Whisper the Dead (The Lovegrove Legacy) (7 page)

“Yes, but with discipline, you can focus on the spell you need. At the very least, you’ll be able to quiet the thunder to an actual whisper.”

“I didn’t know that,” Gretchen murmured. To be fair, she hadn’t thrown herself into learning the history of the witching world like Emma had.

Mrs. Sparrow led them back inside to her personal study. The shelves were stuffed with books and jars of evil-eye rings and rowan berries and was far less tidy than expected. The desk was sturdy and simple, nothing like the scrolled and gilded desk her mother preferred, with its curved legs and gold-leaf accents. Mrs. Sparrow did not sit down. Instead, she picked up a worn leather-bound journal the size of folded letter paper.

“I think you should have this,” she said, handing it to Gretchen.

The leather cover was faded and soft and the pages were thick, uneven parchment. Some were stitched with red thread; one had a silver triangular cap on one corner from which hung a tiny bell. When she opened the book, a pressed violet drifted to the carpet. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured. And it was, in its own tattered way. Someone had loved this book until the bindings were reinforced with gold thread. “What is it?”

“It’s a grimoire,” the headmistress replied. The sun fell through the window beside them, falling on the white streak at her temple. The rest of her hair was so black it absorbed the light. “It’s a magical journal,” she elaborated. “Full of spells and bits of folklore. Most families have one they pass down through the generations.”

Gretchen looked up from the book. “Is there a Lovegrove grimoire?”

Mrs. Sparrow shook her head. “Your aunt told the Order that Theodora Lovegrove burned it.”

That Emma’s mother had destroyed a family heirloom stuffed with priceless magic gathered over centuries in one of her mad fits was no surprise at all. Still, it was disappointing.

“I found this one in a bookshop in the goblin markets. I don’t know who it belonged to, but the information is sound. If you study and memorize the uses of plants and stones and colors, it will make it much easier to identify the kinds of words you should be listening to when the witches whisper spells in your head.”

The pages were the color of tea, with ink that was faded but still legible. Sketches of tree leaves and flowers, and rhymes written in a sweeping hand, crowded next to lists of colors, stones, and herbs and their attributes. There was a drawing illustrating how to gather Saint-John’s-wort on Midsummer Night and a rhyme about mullein leaves, and hundreds of symbols and sigils. Gretchen felt a bubble of excitement in her chest. She might not love studying, but she did love having a purpose, a way to stand up to the pressure of this new magical world that threatened at any moment to sweep her and her cousins away. The sting of
the embroidery needle’s pinpricks on her fingertips suddenly felt like battle scars.

“The other side of your gift is what allows you to create new spells,” Mrs. Sparrow told her. “Witches are always attempting them, with various degrees of success and no small danger. But as a Whisperer, you’ll be able to hear what others have done.”

“Is that why it goes silent when I’ve found something that works?”

“Yes, the spell memories fall away because you don’t need them. Creating spells requires many elements: symbols, harvesting flowers and plants at the proper hour, the alignment of planets, the theory of colors, and so on. A good deal of which you will find in that grimoire.”

“I really am dismal at sewing though,” Gretchen admitted.

“You’re dismal because you don’t take it seriously,” Mrs. Sparrow replied blandly. “You refuse to practice. But knowing what you know now, does a little embroidery still seem like such a hardship?”

“I suppose not.”

“Don’t fight your own self.” The headmistress looked sad for a moment. “It’s a battle you’ll never win.”

Gretchen tilted her head. “Can I still fight the lads of Ironstone?”

Mrs. Sparrow smiled. “In fact, I would consider it a great personal favor.”

“Do you think these flowers
make me look like Ophelia?” Penelope asked hopefully as she added another peony into her chignon. Pearl-tipped pins and a garden’s worth of flowers secured her dark curls. She stood in front of the looking glass in a rose-colored gown, frowning thoughtfully at her reflection. She had the only parents in London who didn’t care if she rejected the fashionable white of the proper debutante.

“You are aware that Ophelia drowned, aren’t you?” Emma teased her. Her slender antlers curved elegantly from her red hair, which was braided around them.

“It’s romantic,” Penelope insisted. Glowing spiders crawled over her hem, but she studiously avoided looking at them.

“It’s soggy,” Gretchen said. “And ridiculous. Tossing yourself away for some moody git,” she scoffed.

“You simply have no poetry in your soul,” Penelope returned
with all the offended dignity of a wounded reader. She adjusted the rose tucked into the wide ribbon tied under her breasts. “I hope Lucius is there.”

Gretchen raised an eyebrow. “It’s Lucius, now, is it? Since when are you on a first name basis?”

Penelope blushed. “I just meant I hope he attends tonight.” She wrinkled her nose at her grinning cousins. “Oh, hush.”

“What about Cedric?” Emma asked.

“What about him?” Penelope said softly. “He doesn’t care for me that way. He never would. Surely, I have to face that.”

“You most certainly do not,” Gretchen said decisively.

Emma frowned. “And what makes you think he doesn’t care for you?”

Penelope shrugged. “I didn’t say he didn’t care for me, just not in that way. I’m like a sister to him.”

When Emma opened her mouth to protest, Penelope turned away, clearly not interested in discussing it further. Which was telling in itself. Penelope
always
wanted to discuss love.

They were tucked away in Emma’s chambers, preparing for the MacGregor ball. As usual, Penelope looked forward to the flirting and the dancing. Emma hoped to catch a moment alone with Cormac, and Gretchen had already mapped out the location of the library for her escape. After her discussion with Mrs. Sparrow, she was inclined to take her studies more seriously. Nothing on earth could convince her to take her mother’s wedding plans more seriously though.

“Are you sulking again?” Penelope asked her lightly when
Gretchen’s wolfhound sat at her feet, looking pathetic. “You enjoy dancing as much as I do.”

“It’s not the dancing, it’s the dancing partners. Mother’s made me a list.” She pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from her reticule and tossed it to the floor, where it belonged. She felt better immediately.

A moth flew past her nose. She reached over to close the window. Below her, the statue of Hecate poked her stern head above the hedges of the school gardens. Intriguing shouts and what looked like a small explosion drifted over the fence. Cormac’s sister Olwen drifted out of the bushes, her long fair hair tangled in knots. Gretchen didn’t see anyone else, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Tobias was out there, waiting for her to come out.

“What do we know about Tobias?” Gretchen slanted Penelope a glance. “And I don’t want to hear about his shoulders again.” She had eyes in her head, didn’t she?

“He’s Cormac’s partner,” Emma offered. “They patrol together for the Order. He was nearly one of the Sisters’ victims that night poor Margaret York was killed. I can try to find out more, if you’d like?”

Gretchen nodded. “Know your enemy and all that. I don’t like the idea of being spied upon.” She drummed her fingers on the windowsill.

“I thought I saw someone lurking at the end of the lane this morning.” Penelope turned away from the mirror, having used up every flower in the room. She’d even tucked a rosebud into her neckline. She grinned. “Cedric chased him off with one of the dogs.”

Gretchen grinned back. “He gets to have all the fun.” She was going to have to get a dog just for the pleasure of setting him upon the very proper Tobias. Then again …

Emma turned to Penelope. “She’s got that look on her face.”

“I just had an idea.” Gretchen unclasped the emerald pendant from around her neck.

Emma groaned. “Told you so.” She tilted her head. “You’re going to teach him a lesson with your jewelry?”

She flicked her an impatient glance. “You must have a map of London in one of those books piled around your bed.”

Emma rifled through them until she found a large map of magical London, with the academies and the goblin markets clearly marked. She and Penelope approached Gretchen warily as she stood over the open book, necklace clutched in her fist.

“What on earth are you doing?” Penelope asked.

“Miss Teasdale taught me about pendulums,” she explained. “Apparently it’s another useful skill for a Whisperer to have. I couldn’t convince her that throwing knives would be even more useful.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Miss Teasdale made kittens look cross. “How does it work?”

Gretchen held the necklace over the map so that it swung in a circle. “We ask it questions and depending on which direction it swings, we get an answer. Clockwise is yes, counterclockwise is no. Only she called the directions ‘sunwise’ and ‘widdershins’ because witches have to complicate everything.”

“And what exactly are you going to ask?”

“I’m going to find out if Tobias is lurking in the bushes.”

“He doesn’t exactly seem the type,” Emma remarked.

Gretchen’s smile was more of a baring of teeth. “Precisely. If he’s going to follow me about, judging everything I do, I see no reason I should make it easy for him. For any of them. Forewarned is forearmed and so forth. And if he’s in the area, I intend to lead him a merry chase.” She stretched her arm out over the map. The emerald drop glittered. “Where is Tobias?” she demanded.

The chain swung vaguely in one direction, then the other.

“Where is Lord Killingsworth?” Gretchen tried again, in case magical divination powers were as obsessed with etiquette as her mother. The chain just hung there, swinging like any ordinary chain. She shook it lightly. “Well, come on,” she said.

A disdainful sigh came from the doorway. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

Gretchen didn’t even look up. “Go away, Daphne.”

Daphne didn’t oblige, which surprised no one at all. She didn’t particularly care for the cousins. Gretchen figured that was fair enough, as they didn’t particularly care for her either. She was bossy and arrogant and convinced she was always right.

“You’re not meant to punch at the air.” She clucked her tongue at Gretchen’s stance. “Give it here.” She tucked the clasp in her palm, looping the chain over her forefinger and letting it dangle. “You hold it like this, and be sure to keep your arm steady.” She glanced at Gretchen. “What is it you’re searching for?”

“Not what,” Gretchen mumbled. “Who.” Her pride urged
her to snatch the pendulum back, but logic reminded her that Daphne was far better at spells. “Tobias Lawless.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “You and half the girls in this school are wondering the same thing. He’ll be at the ball tonight, I’m sure.”

Gretchen rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about that.”

Daphne smirked. “Of course you don’t.”

“Are you going to help or not?”

“Fine. But you’re still untrained, you should stick to yes and no questions. This is beyond you.” Before Gretchen could make a retort, and she had several, Daphne held up the pendulum. “Lord Killingsworth,” she said clearly. The pendulum swung very slowly, like the ripples created from a pebble dropped in a pond. She moved carefully, holding it over different parts of the map. The circles stayed wide and steady until finally they tightened abruptly, spinning faster and faster. “There,” she said, smugly.

Gretchen’s smile was even more smug. “Excellent.” She raised an eyebrow at Emma. “Don’t you think it feels like rain?”

By the time they hurried through the front door, several of the carriages had already pulled away. Torches lined the lane, leading to the gas lamps on the street. The academy looked like any other finishing school catering to wealthy daughters, with flowers spilling out of urns and rows of immaculately clean windowpanes. From the front gate, no one could see the gargoyles on the roof or the scorched walls of the ballroom where they practiced
spellwork. They’d never know a girl had been killed in the alley by the spirit of three vengeful warlocks.

The cousins knew, though, and slowed their steps. Daphne stood on the exact spot where she and Emma had discovered the body of Daphne’s childhood friend Lilybeth. They had suspected each other at first, when in fact Daphne’s other best friend, Sophie Truwell, was to blame. Daphne’s hair was coiled with ropes of pearls, making her look more delicate than the cousins knew her to be. Her arms were crossed protectively over her chest.

“Daphne?” Emma asked softly.

Daphne wiped her cheek savagely before turning around, her expression haughty. “What?”

“Are you quite well?”

“Of course I am,” she replied. “I’m the daughter of the First Legate. I’m perfectly able to handle anything.”

“All right then,” Gretchen said. She considered it great sympathy on her part that she didn’t roll her eyes. She was quite sure if she heard the other girl bragging about her father’s high position in the Order one more time, her ears would bleed.

Emma stepped on her foot. “Would you like to ride with us?” she asked Daphne.

“Why would I? I have friends, you know.” She flounced away before anyone pointed out that of her two best friends, one had been murdered and one was a murderer. It wasn’t as though she needed reminding.

“Oh yes.” Gretchen sighed as they climbed into the last carriage. “Tonight is going to be loads of fun.”

• • •

The MacGregor ball was crowded pillar to post with aristocrats in glittering jewels and silk dancing slippers. Lady MacGregor had recently purchased an impressive collection of Greek and Roman marbles and was eager to show them off. Gleaming white, they lined the walls of the ballroom, from Aphrodite to Zeus. Debutantes clustered together in their shadows, like cooing doves in their white dresses. It was so warm and perfumed, fans fluttered briskly and the dessert ices melted in their cups. From the card room, an occasional shout punctuated the music.