But was it enough?
“And he’s coming here,” Harriet exclaimed. “Today!”
“He’s not,” Beatrice said, but Father set down his paper and his cup.
“What are you doing, dawdling down here? You must get ready!”
“But he’s not coming here today.”
Father laughed. “It’s noble that you’re not getting your hopes up, but you need to get ready for his call. Upstairs with you. Be sure that Clara covers every detail.”
“But I know he isn’t.”
“Go.”
Dismissed, Beatrice rose from the table.
Clara waited in Beatrice’s room ready to dress her for the day. Beatrice braced herself as Clara laced her stays tight as a noblewoman’s. She tilted her head back, sitting patiently through the painstaking application of her maquillage. She held very still, trying not to wince at the heat radiating from Clara’s curling tongs. After a hasty breakfast on the terrace, Beatrice retired to the drawing room, where Harriet joined her with a sketchboard and attempted a rendering of the bundle of springtime’s kiss gathered from the doorstep.
The windows stood open, and from between the gently billowing sheer curtains, the scent of cherry blossoms wafted into the room. Harriet suppressed a delighted noise when Beatrice picked up her violon case. She plucked the strings to tune them, inspected her bow, ran a handful of arpeggios along the six strings, fine-tuning along the way.
Below them, the front door jingled.
“He’s here!” Harriet said. “Play something, play something.”
Beatrice played a dashing, nimble-fingered tune, welcoming Ysbeta up the stairs. Harriet clasped her hands in delight, watching the doorway. She leaned forward, as if the action would make the sight of Beatrice’s caller come sooner, but it was the curving brim of a lady’s hat that came into sight.
Ysbeta Lavan stood in the entry to the conservatory, every pleat and fall perfect. Her saffron cotton gown gleamed, her cream leather gloves held in one hand, her cartwheel hat set at the perfect angle to shadow one eye. The other fixed on Beatrice, her eyebrow arched inquisitively. Ysbeta carried a clothbound book with her.
Beatrice’s heart kicked a little faster. Beside her, Harriet deflated.
“Good afternoon,” Ysbeta Lavan said.
Ysbeta spoke in Llanandari. Beatrice held her bow in two careful fingers as she dipped her head in greeting. “Miss Lavan. My little sister, Harriet.”
“Harriet. What a fetching gown.”
“Thank you,” Harriet said, Llanandari falling easily from her tongue. “I like yours, too. Is your brother still with the horses?”
“Ianthe has other engagements today,” Ysbeta said. “He’s at the chapterhouse.”
Harriet shot Beatrice a telling look. “Perhaps some other time, then.”
“I imagine so,” Ysbeta said. “I would like to speak to you, Miss Clayborn. Would you entertain me?”
Now she would know what Ysbeta wanted, at last. She held back a relieved sigh. “I would be happy to, Miss Lavan.”
Ysbeta swiveled her glance to Harriet, sitting on the edge of her chair. “Alone.”
“Harriet. Go.”
Harriet bit down on a protest, kept her expression demure, and even bent her knee in courtesy before she picked herself up and left the conservatory, closing the door behind her.
Ysbeta glanced at the closed door. “Your home is lovely.”
“We’re renting it for bargaining season,” Beatrice said. “I understand you live out of town? Toward Gravesford, or on the Meryton road?”
“Meryton,” Ysbeta said. “The house was just finished last autumn.”
A new, fashionable home along the Meryton Highway—locals called it Money Road, for all the lavish homes dotted between beachside Bendleton and the port town that handled a third of all shipping for Chasland. It was probably the size of four homes on Triumph Street, with extensive grounds and filled with luxury. It was certainly more impressive than Riverstone Cottage, the Clayborns’ home in the north country.
Ysbeta nodded to the humble bunch of springtime’s kiss in a slender ivory vase. “I see you kept the flowers.”
“Yes. I was touched to have found them.”
“My brother is charmed by you. He tried to include himself in my visit today, but I insisted on coming alone.”
“I’m happy to receive your visit.” Beatrice set her violon in its case. “Would you take fresh air on the terrace with me, Miss Lavan?”
“I would enjoy that. I imagine your view of the sea is quite pleasant.”
“Thank you.”
The terrace was small enough to press the hems of their skirts together, but the view from beyond the wrought-iron railing was peaceful. Soft gray sand met the jewel-blue water of the sea, its waves cresting white as the sea’s breath carried on, unceasing. Bright spots of color dotted the sky as beachgoers flew kites on the ocean breeze. Dotted across the beach were fabric cubicles meant to preserve a lady’s modesty as she lay with as much skin exposed as she dared, bathing in the sun’s rays to gain a fashionable, healthy glow. Beatrice looked down at those enclosures with a little envy. She couldn’t stay out in the sun long, or her skin would turn red, and then peel, and then when the ordeal was over, she would be just as pale as when she began.
Beatrice closed the terrace door firmly shut and stood beside Ysbeta, her hands curled on the railing as Ysbeta’s did. Sunlight sparkled on a jeweled wristwatch encircling Ysbeta’s wrist, a bauble worth hundreds in gold.
“My sister listens at doors,” Beatrice said, “but this will be private.”
“Thank you.” Ysbeta breathed in the sea air, the breeze playing gently in the plume on her hat. “I’ve come on business, you see.”
Beatrice’s heart pounded. “I am curious to hear it.”
Ysbeta swallowed. “Yesterday I acquired a grimoire right out of your hands,” she said. “I know the spell that alerts me to their existence, but the problem I had before I walked into Harriman’s persists.”
Beatrice waited, wearing a face of polite curiosity. “And I might be of help?”
“That is my hope. Can you read the grimoires, Miss Clayborn?”
On the distant shore, a child squealed in delight.
“I can,” Beatrice said. “The book you took from me is very precious. It—”
“I would like you to prove it, please.” Ysbeta reached into the satchel and produced a book. Beatrice’s tongue went dry. Woodland Mammals of the Oxan Flatlands, by Edward C. Johnson. Not her grimoire. Not one she had ever seen before. She flipped open the cover and called on magic, breathing in the soft green smell of the grimoire’s code. She murmured the correct phrases while dragging her smallest finger over the text, her hand curled in the sign of revelation. The words wavered and re-formed into the transcribed spell.
Translating aloud was tricky, but Ysbeta waited for her to speak. “‘A Directorie of Greater Spirits and Their Arena of Might,’” Beatrice read aloud. “Wandinatilus, Greater Spirit of Fortune. Quentinel, Greater Spirit of Mending. Hilviathras, Greater Spirit of Knowledge—”
Ysbeta’s eyes went wide. “That’s a treasure. I had no idea this information was available outside a chapterhouse. Are they all greater spirits?”