25 SISTERS IN ARMS—THE WITCHES ARE BACK—A CLASH OF OPINIONS—CHARLOTTE MAKES A NEW FRIEND—PARTINGS—AN UNWELCOME VISITOR—A FATEFUL NOTE The pirates’ feelings would not be repressed. They allowed each other to tell how ardently they had hated and despised Lady Armitage. And yet, oh, for a house of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of Clacton! Armitage House had gone down soon after its mistress, and the fact it would never again menace England, parking in the middle of traffic intersections, luring in bachelors, was almost impossible to comprehend. Together the pirates stood shoreside, staring out across Clacton Harbor. Or, rather, squinting, since the morning sun shone on their faces in a decidedly unfunereal manner. Lady Armitage would have been outraged. They made somewhat of a crowd, since several members of the Wisteria Society had arrived unnoticed during the aerial battle and now joined the stunned gathering. Servants had set out lace-clothed tables laden with tea, cakes, and little crustless sandwiches, as is done in times of community grief, albeit not usually in the middle of the street and guarded by gun-toting butlers. The locals, on the other hand, had rapidly dispersed. Pirates dueling aloft in flaming battlehouses was one thing; pirates standing quietly on the footpath, murmuring amongst themselves and drinking tea, was altogether more terrifying. Doors had been locked and then barricaded with various pieces of furniture. Jewels had been hidden and children told to come away from that window at once. On the harbor, fishing boats headed rapidly out to sea, even those with holds full of fish. An eerie peace lay upon Clacton. “This does not seem a fitting end for Aunty Army,” Cecilia said with a sigh. She was swathed in scarves and shawls, which Miss Darlington had insisted upon and Cecilia had patiently allowed, despite now being at risk of fainting in the midsummer heat. After all, Miss Darlington had just suffered the loss of a nemesis who tried for decades to kill her; she needed whatever comfort could be provided. “I don’t know,” Ned argued gently, slipping an arm around his wife and easing her close. “It seems to me only the sea is vast enough to contain Isabella Armitage.” Charlotte glanced surreptitiously at the pirate couple. She felt an odd stirring in her heart, and she tried to define what it might be. Not jealousy of their intimacy, for she had her own with Alex, who had dressed her in his coat and now stood behind her, arms about her shoulders, chin resting on her forehead, his strength and warmth encompassing her as he sheltered her from the prying eyes of lady pirates. Nor was it a desire to steal their jewelry. She suspected it might be that rarest of delights: comradeship. The thought she might experience this with someone other than Alex, and to a milder extent Bixby, was utterly wondrous. And also disconcerting. It was one thing to like a pirate captain with seductive blue eyes who knew just how to soothe her heart and inflame other parts of her anatomy. Charlotte defied any witch to ignore her own womanhood to such a degree. But liking several other pirates, and for the very things that made them pirates—the fervor, the histrionics, and the ridiculous joie de vivre—this was something altogether different. Just exactly what kind of witch was she? The kind that was a little too similar to Beryl Black, she realized worriedly. And look what the Plims had done to her. Even so, she could not stop herself from wanting to smile at Ned and Cecilia. So she turned away—and saw Constantinopla on the other side of her, holding hands with Tom. The pirate girl winked. Overwhelmed, Charlotte nodded briskly in reply, then frowned out at the water, which had the decency to not smile back. Alex seemed to sense her emotion; he tucked her in even closer, kissing her temple. Charlotte sighed, more happy than she’d ever thought she had the right to be. She ought not allow his embrace in public. Every moment, she awaited opprobrium from the elder pirates surrounding them. It appeared, however, that riding the roof of an airborne popcorn stall had earned her some respect from the Wisteria Society—or perhaps disrespect was more accurate, for they treated her like a fellow pirate, even if (maybe because) she had been instrumental in the death of one of their own. Several ladies had shaken her hand, and others had actually gone so far as to not steal her bracelet of bee charms or the pearl buttons on her dress. Charlotte did not know whether to grimace or smile at the thought of how this would horrify the Wicken League, were they aware of it. In fact, witches were present and watching Charlotte’s behavior with disapproving eyes. The amulet retrieval team, having recovered from Bixby’s booby trap, not to mention the night they’d been forced to spend in a cheap hotel room with only one bed (which is not so romantic when it has to serve five women who all had the garlic prawns for dinner), had been drawn to the shore road with the instinct for trouble all witches shared. But they remained cautiously back by the tea table, restraining themselves to tight smiles and criticism of the silverware. While witches were not worms, as has previously been established, neither were they about to confront Charlotte in the middle of a pirate crowd without the express permission of Miss Plim. Stretching racks and ducking stools had nothing on what Judith could do with a mildly inquiring smile. Charlotte, for her part, did not notice their presence, not even when Miss Gloughenbury accidentally spilled the contents of a teapot, thereby nearly starting a war. But then, no one ever noticed anything except pirates when in the company of pirates. “Now that Lady Armitage is gone, it’s the closing of an era,” Constantinopla said with a dramatic sigh. “Excuse me?” Mrs. Rotunder set her teacup down in its saucer with an indignant clink. Everyone near her shuffled a few steps aside. “I am the same age as Isabella, and just as notorious. You may be assured that the era remains open.” Constantinopla gave no reply, but smirked and rolled her eyes at Tom. Everyone near her shuffled a few steps aside, including Tom. Noting the smirk, Mrs. Rotunder bristled. “Now see here, young lady . . .” Charlotte found herself being abruptly pulled away by Alex. Behind them came Ned and Cecilia, glancing over their shoulders and murmuring for Alex to hurry. “What is the matter?” Charlotte asked testily, not liking being manhandled in this way (although other ways, involving sheets and pillows, were fine). A clash of steel answered her. “Upon my word!” she gasped as Constantinopla and Mrs. Rotunder began to parley. “Cannot pirates restrain themselves for even one hour?” Alex, Ned, and Cecilia exchanged a glance. “No,” they chorused. After all, the collective noun for pirates was “a quarrel.” The air rang as a dozen more swords came into play. “But Lady Armitage has just died!” “And now this is a fitting end for her,” Cecilia said, ducking as a teacup flew past. “I, however, would rather like to leave before Aunt Darlington breaks my leg so I am forced into months of bed rest.” “Come on, my love,” Ned said, taking her by the hand. “Let’s go steal some liver cleansing tonic in Aunty Army’s honor.” Cecilia smiled at him rather sadly, then turned to Charlotte. “Good day, Miss Pettifer. Please do call on me soon.” “I will, thank you,” Charlotte replied automatically—and then realized not only did she mean it, but she was excited at the prospect of doing so. At the back of her mind, Elizabeth Bennet glanced up from a hammock where she was sipping lemonade and reading Frankenstein; she gave an encouraging nod and then vanished. Charlotte felt the swelling of emotion that she recognized now as friendship—true friendship for her own self. She smiled at Cecilia as a purple-feathered hat cartwheeled past, throwing off sparks. “I hope you will come to my—er, that is, to any interesting events I may hold in the near future.” “I already have my shoes picked out,” Cecilia replied. Noticing Miss Darlington looking about with a medicinal gleam in her eye, she began tugging at her husband’s hand. “Hurry, Ned, or she will start prodding me again to make sure the baby is sitting up straight. I just know it.” Ned slapped Alex’s arm in farewell. Alex punched Ned’s shoulder. Ned punched him back, and Alex reached for a knife. The ladies shared a dry look then drew the men apart. They headed in opposite directions along the road. Alex gathered Charlotte against his side as they walked. “What happens now?” he asked, his tone light, careless. “Breakfast,” Charlotte said. A witch ran past, swinging her reticule at a pirate. “A bath. Then home to London, I suppose. Mother will be wondering where I got to.” “There will be an uproar when you return in a pirate’s house.” Something exploded behind them. They stumbled a little at the force of it then kept walking. Charlotte smiled, although her heart trembled. “Yes. I’m expecting to make quite a mess indeed.”
Later that day, in the dusky calm of Pettifer House’s drawing room, Mrs. Pettifer looked up from her embroidery with a mild frown. “Dear, what light through yonder window is shining into my eyes in that aggravating fashion?” Mr. Pettifer shifted the lace curtain and peered out. “It is the stagecoach, and Judith is the passenger.” They sighed in unison. “She looks sick and pale as always,” Mr. Pettifer muttered. “I’m going upstairs. You deal with her.” “Oh no, sir,” Mrs. Pettifer declaimed, thrusting down her embroidery and arising like a moon—bright, shadow-eyed, and capable of causing madness in otherwise reasonable gentlemen (and a certain amount of dancing around naked, although that was before she married). “I demand the equal right to be unsociable. Let’s both go upstairs, and leave her in Woollery’s capable hands.” “But what if she is bringing news of the girl?” he asked as they hastened upstairs like furtive children. “Lottie is perfectly well,” Mrs. Pettifer replied. “Not a scratch on her, I can feel it in my motherly bones.” Woollery watched them disappear into the bedroom, then opened the front door even before Miss Plim did not knock. “Madam,” he said. “I am afraid Mrs. and Mr. Pettifer are not accepting visitors.” Miss Plim glared. She was not a visitor. She was a Plim! Furthermore, she cared nothing about Delphine and—um, whatever his name was—the husband. She had come for Charlotte. When Woollery moved to close the door, she snapped a phrase of Latin that shoved him aside, then marched without a backward look toward the drawing room. Woollery met her at its door in a show of butlering skill that verged on magic. “Madam, I am afraid—” “Of course you are, stupid man,” she retorted. “I am going in to wait for Charlotte. I require tea. Snap to it!” Woollery relented. Thus left alone, Miss Plim paced the drawing room with all the vigor of a woman who has just spent hours in a rattling stagecoach. She did not know if Charlotte would return tonight, but she intended to wait as long as required. Her fury knew no bounds. Indeed, it had been many years since she’d had such an exemplary outrage. Bad enough that Charlotte had spent several days enjoying herself, but worse that she’d done so in the company of a man. If only she’d been able to convince Delphine that cold black tea and unbuttered toast were essential to the girl’s formation, they would not be seeing now this disastrous outbreak of individualism. Miss Plim emitted a sigh tainted with incantation. Mrs. Pettifer’s volumes of Byron toppled from their shelf, making a loud clatter against the floor and riling up her nerves in a most pleasant manner. She was tired of everything. Charlotte be damned, Miss Gloughenbury and the orphans be damned—it was time for a new prophecy. Woollery brought tea. Miss Plim poured herself a cup and was on the verge of drinking it when the drawing room door opened once again and a man stepped in unannounced. Miss Plim stared at him, cup halfway to her mouth. His magnificently chiseled face and pearl-colored eyes arrested any rebuke she would have made. Although he wore dusty clothes and two large bandages patched his temples, she had never before seen such an Adonis. Her spectacles fogged, and within her chest cavity came a peculiar sensation, as if she had already swallowed tea and it was heating her. The man stopped abruptly to stare at her. The air between them held its breath. “Madam,” he said finally, bestowing upon her a look so revolted, so soured with contempt, that Miss Plim almost gasped. Here was a kindred spirit indeed! “I am Detective Inspector Creeve. I have come to arrest Charlotte Pettifer on charges of witchcraft. I demand you surrender her to me at once.” Miss Plim would have shaken back her hair if it hadn’t required a hammer to do so. “Witches do not exist, my good fellow. But you can certainly arrest Charlotte after I have finished lecturing her on her bad—although non-witchy—behavior. She is not here at present, but I await her return, and you may also. Will you have tea?” He sniffed. His eyes glimmered as he looked her up and down. His tongue slipped out to lick what could be called his lips by only the most charitable observer. Fortunately, Miss Plim was a renowned philanthropist. “We have green tea,” she said in the same way another woman would have mentioned wine. Served in a slipper. In her bedroom. He blotted moisture from one nasal cavity. The pallid gaze that had wandered all over her body lingered at the brittle line of collarbone peeking out from above her gray wool bodice, and he looked as if he would like to sniff it. “You are a fetid witch.” Miss Plim blushed. “And if I am not mistaken, sir, you are that revolting and heartless scourge of the earth, a witch hunter.” He took a few steps toward her, his hips jerking in an attempt at manly swaggering. “What is your name?” “Judy,” she said. “Matthew,” he told her. He’d come so close, she could smell the saltiness of blood beneath his bandages. Her heart pulled itself up from its stiff-backed chair, rubbed its aching hip, and put itself to stirring. She needed no crystal ball to justify the future she began to see for herself. “I am fetid, bad, reprehensible,” she said huskily. “How are you going to punish me, Matthew?” His dainty eyelashes fluttered and a yellowish hue began to infuse his expression—lust, or perhaps indigestion. He reached out, touched her face, then lifted his fingers to his nose. Miss Plim shivered at the romantic gesture. “You belong on a flaming pyre, woman,” he growled, stepping so close their shadows fused into one trembling, distorted shape. “Oh yes,” Miss Plim replied, her voice little more than a breath made steamy with feminine magic. “Burn me. Burn me alive.”
When Charlotte arrived home not long after, hand in hand with a pirate, it was to find the drawing room empty. Woollery informed her parents of her presence, and Mrs. Pettifer rushed downstairs in a flurry of lace and laughter. Embraces were issued and welcomes made to Captain O’Riley, whose occupation was forgiven in light of his wealth and good looks, not to mention the fact Mrs. Pettifer had nearly completed the wedding preparations. Then the trio sat down to tea and chat. Charlotte’s seat rustled as she descended upon it, and rising again she saw a letter there. “What is the matter, dear?” Mrs. Pettifer asked as her daughter’s face grew white. Charlotte looked up speechless from the piece of paper, her eyes wide as they went first from Mrs. Pettifer to Alex. “It—I—upon my word!” Alex stood impatiently, removed the letter from her numb hands, and perused it with speed—whereupon his jaw dropped open. Mrs. Pettifer took the disturbing item for herself and snapped it briskly before reading its message. She laughed. “Why, Judith has gone! Abdicated leadership of the Wicken League and eloped with some man, sailing away to France!” “Well, that’s bleeding massive,” Alex murmured in an accent so Irish it was practically colored green and waving a glass of whiskey. “She says she is bestowing all her authority on you, Lottie dear!” Mrs. Pettifer continued reading. “But I don’t understand this part: ‘It is a fitting punishment’—for surely this is wonderful news? I certainly don’t need a tarot deck to tell me it is the very best news! My dear, you are now leader of the witches!” “Hurrah,” Charlotte said dazedly. Mrs. Pettifer frowned. “You do not seem very excited. This is what you have been waiting for your entire life, my dear.” “Yes, I am aware. But Mama, how can I marry Alex if I am to head the League? The feud—” Mrs. Pettifer waved this concern away at once. “Captain O’Riley may be a pirate, but that represents only a small and easily remedied flaw. No one would expect you to give up such an interesting reformation project. And I’m sure his skills will transfer nicely to lawyering or being a member of parliament.” (“Excuse me?” Alex said, but was ignored.) “So long as you don’t do something truly scandalous, such as invite a Wisteria Society lady to your wedding, you will be fine.” “Um,” Charlotte said, biting her lower lip. “Oh. Well, I suppose unfortunate things can happen at the seaside. Fear not! So long as you don’t invite that scandalous Cecilia Bassingthwaite, you are still fine.” “Um,” Charlotte said, and flung herself back onto a sofa. “Oh,” Mrs. Pettifer said once more, at her wit’s end. But since it did not take long for her to reach there, it was an easy journey bouncing back again. “Never mind, dear! This shall herald a new age of intersociety enmity. Already I have in mind certain pirate ladies I shall invite to visit so I may serve them weak tea and give lackluster compliments about their hats. Besides, with the amulet in the League’s possession, we shall have the upper hand!” Alex winced. Charlotte closed her eyes, pressing the back of her hand against them. “I see.” Mrs. Pettifer’s voice sounded alarmingly Plimmish. She turned on her heel and began furiously pouring tea into a cup. Alex sat on the sofa next to Charlotte. “I’m proud of you,” he said, smiling. “There’s no need to be.” She tipped her head to eye him balefully. “I have done nothing special beyond happening to be the recipient of a convenient prophecy.” “What is given to you does not matter so much as how you use it.” Charlotte paused to consider this. “I have always thought I’d like to organize the League better. Tidy up our visiting schedule. Make a roster for bank robberies.” Alex’s countenance wavered slightly, but he budged it into an encouraging smile. “That’s the spirit! Although . . . you told me the other day you wanted to use the amulet’s power to make the world beautiful. Even without it, you now have authority over a group of magic-wielding women. You could introduce some really significant changes to England.” “True.” Her eyes lit up. “No corsets on weekends!” Alex nodded, although with his face lowered to hide the expression thereon. “Good. That’s, er, good.” “And maybe—just off the top of my head, you understand—diverting aristocrats’ resources to help street urchins?” He looked up through his eyelashes at her. “There’s my witchy woman.” She sighed, her expression darkening again. “No, it is hopeless. I shall from now on be bound in London, shrouded with secrets. No more adventures for me—and you, you hate witches. I cannot ask you to tie yourself to the woman who leads England’s coven.” “Ah, Lottie.” He grasped her hand. “You’d be amazed by what I’m willing to do for you.” Mrs. Pettifer, hearing this, overpoured milk into her tea and flooded the saucer. Charlotte felt the same thing happen in her heart. Tears welled up as she laid a hand to Alex’s stubbled jaw, stroking a thumb against its roughness. “You are a good man, Captain O’Riley.” He scowled, although his eyes glinted with humor. “Have a care for my reputation, madam, if you please.” Straightening, Charlotte brushed the creases from her skirt. “Very well, let’s do this. Let’s bring in a new era of greatness, as prophesized.” They smiled at each other. And the drawing room door burst open. “Darlings, do I have news for you!”