mr. Chalmers, for if it is so, then Addie, we must be careful how we look at people – we don't want to accidentally hurt someone (well. perhaps I would like to purposely hurt Oliver and Wendell, but that is an entirely different story).
The next morning, I slept much later than I intended to. Mrs. Hardbottle was so distraught last night that it took me hours to soothe her, and Aunt Beatrice, declaring that her (very mild) summer cold was too taxing, refused to get out of bed in the middle of the night. After I woke, I went and talked with Cook to plan the meals for the day. He was rather unhappy, since Oliver and Wendell are picky eaters and Papa insisted that the guests be given whatever their hearts' desire. However, Cook's feelings were nothing compared to mine when I walked into the garden after having my breakfast. For the moment I walked out, I heard…
"Yeah, there's one ghost who walks every full moon – that's when he was killed – you can see the bloody wounds," Oliver said. I saw the shocked looks on Josephine, Cassie, and the twin's faces, as they listened to him. In fact, the twins looked scared to death. Then, Wendell reached over and took a huge handful of Josephine's cookies (which you know she works so hard to make) and ate them, disdainfully as Tessa and Timmy watched, appalled.
"They're not bad, but hardly good," smirked Wendell. Josephine's eyes filled with tears. How dare he!?
"Don't you think that you're a little old to be playing tea party?" I asked sarcastically.
"No, these children need some supervision," sneered Oliver. At that point, I had had enough. Who was he to say who was a child!? Then, I remembered a tea party from long ago and I had a moment of inspiration.
"As you like, although, won't the cookies disagree with you?" I asked innocently.
Wendell was about to reply, when he happened to glance at his handful of cookies, only to see that he was holding a handful of spiders! He flung those cookies down and (with Oliver) ran so quickly, you'd think a rabid dog was after them! No, I didn't manage to change the cookies into spiders – you know that that is far too advanced usage of the Power for me. However, when I'm mad, a good illusion is entirely possible.
I'm also afraid that that was the beginning of the war that has been going on between me and the Hardbottles for this whole week. Sadly, the next victory was theirs.
It began later that day when I was out in the herb garden after I had recalled your Grandmama's request for Muscle-Ache Cream. When I spoke to Mr. Chalmers about it, he thought having me making up a batch would be an excellent review of my lessons on combining Power and potions, as well as my ability to research for the receipt. So, he gave me the task of whipping up a batch, hence my trip to the garden to begin gathering the necessary ingredients. While outside, I heard a yip and laughter. Looking around the corner I saw Oliver and Wendell tossing mud clods at old Betsey.
"What are you doing!? Leave Betsey alone!" I demanded
"Not only do you stick up for snotty-nosed kids, but you stick up for old mutts too?" Oliver laughed.
"I said leave her alone!" and I walked over and shoved him.
"Hey, that's not proper behavior for a lady," Wendell said. Then he threw a mud clod at me!
"And that's not proper behavior for a gentleman!" I yelled.
"Fortunately, we're not dealing with a lady," Oliver returned. Then the two fiends started pelting me and Betsey with mud! But when I heard Betsey yelp again and saw a trickle of red run down her side, I snapped. And I'm afraid that I (unlike you) did not hold back.
"Cendaray!" I screamed. Both Oliver and Wendell's pants burst into flame. Then, two things happened for which I was rather sorry for. First, Aunt Beatrice just walked out to get some air. Secondly, the boys managed to put out the fire.
"Gwendolyn! Explain yourself this moment young lady," commanded Aunt Beatrice.
"Aunt Beatrice, Oliver and Wendell were…"
"What in the world were you thinking?! Those boys could have been hurt!"
"But…"
"And your dress is covered in filth! Were you rolling in the mud like a pig?! I thought we had taught you to behavior in somewhat of a better manner! These actions are certainly not appropriate for a young lady, especially not toward her guests. I believe that spending the next few days mending all of our spare sheets, will cool your temper. Along with that, extra practice with your posture and walking should help you to act more like a young lady."
"Yes Aunt Beatrice."
"And of course, you must make amends towards our guests."
"But Aunt Beatrice!"
"I suggest that you make them chocolate-raspberry drop cookies for tomorrow," she said as she turned away to leave. I gasped.
"BUT Aunt Beatrice!"
She waved away my protest. Addie, I must admit although you know I hate hemming and etiquette lessons, there was nothing Aunt Beatrice could do to hurt my pride than to tell me to make my famous cookies for those monsters! You know that they take me hours to make and that they are so good that everyone wants the receipt, but I only make them so well. To have me feed them my cookies! It was an outrage!
"Oh, and Gwendolyn," Aunt Beatrice said, turning, "What are you doing with that basket?"
"Gathering herbs to make a Muscle-Ache Cream for Addie's Grandmama," I sullenly replied.
"Good. You shall finish that task before you send her your next letter (as if I wouldn't!) and make me a batch as well. Now, I'd suggest you clean up and start hemming. Your posture lesson with be at four," she finished.
Addie, I was seriously tempted at that moment to add poison ivy to Aunt Beatrice's batch of Muscle-Ache Cream, but I managed to (eventually) banish the thought from my mind. Then, I went inside to clean up and start hemming. The rest of that day was awful – stuck inside hemming sheets on a nice day, then stuck sitting and walking with a book on my head until I felt as if I needed Muscle-Ache Cream.
The next day, I rolled out of bed expecting to be as bad as the day before. As I got of bed, I had to groan – those evil boys eating my famous cookies! Truly, it felt as if it were an unendurable shame.
As I walked toward the kitchen to grab a quick bite of breakfast and to borrow a bit of space from Cook to prepare my cookies, who else did I run into, but the Hardbottle boys leaving the kitchen?
"And don't forget, we want you best hot chocolate for our tea this afternoon," Wendell shouted back at Cook.
"Good morning lady Gwen," Oliver said.
"We are so looking forward to you cookies with our tea this afternoon," smirked Wendell.
Before I could tell them that my name was Gwendolyn, and that they would address me as such the two raced away, laughing and eating one of Cook's best pastries. Sighing in resignation, I walked into the kitchen.
"Good morning Cook," I said.
"Morning miss," he answered rather curtly. Seeing the hurt look on my face, he quickly turned back toward me and added "No offense miss. Those two boys have been as welcome in my kitchen as fleas are to a dog. I'm afraid that I was just taking it out on you."
"Don't worry Cook, I understand. In fact, I completely agree with you. They're the reason why I'm here."
"What do you mean, miss?"
"Those two boys were torturing everyone weaker than they are, including Josephine and Betsey, but when I argued against them, Aunt Beatrice punished me by having me make my chocolate-raspberry drop cookies for them. I expect that the cookies will be done in time for their tea," I added dully.
"Is that so?" asked Cook, with a gleam in his eye. "Miss, I do believe that I have the receipt you need right here," he said, taking down a book from his shelf and turning to a page.
"But, Cook, you know that I have the receipt memorized," I said, starting to protest. Then I caught the nod he gave me. "Oh, right, a receipt," I agreed. Then I turned to look at the page he offered me.
Addie, it was wonderful! I've always known that Cook had a bit of Power about him, but mostly that he used it for creating his culinary masterpieces. The receipt he showed me was from the book Trick or Treat – Jocular Jinks and Delightful Desserts. It was brilliant! I'm afraid that I can't explain it very well – I'd best copy it out of the book, so you fully understand.
Doggone Days – In this receipt we explore a trick used to fool the most suspicious of friends (or foes!). Below, you will see that there is a list of two different mixes. Both powders should be mixed up, but they should be added to two different dishes. Only when your unsuspecting friend consumes a portion of both dishes, will he (or she) begin to act like a dog! The beauty of this receipt is that it leaves you (and any other person you choose to let in on the joke) free to eat as much of one dish as you please!
Note: The effects of this receipt wear off after approximately eight hours.
What a perfect and sweet revenge! Talk about turning the tables – those two awful boys would finally know how Betsey felt!
Then, I began mixing up the ingredients for my cookies with much more vigor and energy. I had to work a little faster than normal, to make sure that I had enough time to add the Powder to the batter, but the cookies were in the oven with enough time to bake and be ready for tea. Just before tea time (for, truly, those things did take me all day to make) I saw Cook pull the cookies out of oven and place them on the tray with the hot chocolate. Then, I saw him add a handful of "nutmeg" to the pitcher. As I followed him out, I worked hard to control my features. I did my best to school them in a sulky expression, instead of bursting into the wide grin I felt welling up inside of me.
Cook and I walked into the parlor. Besides the boys, Aunt Beatrice, Aunt Lily, Cassie, Josephine, and the twins were all waiting there (Mrs. Hardbottle was still too tired to come down and mostly took her meals in her rooms). I'm sure Aunt Beatrice came to our tea just to make sure that I was properly repentant and to make sure that nothing happened.
"Well, Gwen, I see that we do have the pleasure of eating your delectable cookies," Oliver said.
"We can't wait," Wendell added.
"I'll bet you can't," I muttered under my breath.
"What was that, Gwen?" asked Aunt Beatrice.
"I hope you'll enjoy the chocolate and cookies," I said, through my teeth, to Oliver and Wendell.
"We're sure we will," said Oliver, reaching over to pour himself a cup of chocolate. (Thank heavens that the boys ordered the finest chocolate – that meant that it was totally reasonable for Cook only to bring enough out to serve two people.) At the same time, Wendell reached for a cookie!
Then, to make sure Aunt Beatrice didn't suspect anything, I quickly sat down and poured myself a cup of tea. I kept sipping at it rather quickly, trying to use it to cover the grin that was playing around the corners of my mouth.
As tea started to wind down, Oliver popped a cookie into his mouth and Wendell took another drink of chocolate – then it happened!
"Woof!" barked Oliver.
"Ruff!" barked Wendell, as the two boys began to scamper around on all fours!
"Oliver! Wendell! What is the meaning of this!? Why are you acting like…Gwendolyn, what is happening!?" exclaimed Aunt Beatrice.
"I-I don't know Aunt. What could have overcome them?" I responded.
"What do you mean that you don't know!? – it was only after they ate your cookies that they began acting like animals instead of gentlemen!" she shouted.
"They were always more like animals than gentlemen," I muttered.
"What!?"
"Aunt Beatrice, I have no idea what happened to them. Honestly! Here, I'll eat a cookie myself," I said reaching toward the plate.
"No, I think that if this is a Potion, then you will have given yourself an Antidote toward it. Perhaps Tessa should eat one?" she asked.
I must admit Addie, that was truly mean – trying to use my love of Tessa to incriminate me. Fortunately, as long as she didn't drink the hot chocolate (which she couldn't, as the greedy gluttons had finished it off) she would be fine.
"Yes, Aunt Beatrice," I conceded. Tessa ate the cookie with Aunt Beatrice watching like a hawk. She waited and waited. We all sat around, shoving Oliver or Wendell away when they (drooling) got too close, only to find that nothing happened to Tessa or anyone else (for the others, hearing her say how good my cookies were joined in on the feast). We all sat there and waited until it was time to change for dinner.
"Well. I suppose that it could have been one of Cook's apprentice's spells gone awry," Aunt Beatrice bitterly conceded as she dismissed me for dinner. Victory for that battle was mine! I went to bed with a much lightened heart that night.
The next day, both Oliver and Wendell were both much more subdued – I believe that they were badly confused. Instinctively, they wanted to blame me for yesterday's occurrences, but listening to everyone's accounts of the matter, found that they couldn't. They did, however, find themselves forced to have etiquette lessons with their family's manservant for the rest of the week, since their mother was appalled by what she heard about their behaviour.
Since it was pouring that morning, I thought that it would be a good day to look up the receipt for and prepare the Muscle-Ache Cream. I went to Mr. Chalmers' workroom, expecting all to be quiet, but as I approached the door, I heard a murmur of voices.
"It is true, I'm afraid," I heard Papa say through the keyhole.
"I just don't understand it – so many disturbances by these 'ghosts', and so elusive. There must be a logical explanation," argued Mr. Chalmers.
"I know, I know. I mean, how many ghosts can there be, in this time and place? Nonetheless, all of the villagers to the North are distressed, so…"
"You want me to spend a few days among them and see if I can spot the source of trouble," finished Mr. Chalmers. "I'll go."
"Thank you," said Papa as I heard his footsteps approach the door. I sprang away and ducked behind a nearby tapestry as he walked. After waiting a few minutes, which felt like an eternity, I went back to the workshop.
"Good morning Mr. Chalmers," I said casually, trying to make sure he didn't know I had overheard.
"Good morning Gwen," he said, as he was busily packing things into a satchel. "As you can see, I have a bit of an…errand to run. I'll be gone for a few days, but I do want you to continue working on that batch of Cream, ok?"
"Yes. What's the errand for?"
He hesitated.
"It's the ghosts, Gwen. There's been some trouble up North and your father wants me to take a look at it."
I nodded, then waved good-bye as he strode off in the direction of the stables. Next, I turned to my task at hand. I washed off all of the herbs, but before I could continue, I realized I needed to visit the library to find a book of receipts.
To me, it certainly was the perfect day for visiting the library – all dreary and wet outside, all snug and warm inside. Perfect for reading! Now, if you'll recall from one of my previous letters Addie, you'll remember that I said the library was huge. Well, apparently time has made no change to my opinion because when I walked in, once again was I amazed by the sheer number of books the room held. My next question was: where to start?
After a few minutes of futile searching – I couldn't even find the Powerful books section, must less a Potions book, I had an idea. Grabbing a cigar tray sitting on the table, I opened the window and held the cigar tray out. After it filled with rain, I leaned down and plucked a blade of grass and gently set it in the tray. Then, I closed the window (or else Aunt Beatrice would have me doing more hemming), wiped my damp hands.
"Ostred dicess invenio" I whispered, thinking of the kind of book I would need.
Then, as Mr. Chalmers said, the blade of grass spun around and then pointed to my right. The thing that he didn't say would happen was that the blade of grass started to glow green. It wasn't glowing a lot, but it was glowing, a light pastel green that made me think of spring.
At first, I was rather cautious, since what did a green, glowing blade of grass mean? But, after a few moments where nothing happened, I decided to follow it. I was rather confused at first since it seemed to lead me to a dead end, until I realized that the blade wasn't just pointing to my left, but it meant for me to go up to the second level on my left. I wonder if the spell is normally so unclear, or if it is due to the fact that I am not entirely sure of the subtleties about it?
Skimming the shelves, I finally managed to spot Powerful Herbal Remedies. Just after I took it off the shelf though, I heard them walking around downstairs. The two boys must have been bored with being stuck inside and decided to pop in the library (probably to pester me). I gently placed the cigar tray on the floor and started to back away toward a window reading nook.
Just as I was taking my last step back, they left. It was just in the nick of time too, because I tripped backward and wound up sitting of the floor. It was the oddest thing though Addie, because I could have sworn that I saw a thin line of green – the same glowing spring green that surrounded the blade of grass – hovering about a foot off the floor, just as if were a line trying to trip me. Then, I blinked and it was gone. I'm still trying to decide whether or not it was just a figment of my imagination jarred from the shock of my fall, or if it was really there.
The next three days sped past as I continued with hemming, etiquette, keeping an eye on the Hardbottle brothers, and prepared the Muscle-Ache Cream according to the book (it is a rather time-consuming Potion to make). I gave Aunt Beatrice her batch and she claims that it is working quite well, so beside the bottle I am sending you, I am also enclosing the receipt that I found.
Tonight, as I was preparing to go to bed, I once again heard the sound of more clashing and banging – it seemed the rest of the Hardbottles had arrived at last. Since their visit was planned, instead of a surprise, I had the leisure to look over the banister to inspect them. At first, the only person I saw was Katherine Hardbottle. She is a very pretty girl, about our age, perhaps a year younger. Her hair is a chestnut brown, while her eyes are a light blue. Initially, I was rather wary of meeting her, for several reasons. First, she is a sister of the Hardbottle brothers (I know I shouldn't discriminate, but who knows what living with those two could do? Or how being brought up in the same environment might ruin a girl for life?). Secondly, I had heard Polly talking to Shelly (the under-maid) and I learned that Katherine had been sent away to a Parisian boarding school. I was not at all inclined to deal with a stuck-up snooty nosed girl, especially not on top of the Hardbottle brothers.
Fortunately, all of my worries were unfounded.
"Hello Mama, I've just got in," I heard Katherine say, as Mrs. Hardbottle went down the stairs.
"Thank goodness, you've arrived! I just kept thinking about all of the awful things that could happen to you on the way from London. What with bandits, the heat, and those ghosts!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardbottle. Then, switching train of thought faster than I could blink, "Where are your Papa and brother? Have they sent you on alone? If so, I must have a word with your father!"
"Papa and Eric are outside with the master of the hounds – you know how those two love looking at the hunting dogs," Katherine interrupted.
"And leaving you to deal with the bags and the like! Just like men!"
"But Mama, all the servants helped me…"
"Come now child, time to have your things moved upstairs, and…" looking around, Mrs. Hardbottle spotted me. "Gwendolyn, would you be so kind as to show my daughter around?"
"Certainly Mrs. Hardbottle." So I showed Katherine to her room and helped her situate her trunks and things. After all of the servants left, I finally had my chance to get a good look at her.
"This is a very beautiful house," she ventured.
"Thank you, but it's not ours; it belongs to my Uncle Charles," I said, rather pleased that she was complimenting the house, instead of critiquing it.
Then we both stood there rather stiffly, not knowing what to say. After another moment of unbearable silence, I turned to go.
"Well, I expect you're tired. I'll leave you to rest."
"No, wait!"
I turned.
"Yes?"
"Please don't go – not yet. I need someone to talk to! I mean, you wouldn't understand what it was like traveling on the road, especially with my father. Him, constantly talking about business and the government! And Mama, fussing so! I've seen hens that cluck over their brood less!" At that point, a small giggle escaped me, for I had had a similar thought when I saw the mother-daughter reunion a few moments ago.
"Are your parents always like that?"
"Well, Mama is. I think dealing with Oliver and Wendell has made her such. Yes, I know," she said, catching my look, "those two are awful. Don't worry about Eric though. He's actually a pretty good person, especially for an older brother."
After that, the ice was broken. Kathy (for she insisted that I call her that since "everyone does") told me a little about growing up with the Hardbottle boys, Eric, and her parents, along with spending the past four years in a finishing school. Afterwards, I told her a little about you (I hope you don't mind), Margaret, Mama and Papa, and little bit about the ghosts. I didn't dare tell her about my tricks on Oliver and Wendell because although she seemed nice, the thought that "blood is thicker than water" came to mind. I will have to ensure that she is a true ally and friend before I can do that
By the time we finished talking, it was quite late and I left her to go to sleep. As I walked through the hallway, I glimpsed Mr. Hardbottle and Eric walking in. I'm afraid that I didn't get the best look at them, and it was too late to go down to greet them (and, according to Aunt Beatric, I was to be in bed), so I shall do my best to describe them by what I did see.
Mr. Hardbottle is a dark-haired man with a touch of gray at the temples and a tidy moustache. Unlike Uncle Wilfred, who has gone slightly to fat since leaving the military, Mr. Hardbottle seems to remain very fit. As for Eric, he too has dark, rumpled hair, virtually jet black, much like the shade your Cousin Neli tried and failed to achieve with Deliberate Dye (although I doubt our infusion of cherry bark helped – yet you must admit, it was a very pretty shade of pink). From what else I saw, Eric appears rather tall and fair-skinned. However, then I had to come back into my room for Aunt Beatrice had appeared.
Glancing over your latest letter, I simply must add the thought that I, at least, believe that you have always fit in Sacala and that Sanders truly is a dolt. No, you haven't spent your entire life there, but you have interacted enough with the people and were raised so that you are Sacalan at heart. I'm still curious as to Grandmama's adventures that evening and I hope that you find out what was going on (as long as she doesn't find out what happened to you). That reminds me, I did manage to look up the spell that you requested – rescarcio – it should do the trick (although, I didn't ask Mr. Chalmers, so I'm not positive).
Otherwise, have no fear of my lack of allies, for Kathy does seem to be a good sort. That brings me to one more final point – Mrs. Hardbottle is having a garden fête, but, since she can't have it at her home, she having it here! That means for the next few days, I'll be helping with the preparations. The fête has a two-fold purpose. First, to introduce us to the people in the area (for although many knew Grandpapa, not as many know us) and secondly, to help Mrs. Hardbottle settle her nerves (plus, as you said, her parties are famous and everyone wants her to hold one).
That truly is all for now; please do visit David and tell me how he is getting along.
Love,
Gwen
P.S. Don't worry – Betsey is fine – it was only a scratch and Sean took care of her.
P.P.S. I am also enclosing a beautiful ring. I remember that you admired it so when we were is Sacala last, and, it just so happens that a traveling merchant was selling one (from Romania) just like it. Perhaps it is the same one!