23 CHARLOTTE MAKES HER CHOICE—A SENSELESS QUOTE—A VOICE RIPPLES THROUGH THE SMOKE—WOMAN’S LIBERATION—AN INVITATION—THE CAVALRY ARRIVES—THE BUTLER DOES IT—MISS PLIM EXPLODES—A DISASTER OF TITANIC PROPORTIONS Descendeo lente!” Charlotte shouted. The man grasping her arm laughed with vicious triumph. But she did not hear him. “Descendeo lente, proximare,” she continued, her voice ringing clear and loud above the crackling fire and murmuring crowd. She raised her free hand as if to draw energy from the sunlight to intensify her magic. The words flared. Her hair began to stir around her as the air shimmered and swayed. And Alex floated through the smoke to land gently on the road. Immediately he tipped to his knees, coughing. But Charlotte could see through the crowd swarming toward him that he was safe—provided, of course, Armitage House or its burning timbers did not crash down upon him, nor the excited crowd trample him. She felt a pain she could not at first comprehend, until realizing it was her unconditioned facial muscles striving to manage the vast smile demanded of them. “Thank you for giving me all the evidence I need,” the pale-haired policeman said, his words licking close to her face. But again, she did not hear him, for the crowd was cheering. A group of American tourists explained to everyone nearby that these were circus performers, and immediately a chant began, accompanied by the rhythmic clapping of hands, requesting an encore performance. The policeman slapped handcuffs onto Charlotte’s wrists. “The only performance you will be giving, witch, is your funeral speech on the bonfire.” Charlotte jolted as fear once more slammed through her body. “Let go of me,” she demanded, tugging against the man’s grip, but he had remarkable strength for such a desiccated fellow and clearly no intention of allowing her escape. He continued along the street, dragging her with him. Charlotte saw ahead a horse-drawn police wagon, two uniformed officers standing at its open door. Her heart skittered in panic. Her thoughts flailed as if they too had been cuffed. There seemed no escape. Even if she used her weaponized ankle boots against the man, his colleagues would be upon her instantly. Striving to recollect any element of the incantation that would save her, she could summon nothing more than the complaint of Marianne Dashwood: “Had I talked only of the weather . . . this reproach would have been spared.” Which, while true, was about as helpful as one might expect quoting a novel during one’s arrest would be. The irony of being arrested for witchcraft yet unable to command even one word of witchery would have made her laugh, were she not terrified. Looking desperately over her shoulder, she saw nothing but bystanders dancing and hugging each other as a fiery Armitage House struggled higher over the rooftops. (Nothing quite like the imminent demise of a pirate to encourage community spirit.) Alex was out of her sight—which meant that she was out of his. He’d be unaware of her peril, and therefore unlikely to provide a rescue in the nick of time. She was going to disappear into that police van and out of the world. She tried to take a breath deep enough that she might shout for him, but even had she managed it, the crowd began roaring as another pirate battlehouse appeared on the horizon to double their entertainment. He would never hear her over that noise. Charlotte had no hope, just as Miss Plim always warned. That had been a daily lesson, between embroidery and how to run a blind heist. Get caught doing magic and you’re alone. No one will come to save you. No one will even remember your name. But as the tight-lipped specter of ruthless Plimmishness that had haunted generations of witches threatened to break her with its sharply tapping finger, a bolder figure appeared through the smoke. Trousers—upraised sword—magnificent feathered hat; Charlotte gasped as it took shape. “Get away from her, you son of a bitch!” The policeman barely had time to sniff contemptuously before the pirate spun dramatically on a gorgeous pink bootheel and kicked him in the gut. As he pitched forward, a cry of pain bursting from him, the pirate then applied her knee to his forehead with an efficiency Lady Armitage would have killed for. (Literally.) The man went down like a sack of wet handkerchiefs. His fellow officers rushed over, truncheons waving. Charlotte and the pirate exchanged a brief, amused glance. Charlotte saw then that she had been rescued by a young woman, suntanned, swaggering, and her heart swaggered in response. Fear fell away—or, rather, was kicked away by the spiked boots of her Wicken pride. No witch was going to look scared in front of a pirate girl! She turned toward the policemen and began incantating. The pirate lifted her sword. And the policemen, taking professional stock of the situation, ran away as fast as they could. “Subsisto et concido!” Charlotte shouted after them. They fell to the ground, and whether due to unconsciousness or good sense, stayed down. The pirate, appearing disappointed at this efficient end to the trouble, brandished her sword uselessly for a moment, then shrugged and gave a complex whistle. Hearing it, the police horses trotted off, taking the wagon with them. “Thank you,” Charlotte said, attempting to offer the pirate a handshake before recollecting the iron cuffs. The pirate grinned. “You’re welcome. I owed you.” “You did?” Charlotte frowned a moment before finally recognizing her. “Upon my word! You are Constantinopla Brown.” “At your service,” the girl said, bowing extravagantly. “Well, you know, not actually at your service, since pirates serve no one, not even Her Majesty the Queen (a personal friend of mine), and I regret to inform you that I’ve already robbed you of your earrings, but nevertheless, colloquially speaking, at your service and pleased to meet you.” While Charlotte was blinking in an effort to process this speech, Constantinopla reached down and acquired a set of keys from the unconscious policeman. She sorted through them with practiced ease and used one to release Charlotte’s handcuffs. “I am ever so grateful that you rescued my Tom from the clutches of Lady Armitage,” she said as she worked. “He might have been wed to the old hag had you not intervened.” “Oh yes,” Charlotte said. “It was a close shave. But we arrived in the nick of time and Tom absolutely, definitively, did not marry anyone, least of all Lady Armitage, of that you can be sure.” Constantinopla’s face lit with a smile. “So it seems I owe you again, Miss Pettifer. I say, will you come to my wedding? I know we shouldn’t associate, but I’d be honored by your attendance, since you are responsible for it happening at all.” Charlotte hesitated. “I’m not sure that would be wise.” “Oh.” “And therefore I am happy to accept the invitation.” Constantinopla grinned so widely, Charlotte feared she would crack something. Then she pocketed the handcuffs, and when Charlotte noticed, she blushed. “I thought I might take them on my honeymoon.” And now Charlotte blushed. “After all,” Constantinopla continued, gazing adoringly at Tom, who was now hobbling toward her, “one never knows when one might want to do a little independent looting, and these handcuffs will prevent my husband’s intervention. Even a married woman should maintain her self-sustenance, you know.” “How modern of you,” Charlotte murmured. This idea (albeit in a more metaphorical sense that shall not be related here) interested her so greatly, she left Constantinopla with a nod and smile, and approached the other two policemen in the hope of finding handcuffs on their persons. Besides, the young pirates were joyfully expressing their pleasure at being reunited, and she could not help but disapprove. Laughing and embracing in full view of several dozen people was appalling behavior, even for pirates, and she had a good mind to turn back and scold them. “Lottie!” Alex emerged from the crowd, his face soot-covered but his eyes such a clear blue Charlotte felt she could have flown away in them. Forgetting the policemen, she ran to him, engulfing him in an embrace even before he stopped walking. He laughed, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, overcome with such joy she felt the air crackle with it. Alex’s arms encircled her in return, providing a strength she knew she could trust. He was her big scary pirate, and she was safe with him. “Are you all right?” she asked, touching his face, brushing back his hair. “I’m grand, my darling,” he said, grinning as if he’d just come from the pub rather than toppling some considerable distance out of a burning house. “Are you?” “I am now.” “Thanks for rescuing me.” She opened her mouth to say it was nothing. Risking her own life, exposing witchcraft, betraying the League—nothing. But that was not true, and she found herself saying instead, “You are everything.” Heat bloomed between them, and the air crackled louder. The world seemed to drift away like smoke from a house fire. Alex blinked, his eyes growing heavy. Charlotte smiled. They drew together in a soft, gentle kiss. It felt like they had never kissed before, never touched. A tender new promise blossomed between them, and Charlotte knew she would gladly battle the League, or even abandon it altogether, to keep the pirate in her life. She sighed against his wicked mouth. A moment later, she realized the crackling sound was in fact from the flames that continued to ravage Armitage House above the crowded street, and the warmth she felt may have been romantically metaphorical, but it was also literal due to the burning shards of floorboards and furniture raining down. Slipping from Alex’s arms, she stared up at the aerial drama. A tall and elegant townhouse had begun to circle Armitage House with a somber, rather supercilious dignity that reminded Charlotte eerily of her aunt. Its gable window cycled open to reveal a large cannon. “Is it going to shoot her out of the sky?” she asked with astonishment. “People on the ground will be hurt!” “That’s Darlington House,” Alex said. “Miss Darlington and Lady Armitage have been rivals for longer than I’ve been alive. I expect to see—” Suddenly the cannon fired. Water sprayed from it onto the Armitage House flames, creating enormous billows of smoke. The crowd cheered, and Charlotte cocked an eyebrow at Alex. “Yes,” he said, nodding authoritatively, “that’s exactly what I was about to say.” Charlotte had no chance to scoff, for the battlehouses began moving toward the shore as Armitage House tried to evade Darlington House’s rescue efforts. The crowd hastened to follow, and Charlotte and Alex went with them automatically. “I wasn’t able to get the amulet,” Alex said as they hurried along. “Good,” Charlotte said. “Excuse me?” His eyebrows did not seem to know whether to lift or huddle in confused surprise. She shrugged with an audacious nonchalance she had learned from him. “Now we will simply be forced to continue together in our pursuit of it.” Alex grinned, and Charlotte felt a shimmer beneath her heart that she knew was reflected in the long, hungry gaze she gave him. His footsteps slowed, and he reached out to touch her face— “Oh hell,” he said, his expression turning grim. “What’s wrong?” Charlotte looked around for the trouble he had noticed, and her own expression leaped over grim and landed straight in appalled. Miss Plim marched along the street, aimed directly toward her like a poisoned arrow. “Oh hell,” Charlotte agreed.
It was as if Aunt Judith had not stopped pursuing them since being briefly stalled in the ballroom yesterday afternoon. She strode methodically, without weariness or mercy. Her topknot of hair had been knocked aslant, but her elbows were still in working order, jabbing left and right at the people rushing past. And her face was so stormy she could have put out the Armitage House fire just by glaring at it. “Hell,” Charlotte repeated, the word fluttering madly in her throat. “Pardon me.” They turned to see Bixby standing inscrutable beside them. In one hand he presented a silver tray holding two pistols. “How do you always manage to find me?” Alex asked as he took one of the pistols and passed it to Charlotte. “One does try to perform one’s job adequately,” Bixby replied. “Or maybe you’re trying to catch me off guard, so I’ll scream in fright and you can scold me for being noisy.” “Certainly not, sir,” Bixby said in a tone so deadpan it sounded like it had been bashed to death by laughter. Alex gave him a dark look. “I’m tempted to make you walk the plank,” he said, taking the other gun and checking its bullet chamber. “But you’d no doubt critique the wood and refuse to walk until I’d hammered all the bolts in properly. Is the house safe?” “One moment, sir,” the butler replied. He lifted his tray without looking and whacked it against the head of a young man who had been attempting to pick his pocket. The boy crumpled to the ground. Alex glanced down. “Isn’t that Dominic Etterly?” “Jonah, the younger son,” Bixby corrected him. “Good heavens, Joe Etterly, old enough for piracy. I feel ancient. Do me a favor, Bixby, and steal that fobwatch he has attached to his waistcoat.” “Yes, sir. Also, the house is quite safe, although we will need to repaint the front door. And if I may be so bold as to mention: irascible aunt at two o’clock.” Alex turned, raising his gun automatically. Charlotte stared at him in horror. “Surely you don’t intend to shoot my aunt?” she demanded. “I—” “Because that is my privilege.” She tried to cock her own gun, then frowned and tried again. Alex winced and, taking the weapon, released the safety and cocked the hammer for her before handing it back. Charlotte might have gone on to shoot Miss Plim, or she might not have; before the decision could be made, the aunt herself arrived. At this point, shooting her would be a decidedly intimate matter—and make an awful mess. Charlotte found herself hiding the gun behind her back like a naughty child caught with forbidden cake. “Charlotte Pettifer,” Miss Plim declaimed, crossing her arms and managing to look down her nose at Charlotte despite the latter being half a head taller. “I am appalled to find you in such a state—standing on the street in your unmentionables, covered in blood and soot, and worst of all, with your hair unbound! You have been behaving shamefully, not only dragging the good name of your family through the mud, but also the wicked name of witches everywhere. Pirates have begun to consider us approachable! I have received two invitations to tea this morning alone! Such an intolerable state of affairs must cease at once. I require you to return home and make a public denouncement of this—this—” She flapped a hand toward Alex as if naming him would defile her tongue. Charlotte shook back her hair in a gesture of defiance not quite as powerful as aiming a gun at her aunt’s face, but good enough that it made Miss Plim scowl furiously. “The man to whom you are referring, Aunt Judith, is my friend.” Miss Plim spat out a laugh. “Friend? What nonsense! I would say you’ve been afflicted with piratic foolishness, Charlotte Judith Pettifer, but sadly there has always been a deep flaw in you, a propensity to delinquency, no matter how hard I have tried to improve you. It makes me sick when I—” She stopped, her mouth wrinkling up into a knot. “You’ll notice,” Alex said languidly to Charlotte, although not moving his attention from the gun he had pressed against Miss Plim’s temple, “I have the safety off, so will be free to shoot when I do this.” He cocked the gun. Miss Plim flinched. “I’m afraid I did not get the memorandum about being friendly to witches,” he said. “Hell, I’m not even friendly to the one I intend to marry. So I’m telling you right now, madam: one more nasty word to Lottie and I’ll ensure you never speak again.” His expression was so cold, so ruthless, even Charlotte shuddered. Miss Plim huffed in outrage, her nostrils flaring, but no actual words emitted from her pursed mouth. Charlotte could not believe it. “Sir,” Bixby murmured. “Yes, I know,” Alex said testily. “Don’t be rude to a lady.” “Actually, sir, I detect no lady other than Miss Pettifer. I was trying to explain that the houses are advancing beyond our view.” Alex pulled his gun back, releasing the hammer. “I suggest you leave quietly,” he told Miss Plim. “Before I change my mind.” She threw him a look so vicious it would have scythed through the confidence of most people. Alex just laughed. “You don’t scare me. I was educated by nuns. They would sort out a woman like you in the space of one Hail Mary and half a Paternoster, then have you spend the rest of your days doing laundry. Go. Now. Fast.” To Charlotte’s utter amazement, Miss Plim actually obeyed. “I’ll see you at home,” she said with a final scathing glance to Charlotte, then turned so briskly on one heel that Charlotte half expected her to spin right around. Shoving her way through the crowd, she vanished. Charlotte stared after her, stunned. Never before had anyone chastised Miss Plim in such a manner. Certainly never before had anyone defended Charlotte from her haranguing, as if Charlotte might be vulnerable, soft, with a heart that deserved protecting. Hastily she affected an arch amusement before Alex could realize how touched she felt. “Goodness me, it was worth jumping out of a burning house, getting arrested, and betraying my entire heritage, just to see that moment happen. But may I raise one small question, Captain?” “No,” he said. And the way he looked at her, so steadily, so deeply, made her realize he saw right through her affectation. She swallowed heavily—and yet, she was not scared of him. “No?” she echoed, her heart swaying. “Not until I’m ready to say it again in a proper manner.” The swaying became a waltz. “Oh, I see. With a ring?” “And down on one knee. Yes.” “Yes,” she said breathlessly. His solemnity broke into a smile unlike any Charlotte had seen from him before. Its beauty and warm sincerity shone on her heart, which gasped and hugged itself. “I’m glad you finally agree with me about something,” Alex said, cupping a hand to her face. The dangerously beautiful eyes were gentle as they looked down at her. “Hold on to that answer.” She tried to huff, but it came out as a dreamy sigh instead. “I will.” “That one too.” They gazed at each other, grinning rather foolishly. “Tsk.” Turning, they found Bixby shaking his head with exasperation. “I beg your pardon,” he said without the least hint of apology in his voice, “but is this a romance or is it an adventure? For I will remind you, we are missing the ongoing action.” Charlotte and Alex exchanged a smiling glance. “I think what this is defies definition,” Charlotte said. “Which is only right,” Alex added. “We, Charlotte, are the makers of manners.” “Ooh,” she said, her smile brightening, “Shakespeare! I didn’t know you read—” His eyebrows shot up in amusement. “—such things,” she added. “I didn’t know you read such things.” He shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, darling.” “Good, for I am not too old to learn.” She took his hand, and they hurried after the crowd toward the shore.