26 A NEW ORDER—CHARLOTTE SHINES A LIGHT—THE OLD ORDER—CHARLOTTE FINALLY SEES THE DARK—ALEX RUINS EVERYTHING—FEAR AND LONGING—CHARLOTTE HAS THE LAST WORD We three meet again!” Miss Gloughenbury declared as she sailed into the room. Beneath one arm she carried something that approximated a poodle, although it was bald in some places, singed in others, and one leg had been reattached backward. Seeing Alex sitting on the sofa beside Charlotte, she frowned. “Er, we four, it seems. Charlotte, darling, is this pirate fellow begging for mercy, moments before you have him poisoned or suffocated?” Before Charlotte could respond, a hurly-burly filled the doorway. Amongst the stripes, spots, chintz, and feathers, three ladies could be perceived, struggling to enter in an order of precedence none could agree upon. Woollery, coming behind them with a laden tea tray, announced belatedly the arrival of not only Miss Gloughenbury but Mrs. Chuke, Mrs. Vickers, and, er, Miss Smith—the latter of whom no one quite recognized, due to the fact she was Bloodhound Bess in disguise, come along for the adventure and to see if these witches had anything worth stealing. Miss Gloughenbury stated the obvious: “We have returned to London. We caught a ride with a sweet old lady by the name of Miss Monster, and came immediately to give our report. Burning houses! The amulet gone forever! And Charlotte getting up to the most extraordinary—” The grandfather clock standing behind Miss Gloughenbury began to rock. But before that good lady could meet a timely end, Mrs. Pettifer stepped forward to announce, “Judith has gone!” The witches gasped with a passable rendition of dismay. The clock settled. Mrs. Pettifer, enjoying something about her sister for the first time in forty-eight years, grinned merrily. “Before she departed, Judith passed her authority on to Charlotte. Ladies, behold your new leader.” With a flourish, she indicated Charlotte, who smiled weakly and waved from the sofa. If the witches felt horror at this turn of events, one might blink and therefore be entirely unaware of it. They transformed their countenances with impressive speed into happy smiles, and crowding further into the room, proclaimed that it was marvelous news!—Charlotte was an excellent young woman!—the League was in ideal hands!—and other random superlatives that were entirely, wholeheartedly applicable to this situation! Charlotte hurried to her feet before the enthusiasm suffocated her. Alex, following suit, found himself literally bustled to one side. “What a splendid president you will make, darling,” Miss Gloughenbury said, grasping Charlotte’s hand and beating it up and down in an aggressive handshake. “And as for Judith, I do not wish to speak ill of the dead—” “She’s only left the country,” Mrs. Pettifer interjected. “Ah.” Miss Gloughenbury had the decency to not look too disappointed. “Well, she shall be missed indeed. Hm, ladies?” “Hm,” they agreed through tight lips. “I say, Charlotte, will you also be taking over your aunt’s charitable institutions?” The smile was full of teeth. Charlotte took a deep breath. It was all happening so fast. She did not have time to ascertain the most correct response, or the best way to hold her mouth, or even how to rescue her hand from Miss Gloughenbury’s grip before nerve damage occurred. Elizabeth Bennet was gone, Anne Elliot was gone; she had only herself to rely upon. The thought terrified her. Then Alex shifted slightly, clearing his throat, and as she glanced in his direction, Charlotte saw him smiling at her with calm certainty that she would be strong, fierce, gorgeous, brave. She realized then that although she could catch herself with her own magic if she ever fell, she had him now—steady beneath his swagger, kindhearted behind all his deadly weapons—so she could make even the most daring leap and be sure. “Ladies,” she said, and yanked her hand away from Miss Gloughenbury so firmly, the elder witch squeaked. “I will not be emulating my aunt’s charitable schemes. I intend to run my own philanthropy—and indeed the entire agenda of the Wicken League—on a new model.” The witches exchanged worried glances. “Rather than deciding ourselves what is right for the world, we will consult with those who would benefit from our witchcraft as to what would be most helpful for their circumstances, and follow that guide.” The worried glances became alarmed stares. “A fine scheme in principle,” Mrs. Chuke murmured. “Unfortunately, dear, people rarely know what is best for them.” “But I—” “Jolly good to see you trying to be clever,” Mrs. Vickers added with a smile so condescending Charlotte felt it knock ten years off her life. “Your charming little ideas will show just how valuable our League’s time-honored conventions are.” “But as your president—” “It will be reassuring to have another Plim at the helm,” Miss Gloughenbury averred. “Tradition is always such a comfort.” “My tarot spread this morning depicted that very thing,” Mrs. Vickers said, nodding emphatically. “And my crystal ball showed me a steady, familiar path for the League into the future,” Miss Gloughenbury agreed. “I see,” Charlotte said. And she did, with a clarity so bright it blistered her. She muttered behind the clenched teeth of her smile. Teacups began rising from the table. “Good heavens!” Mrs. Pettifer cried out, trying to catch them. Cushions began rising from the sofas. “Charlotte, dear,” Miss Gloughenbury said, her eyes narrowing. “Are you quite the thing?” “Of course she is!” Mrs. Pettifer said indignantly, her arms full of saucers. “Remember that Lottie is after all the Prophesized One, true heir of Beryl Black.” “Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” Miss Gloughenbury said, not taking her stare from Charlotte even for one blink. Charlotte’s stomach dropped. Cups and cushions crashed down along with it. Ignoring her mother’s gasp, she stared at the bonfires in Miss Gloughenbury’s eyes. “Despite the shambles of this past week,” the lady went on, her smile making cutlass-shaped creases in her taut face, “we can all agree that Charlotte is a good girl.” And there it was—the force that had driven Aunt Judith all these years. Not power but fear. Not authority but obedience. With bleak irony, Charlotte realized she was indeed heir to the forces that had driven Beryl Black’s destiny. She’d be able to keep the League in check, but only if she kept herself in check also. Show too much power and not enough obedience, too much magic and not enough manners, and the fire would burn for her just as it had for Beryl. Miss Plim might be gone, but Miss Gloughenbury was ready in the wings. And even if she asked Alex to fly the woman off the edge of the world, there would still be Mrs. Chuke, and Cousin Eugenia, and even her mother, well-meaning but having internalized Plimmishness so completely, she could not see beyond her own tea leaves. Charlotte might rise to League leadership, but the sensitivities that sparked her joy in magic, in life itself, would have to be repressed again and kept that way forever. Suddenly, Alex stepped forward. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” he said. They turned to frown at him, but before they could speak he took Charlotte around the waist and hoisted her over his shoulder. “Egads!” Miss Gloughenbury gasped. “What are you doing, young man?” Mrs. Chuke demanded. “Be careful of the Fabergé crystal!” Mrs. Pettifer cried. “I am kidnapping your leader,” Alex said, grinning piratically. “If you have a problem with that, I advise you to take it up with the Wisteria Society.” He began to stride toward the door, Charlotte speechless in his grasp. “You cannot kidnap her!” Mrs. Chuke said. “She is the kidnapper in your relationship.” Alex laughed. “She certainly stole me, it’s true. Heart and soul, the very moment I saw her. And now I am stealing her from you. Good evening, ladies.” “But this will bring the feud upon us all over again!” Miss Gloughenbury said. “It will indeed,” Alex agreed cheerfully. A moment of silence followed as the witches processed this. “You knave!” Miss Gloughenbury shouted, crossing to pour herself a cup of tea. “Outrageous!” Mrs. Chuke declared, settling comfortably onto a sofa. “But Lottie,” Mrs. Pettifer said in a tremulous voice. “Will there still be a wedding?” Charlotte’s heart, swooping wildly, felt an unexpected, gentle tug of familial love. She looked out through the tumble of her hair to smile at Mrs. Pettifer. “You continue preparations, Mama, and I shall return briefly from being kidnapped to attend it.” The witches fell to murmuring excitedly amongst themselves. From her inverted position, Charlotte heard them say something about Lettice having actually pointed at Eugenia Cuttle-Plim’s mother when prophesizing Beryl’s true heir all those years ago, not Delphine Pettifer, and therefore Eugenia was the real Prophesized One. She would have laughed had that been appropriate for a kidnappee. Alex carried her from the room, pausing only so she could say good-bye to Woollery (and Alex could steal his pocket watch). As they passed through into the entrance hall, Miss Gloughenbury tapped a teaspoon against a cup peremptorily. “Ladies, ladies, if you will kindly come to order . . .” A shiver went through Charlotte’s blood. That could have been her. She’d been one Mansfield Park quote away from corseting her life forever. If not for a week of madness with a wild pirate, she might never have learned what a witch she really was. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said to Alex. He laughed. “Just returning the favor.”
And so they fled. Which is to say, they went upstairs, and Charlotte packed several suitcases and wrote a reference for her lady’s maid, while Alex complained good-naturedly about just how many books she was bringing . . . then there was a handshake with her father, who accidentally came upon them in the hall and managed to say a gruff word or two about making wise investments . . . then they were almost to the door when Mrs. Pettifer rushed out to ask if they wanted lilies or roses at the wedding reception, and ensure Charlotte had packed a toothbrush, and wish her a most delightful abduction indeed . . . after which they left the house hand in hand and never looked back. Until three minutes later, when Charlotte realized she had forgotten her favorite teacup, but after that they crossed the road to Alex’s rumpled little battlehouse and, like proper lovers, flew away into the sunset.
The old stone cottage illuminated the darkening sky like a piratic moon as Bixby steered it one-handedly, a Thackeray novel in his other hand and half an eye on the horizon. He was heading nowhere in particular—“away,” Charlotte had told him, and while he did not approve, he obeyed. Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Charlotte and Alex undertook a mature conversation. “I’m going to exercise you so much you won’t be able to walk straight for days,” Alex said, tugging on Charlotte’s corset ribbons. “Don’t be too sure,” she replied, unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ve become quite fit, this past week.” “Oh darling, you have no idea how much core strength you’re going to develop.” The corset clattered to the floor. Her chemise followed soon thereafter. “On that subject,” Charlotte said, trailing a finger across his chest—“when you eventually do ask the question to which you alluded earlier, I will not expect a speech.” “Really?” He pressed her back against the wall and pulled down her drawers, maneuvering them carefully over her boots so as to not cause a premature ejection of darts. “Don’t women like such speeches?” “In principle. But in the actual moment, you should be too overcome with emotion to articulate properly.” “I see.” Kneeling before her, he looked up with a feral grin. “I’m sure I can manage to be inarticulate.” He then employed his mouth to render her so thoroughly wordless herself, she could not even recall the witty rejoinder she had intended to make. Her legs trembled to such a degree, he had to hold them steady with his hands. Her voice floated away on a cloud of warm, blissful breath. As she watched the rose-gold sunset shimmer and blur in her dazed vision, she realized he was doing again what he’d done all through their relationship—silencing her with pleasure. Using intimacy like a barrier against the truths neither of them dared to articulate. “Stop,” she gasped. He obediently abandoned his endeavors and instead kissed his way up her body, as if racing toward her mouth before she could say another thing. “No, I mean stop altogether, if you please.” He sat back, and both of them took a moment to breathe. Then he stood, all six feet of him moving like a weapon even in his nakedness, casting a heavy shadow against the wall. He cupped a calloused, scarred hand against her face. “Are you all right?” But Charlotte found she could not speak again, spellbound by the concern so apparent in his eyes. The house shook on a sudden updraft even as her pulse was shaking, and they stumbled, falling in a tangle on the bed that Charlotte had come to love for its lush, comfortable messiness (although she planned to fumigate the entire room around it). Alex gathered her to him, steadying her softness against all his hard places. For a moment it looked as if he might start kissing her again, so she laid a hand against his heart. “I want to talk.” “Talk?” he said, as if he did not understand the concept. “Yes. There is much of importance we should discuss, now that we have eloped.” She gathered a list of well-considered topics in her mind, lined them up neatly, and was about to announce the first when suddenly she found her voice tumbling out ahead of her . . . “I imagine when Cecilia Bassingthwaite ran away with a pirate, she was entirely dignified?” Alex frowned slightly. “Why are we talking about Cecilia in this moment?” “And she has proper red hair.” “Um?” “On the other hand, it takes a witch to fly a bicycle.” Alex’s mouth twitched as if he was trying to repress a smile. “Charlotte, are you afraid of Cecilia Bassingthwaite?” Charlotte scoffed. “What a ridiculous question. That’s enough talking; let’s kiss.” She moved toward him, but he leaned back, touching a finger to her lips. “It is safe to be frightened, you know.” “Ha.” She almost bit his finger. “So says the deadly pirate.” “Oh, I am afraid all the time,” he answered, and then winced as if immediately regretting the words. Charlotte looked at him soberly. He was smiling in the wry, sharp manner she recognized as a defense, and she abruptly forgot all her own vulnerability in response to his. “Because of your childhood?” she asked as softly as she could after a lifetime of speaking feral magic. “I suppose,” he said, and his gaze slid from hers into a darkness she realized not even love had yet banished. She clutched his bare arms, holding him from sliding too far. “Tell me what frightens you, so I can break it into pieces and sweep it away.” He gave a brusque laugh. “Not even you could manage that, Lottie my love.” “Oh?” She hooked a leg over his, the silk of her stocking slipping up and down his skin. “Are you underestimating me, Captain O’Riley?” His smile trembled as he looked back at her. “Never. And really, it’s nothing. Poverty. Love. Memory. God. Go ahead and scoff at me, I deserve it.” Charlotte’s eyes filled with a darkness of her own as she returned his gaze. “I would never scoff at that, or deny the courage it takes to live a fierce, fun, piratic life despite such a shadow on the heart. I am afraid of Cecilia Bassingthwaite. Not that she will hurt me, but that she might not like me. I am afraid constantly of doing the wrong thing. Saying the wrong thing. Being burned alive for witchcraft. Loneliness. Myself.” “Ouch.” He kissed her temple, her brow, the corner of her mouth. “Those are some heavy fears.” “As are yours. And yet still you smuggle food into Ireland to feed the poor, even though you were hurt so badly there, you’ve repressed your natural accent.” He shrugged. “I admit that I enjoy doing some good with the resources I have. And I’d rather steal food for the poor than get myself an elegant new sofa. But don’t tell anyone I said that. I’d be a laughingstock.” “Your secret is safe with me.” He gave her then the true smile she loved so much, crooked and sweet. “And your heart is safe with me, Lottie. You’ll never be lonely again, not for as long as I live.” “Oh.” She caught her breath. Wicked man. Wicked, fiendish, beloved man. “Tá mé i ngrá leat, mavourneen,” he whispered, his voice like white ocean and loam-scented rain. Charlotte did not need to know Irish to understand what he was saying. His bare heart was in the words, and her wild witch heart heard it. “I love you,” she said in return. His smile faded into an expression that went unfathomably deeper, and Charlotte felt a reflection of it in her own body. She lay back, and he moved over her with the calm mastery that had first drawn her to him, all those days ago in a St. James’s teahouse. As he slowly filled her, body and soul, she prophesized that this was how it would be from now on. Not just exercise, but love in the light. Her magic stirred in response. “Charlotte!” Alex said with a surprise that would have been outright trepidation in a man less aware of his reputation as calmly masterful. “I adore you,” she answered—but it came out in the ancient language of dreams, lifting them from the bed. “This is very high-minded of you,” he said, shifting to ease his weight from her as they continued to rise. “I tired of waiting for your proposal, so am elevating our relationship to a new level.” He laughed and kissed the magic on her lips. And then— “Ow!” He winced as his head hit the ceiling. “Sorry, sorry,” Charlotte said, but he was laughing again, and as he went back to kissing her she tasted his delight. Her incantation quivered, sending magic and happiness vibrating through her body. Passion flashed against it with each move Alex made. She even felt a small tremor of fear as the air swayed around them, suggesting at any moment they might tip over and fall. It was a beautiful but chaotic moment, and like some kind of pirate she surrendered to it. Alex shifted onto his knees, setting the palm of his hand against the ceiling to stabilize them. Charlotte spread herself before him, floating, incantating. Her golden bee charms fluttered around her hard-pulsing wrist. Her hair swirled free. She was so content, she did not even notice the cobwebs dangling nearby. She saw only Alex, knowing he saw only her, as he took her with him into their own private heaven. Afterward, they eased carefully back to earth, and Charlotte cuddled close against the black-inked barbs protecting Alex’s heart. “Now this is a perfect happy ending,” she sighed. “You’re wrong,” he said, brushing the hair (and a grimy strand of cobweb he wisely did not mention) away from her eyes. “Are you arguing with me in this romantic moment, sir?” “Yes. And I’ll show you why there will be no happy endings for us.” He spoke solemnly, but Charlotte was unafraid. They dressed again, gathering clothes at random from the floor, then Alex led the way through the darkening house, up the attic ladder to the roof. The house was gliding peacefully toward a darkening horizon stranded with the last wistful ribbons of day. The world beneath was indistinct, like the memory of a story but none of the words. Charlotte shivered as she sat on the ridgepole next to her pirate, and he slipped his arm around her. “I’m not cold,” she assured him. A residue of magic or love coursed like warm, sweet tea through her body. “I know,” Alex said, smiling. And she saw in his eyes that he did know—he saw her, and understood who she truly was. The warmth in her flared. “You’re in thrall to the sky,” he said, and she nodded, loving him, loving him so much. He pointed to the velvet gray of north, where stars were beginning to appear. “Tomorrow I’m taking you there.” “Where, exactly?” she asked, witch-like. “Anywhere, darling. Into the forever. Into a life of endless wondrous beginnings.” Her heart rose up, singing, to meet that wild path of stars. “Well, then,” she said, grinning. “Tally ho!”