Illusions of Fate

I sniffle, nodding and holding back a laugh. “I’m certain you are right.”

“Well, then.” She seems to stand a bit straighter—in spite of the drizzle now hitting her hat—and walks away.

Kingston. It’s on the opposite end of the city from where I live, but something feels familiar. I laugh. I do have other places I can go. A few minutes later, I stand on the front steps of a beautiful dark stone town house in a stylish Kingston neighborhood, my umbrella dripping a halo of water around me. The butler, a stout man with polished glasses and hair brutally combed into submission, blocks the door with a perplexed frown.

“And you know Miss Eleanor how?”

“She gave me her card and told me to call on her.”

“Do you . . . have the card with you?”

“I am afraid my purse was stolen. Along with my shoes.”

I can tell he thinks me mad—with good reason. He would sooner set me out with the rubbish bins than allow me into the parlor of Eleanor’s fine town house, but if

my story is true, he might earn the ire of his mistress by being rude and dismissing me.

I have a feeling I will be standing on this porch for a long time.

A man’s voice comes from behind me. “What in the queen’s name is going on here, Mr. Carlisle?”

I turn to find Ernest trying to figure out who exactly I am. When he finally connects me to his dance partner at the gala, the realization is written in humorous clarity across his face. He immediately looks to either side as though caught doing something wrong.

“I . . . erm . . . what are you doing here?”

I silently thank the spirits when Eleanor, dressed in a tailored burgundy day gown with an art piece of a hat, climbs out of the black carriage and joins her brother. She frowns, clearly stumped, until recognition lights up her face. Instead of guilty, she looks delighted. “Jessamin? Is that you?”

I give her a wry smile, hoping I didn’t misjudge her friendliness last night. “I have had a series of misfortunes since we met and wondered if I might trouble you with some questions.”

She laughs, hands her umbrella to Mr. Carlisle, and then wraps her hand through my elbow. “Oh, I knew I was right to make you my friend. Finally, someone interesting in this whole sleeping town. Let’s get you off the porch before you’re attached to Ernest in some vicious gossip he is no doubt already fearing will ruin his political aspirations.”

“I—of course not, I—” he stammers, his face as red as his hair.

Eleanor ignores him. “Mr. Carlisle, we will be in the parlor. Have Mrs. Jenkins bring dry clothes for my friend, and we’ll take some tea—” She notices my expression change, and narrows her eyes. “No tea then. We’ll have some chocolate. You do like chocolate?”

Relieved, I squeeze her hand with my own. “Nothing could sound better at the moment.”

After my umbrella is taken, my clothes are changed, and the chocolate is delivered, we settle near a cozy fireplace in Eleanor’s parlor. It is decorated in stripes and cream colors, far less ornate than I would have expected.

Ernest walks in to join us, but Eleanor cuts him a look and shakes her head. “I think this is a ladies’ talk.” Again his skin tone matches his hair and he bows out. She leans in, her eyes gleaming. “I must warn you. I am the biggest gossip in all of Avebury.”

I take a sip of the thick, bittersweet drink. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. And if you are a gossip, then I hope you know something of the people I’m avoiding.”

“Oh, dear,” she says, but her smile grows bigger.

“Do you know anything about Lord Downpike? The minister of defense?”

Her smile vanishes, replaced with genuine concern. “What has he done? Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I tried to protect you last night. That’s why I pulled you away when he tried to cut in on the dance floor. It had nothing to do with Ernest. You were probably the highlight of my brother’s entire year. But Lord Downpike had been watching you so closely and I simply couldn’t stand idle. I would not wish that man on my worst enemy. Dark rumors. Besides, Uncle and he don’t get on at all. They had a dreadful falling-out a couple of years ago.”

I find I am stroking the smooth surface of my glove. “Yes, he . . . well, let’s just say I find your enmity with him greatly comforting.”

“What did he do?”

I debate lying, but if she’s nobility, she should know about the magic. And if she doesn’t, she is not much use to me in avoiding this mess. “He spied on me with his familiars, kidnapped me, trapped me in a room without a door, and then proceeded to smash each of the fingers on this hand with a hammer.”

She leans back as though I have struck a blow, and then pulls out a snuffbox. Pinching some between her fingers, she whispers and, to my surprise, blows it straight into my face.

I sneeze.