Whisper the Dead (The Lovegrove Legacy) (6 page)

Once they reached the school, she stepped down without waiting for his help and hurried away, not waiting to see if he followed. She found everyone gathered in the back where the gates between the gardens of the Rowanstone Academy for Young Ladies and the Ironstone Academy for Young Men were opened to create one large open space. Students from both academies
flooded onto the lawn, eager for the demonstration. Gretchen remembered Mrs. Sparrow saying something about the Order and a traditional tournament. She’d love to get her hands on a lance.

She found Penelope and Emma under an ash tree. “It’s so romantic,” Penelope said, standing on her tiptoes to get a better glimpse of the older male students waiting in the circle of stones. “Like a tournament out of a King Arthur story. But I do wish Cedric could see this,” she added. “It’s dreadfully unfair that he’s left out of everything just because he’s the grandson of a coachman.”

Gretchen and Emma exchanged a knowing glance behind her back as they wound through the crowd. “There’s Godric.” She pointed to her brother, sprawled on a marble bench. She marched through the girls floating on satin slippers. Her riding boots made a satisfying slapping sound on the flagstones. Godric’s eyes were only half-glazed, and he smelled like cologne instead of wine. She tilted her head. “Is that a bird in your pocket?”

He adjusted his coat hastily. There was a strange flutter and a flash of cream-colored parchment. “No. It’s nothing.”

The cousins advanced as one, smiling. His gaze darted back and forth, but when he realized rescue wasn’t forthcoming, he sighed. “Stop it.”

“Not a chance,” Gretchen said cheerfully.

“It’s a poem,” he mumbled. “Folded into the shape of a bird. I’m trying to spell the paper to fly.”

She climbed up to sit on the back of the bench beside him. “You’re trying to send it to Moira, aren’t you?”

His ears went red.

“Let me read it,” Penelope insisted.

He snorted. “Not in this lifetime or any other.”

She pouted. “Why not? I love poetry.”

“Yes, and you’re vicious in your opinions.” He folded his arms protectively over his pockets.

A bell rang loudly before they could tease him any further. The sound shivered through the spring gardens, silencing the students. Mrs. Sparrow stepped onto the lawn, next to the headmaster of the Ironstone Academy. He was handsome enough to have most of the girls sighing. Penelope fluttered until Gretchen pinched her.

“Welcome, students,” Mrs. Sparrow said. She didn’t raise her voice but no one dared talk over her. “As you know, the Order has recently closed several gates to the Underworld and banished and bottled the three Greymalkin Sisters.”

“The Order didn’t bottle them,” Gretchen felt the need to mutter. “Emma did.”

“The kind of magic the Greymalkin family deals in draws only the most restless and hungry of spirits,” Mrs. Sparrow continued. “As such, spells and wards may be particularly volatile. The Order will, of course, maintain your security, but you must be on your guard.”

A Keeper standing next to the headmaster frowned. Gretchen felt certain Mrs. Sparrow was advised not to worry her girls.

“And as you no doubt also know, every summer we hold a demonstration of the Ironstone graduates for the Order to assess where they might be most helpful. After recent events, Mr. Whitehall has decided to have his students exhibit some of their skills to better reassure you of your safety.”

“How’s that going to make us feel safer?” Gretchen whispered, disgusted. “Do you know what would make us feel safer? Learning to do all of those things
ourselves
.”

“You can take my place,” Godric muttered. “I beg you.”

The lawn cleared and two students stepped into the ring created by stones and students. One held an energy shield so well spelled it looked real, except for its faint blue glow. His opponent held a dagger made entirely of iron nails.

“Oliver Blake and Finnegan something-or-other,” Godric told the cousins.

“Lady Daphne, if you please,” Miss Hopewell, one of the teachers, called out. Daphne stepped into the circle, graceful in a dress edged with pearl embroidery. Her hair shone like honey.

“As Rowanstone’s top student, Lady Daphne will play the part of the damsel in distress,” Mr. Whitehall announced.

Gretchen huffed. “If she’s the top student, shouldn’t she be fighting?”

“That’s not what Rowanstone girls do,” Olwen, one of Cormac’s sisters, murmured from the other side of the tree. Gretchen stood up on the bench, looking thoughtful.

Penelope groaned. “I wish you hadn’t said that, Olwen.”

The mock battle began before Gretchen could hurl herself into it. Oliver was charged with defending Daphne, who had draped herself artfully over a nearby statue of Hercules. Finnegan attacked with elf-bolts he created out of nothing at all. They slammed into Oliver’s shield like wasps. Oliver grinned when some of the girls shouted encouragement.

Finnegan prowled the lawn. He threw a smoke bomb, which made everyone cough. Oliver pierced through it by gathering the light from the torches and focusing it like a sunbeam. Finnegan retaliated with whips of fire. Oliver stumbled to one knee. Someone gasped loudly.

Finnegan flung his dagger. It came apart as it whirled toward Oliver, sending iron nails flying like arrows. They left a trail of blue sparks and the smell of burning apples.

Oliver threw his shield up to take the brunt of the attack. He spun around, clasping Daphne around the waist and depositing her safely behind the statue. The iron nails not already embedded in the shield targeted them. Oliver blocked, flinging his hand up. The nails hovered, vibrating for a long, quiet moment. The invisible wards he’d raised held strong. The nails clattered harmlessly to the ground and applause erupted.

Oliver and Finnegan shook hands and bowed. Daphne curtsied. Gretchen made rude noises.

Once the applause faded, poppets of birds were tossed into the air, animated with magic. They flew fast and erratic, purple-and-blue sparks shooting from their feathers. They dove, pecking at the Ironstone students standing in a row and the girls clustered behind them.

The Ironstone boys showed off their aim and skill one at a time. The first used a slingshot, whipping a charm shaped like a glass marble at the nearest poppet. He clipped its wings and it plummeted, spinning. When it hit the ground, it dissolved into rose petals.

The second student used an iron-wheel pendant, looping it
around the neck of a poppet. He tugged and it fell, catching fire as it went down. His feat was followed by elf-bolts, levitating pebbles, and fiery Catherine wheels. Familiars darted in and out of the melee. There were three cats, two toads, a heron, a fox, a rabbit, and a hummingbird.

The poppets vanished one by one, until all that was left was a wolf made entirely of magical energy. It prowled the circle, dodging a combination of charms, amulets, and a spell in the shape of a goblin. Magic crackled and sizzled like fireworks. The wolf was faster than all of the amulets combined, dodging between them, blurring white as the tail of a comet.

He wasn’t faster than a bullet.

It tore through him and he fell apart in a flurry of stuffing and thread. Everyone swiveled, trying to find who had done it. The Ironstone boys gaped at one another.

Gretchen stood on the bench, her brother’s pistol in her hand and a cocky smirk on her face. She bowed theatrically. There was a lot of blinking and a smattering of applause.

Unfazed, Godric reached up to reclaim his pistol. “Give me that.” He snatched it out of her hands, but he was grinning the same smug grin as she was. He’d taught her to shoot, after all.

Magic sparked in the air as the remains of the wolf smoldered. Tobias stepped forward and snapped, “
Finis
.” The magical traces vanished until only smoke remained.

“Thank you, Lady Gretchen,” Mrs. Sparrow said. “That was very proactive of you.” She didn’t sound angry. In fact, she rather sounded as though she was trying not to laugh. She nodded once at the students. “You are dismissed.”

They dispersed, whispering frantically to one another. A blistering kind of excitement went through them the farther they got from the scorched lawn. Groups clustered together, taking advantage of the proximity of the students from the other school.

“I didn’t know you could shoot like that,” Olwen said. “Does Colette know?” she asked, referring to one of her sisters.

“I don’t know. Isn’t she here?”

“No, she was expelled before Christmas.”

“What for?”

“That was a crack shot,” Finnegan interrupted, elbowing his way through the crowd toward them. “Well done.” Gretchen offered him her most feminine curtsy. He chuckled. “If they’d let you join the army, old Bonaparte would be dead by now.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She beamed at him.

“You shouldn’t encourage her,” Tobias interrupted frostily from behind her left shoulder. “Pistols are useless in most magical battles. And that kind of recklessness is dangerous.”

“And
that’s
the most
boring
thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Gretchen said. “We’re not all damsels in distress waiting to be rescued, my lord,” she added scathingly. “And since I’m on school grounds, I don’t believe your spying services, or your opinions, are currently required.”

“The Order set you to watch her?” she heard Olwen ask as she stomped away. “Have they completely lost their minds?”

• • •

Gretchen had stabbed herself in the finger more times than she cared to count. Embroidery ought to be classified as blood magic, she thought. The white handkerchief on which she was attempting to replicate a passable witch knot was hopelessly spotted with blood. She poked herself again when the needle stuck in a tangle and she yanked too hard.

Miss Teasdale looked up from her flawless rendition of Aphrodite emerging from a clam shell. She made it look easy. And she never smeared her threads with blood. “Gretchen, not again. You must be gentle.” Her eyes were the eyes of a wounded rabbit, wide, dark, and bewildered. Gretchen may as well have stabbed her, as mangled her embroidery.

She abandoned the handkerchief to pace. Miss Teasdale’s parlor was famous for its calming effect. The soft carpets were the color of soothing mint tea. Everything was pretty and perfect, designed to uplift and encourage genteel instruction. Gretchen was a feral dog among perfumed poodles.

Two younger girls sat under the window, peacefully working at their sewing. They never cast longing glances outside. Gretchen’s familiar was already out on the lawn, racing in happy circles. The ache to join him was physically painful.

“Can’t I learn ax throwing?” she asked, turning her evil-eye ring around and around her finger. “Or archery?”

“Those aren’t necessary arts for a Whisperer,” Miss Teasdale replied as Mrs. Sparrow strode into the drawing room. Her white-streaked black hair was in its customary bun. “You need to learn all aspects of spellwork first. How else will you be able to create your spells?”

“Instinct.”

“Instinct is for animals, dear,” Miss Teasdale replied. “You’re a lady.”

Mrs. Sparrow glanced at Gretchen’s clenched fists and the decidedly unladylike turn of her mouth. “Hmm. Even ladies require exercise,” she said. “Come with me, Gretchen. Let us take a walk.”

Gretchen all but ran from the room. She didn’t care if Mrs. Sparrow scolded her, as long as she did so without a needle and thread in her hands. They crossed the stones to follow the path around the fountain. Peonies bloomed all around them.

“Whisperers are very rare,” Mrs. Sparrow said. She didn’t sound particularly cross.

“Yes,” Gretchen replied, mostly because she felt she ought to say something.

“There have only ever been two Whisperers at this academy,” she continued. “While the boy’s school has had five Whisperers. And they feel quite superior over it.” Now she sounded cross.

Gretchen felt the fire of indignation before she realized the headmistress had expected it. “Well done, Mrs. Sparrow,” she said with reluctant admiration. Even knowing she was being manipulated didn’t take away her desire to prove herself as good, if not better, than any Ironstone student. Past or present. Especially past. And especially if that student was named Tobias Lawless.

“What happened to them?” she asked. “Are they still here at the school?”

“One is in her first year. She’s barely thirteen years old.”

“And the other?” she asked as they came to the life-sized statue of Hecate, bronze dogs straining at her leashes.

“She went mad.”

Gretchen came to a halt. “What? No one ever told me that!”

“She couldn’t cope with the buzzing. It built and built until it was all she heard. Her family took her to a secluded Scottish island, but it was too late to regain all of her faculties, I’m afraid.”

Gretchen sat down on the marble bench. She thought of Emma’s mother, mad in the woods. “Does it seem to you that there’s an awful lot of mad witches about?”

“Everything has a price,” Mrs. Sparrow replied. “Especially power.”

“Even yours?” she asked. “I should dearly love to be able to put my mother magically to sleep every time she mentions finding me a husband.”

“For every moment of sleep I conjure on another, that same sleep is stolen from me. It becomes … uncomfortable. Magic is never to be taken lightly,” Mrs. Sparrow added. “It’s a force. And like a wild horse, if you don’t tame it, it will trample you to death.”

Gretchen blinked. “That’s hardly an inspiring speech.”

Mrs. Sparrow smiled briefly. “You don’t need soft words, Gretchen. You need truth.”

“Whispering used to be just another word for spellcasting,” she continued. “To the untrained eye, a witch reciting a spell looked like she was muttering to herself. After a few years of being hanged or burned at the stake for it, we learned subtlety,” she said wryly. “But Whisperers such as yourself can still hear
those spells being cast. That’s what the terrible sound you hear is. Hundreds of witches over hundreds of years all casting their spells at the same time.”

“That explains why it makes me feel so odd,” Gretchen said. It didn’t feel any less odd to think that she was hearing voices of dead witches. No wonder Godric drank so much.