“Cyn, this is nonsense!” squeaked Gordon. He was probably never going to get through the breaking of his voice and come out the other side. “No one’s interested in what you were doing necking with that fourteen-year-old, the love bites will be gone by next week, and anyway they’re very sexy—ouch!” The flat of Cynthia’s hand had landed on Gordon’s cheek with a loud slap. “That hurt!”
“Poor Cynthia!” I whispered. “Once she knows that her beloved Mr. Whitman has left his job, she’s going to be devastated.”
“Yes, it’ll be odd without Mr. Squirrel. Could be we’ll even find ourselves enjoying English and history.” Lesley linked arms with me as we went toward the stairs. “Although let’s be fair. I never could stand him—my good sound instincts, I guess—but his classes weren’t so bad.”
“That’s not surprising. He’d seen it all live,” I said. Xemerius was flying along after us. On the way upstairs, I found myself feeling more and more melancholy.
“Maybe, but that’s no excuse. I hope he rots away in the Guardians’ dungeons,” said Lesley. “Oh, look, there’s Cynthia in floods of tears, running for the girls’ toilets!” She laughed. “Someone ought to tell her about Charlotte. I bet she’d feel better then. Where is Charlotte, anyway?” Lesley looked around.
“Seeing an oncologist!” I told her. “We did try pointing out to Aunt Glenda that there could be other reasons why Charlotte felt so unwell, looked green in the face, was in a shocking temper, and had a splitting headache, but the idea of a hangover is alien to Aunt Glenda, specially where her perfect daughter is concerned. She’s firmly convinced that Charlotte has leukemia. Or a brain tumor. And this morning, she wasn’t prepared to believe that Charlotte was miraculously cured, even though Aunt Maddy tactfully put a leaflet about adolescents and alcohol down right in front of her.”
Lesley giggled. “I know it’s mean of me, but I can’t help feeling, a little bit, that it serves Charlotte right. Just a little bit. That’s not inviting bad karma, is it? And only for today. From tomorrow we’ll be really nice to Charlotte, right? We might even try pairing her off with my cousin—”
“We might. If you really want a foretaste of hell, go ahead.” I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of James’s niche over the heads of the students in front of me. It was empty. Although that was only what I’d expected, I did feel a pang.
Lesley squeezed my hand. “He isn’t there anymore, is he?”
I shook my head.
“That means your plan worked. Gideon’s going to be a good doctor some day,” said Lesley.
“You’re not crying over that stupid boneheaded snob now, are you?” Xemerius turned a somersault in the air above my head. “Thanks to you, he led a long and happy life, although I bet he drove any number of people to distraction in the course of it.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, surreptitiously wiping my nose. Lesley gave me a tissue. Then she saw Raphael and waved to him.
“And you still have me. For the rest of your eternal life.” Xemerius dropped a kind of damp kiss on my cheek. “I’m much cooler than your friend James. And more dangerous. And more useful. And I’ll still be there if your immortal boyfriend changes his mind in a couple of centuries’ time and starts looking around for someone else. I’m the most faithful, beautiful, cleverest companion anyone could wish for.”
“Yes, I know,” I said again, as I watched Raphael and Lesley exchanging the three obligatory kisses on the cheek that, so Raphael had assured us, were the typical French way of saying hello. Their heads somehow managed to collide while they were doing it.
Xemerius gave me a cheeky grin. “Although if you feel lonely, how about getting yourself a cat?”
“Later, maybe,” I said. “When I’m not living at home, and if you behave—” I stopped. In front of me, a dark figure materialized right out of the wall of Mrs. Counter’s classroom. A skinny neck rose above a shabby velvet cloak, and above the neck, the black, hate-filled eyes of the Conte di Madrone, alias Darth Vader, were glaring at me.
He launched into his usual patter right away. “So here I find you, demon with the sapphire eyes! I have been wandering the centuries, never resting, searching everywhere for you and your like, for I swore death to you, and a Madrone never breaks his oath!”
“Friend of yours?” inquired Xemerius. I was frozen to the spot with shock.
“Aaaargh!” said the ghost in his throaty voice, drawing his sword and racing toward me with it. “Your blood shall drench the earth, demon! The swords of the sacred Florentine Alliance will run you through.…” He raised the sword to strike a blow that would have cut my arm off, if it had been a real sword and not just a ghostly one. I flinched, all the same.
“Hey, leave it out, friend!” Xemerius told the ghost, landing right in front of my feet. “We can do without any more stress and strain here. You obviously don’t have the faintest idea about demons. This is a human being—if rather an unusual one—and your silly ghost sword can’t do her any harm. If you want to kill demons, you’re welcome to try your luck with me.”
Darth Vader was irritated for a moment, but then he snarled, “I will never leave the side of this diabolical creature until I have fulfilled my task. I will curse every breath that she takes.”
I sighed. What a frightful prospect. I imagined Darth Vader sticking close to me for the rest of my life, uttering bloodthirsty threats. I would fail my exams with him breathing down my ear all the time, he’d wreck my graduation ball, he’d ruin my wedding day, and—
Xemerius was obviously thinking something similar. He looked innocently up at me. “Please may I eat him? Pretty please?”
I smiled at him. “If you ask me so nicely, how can I possibly say no?”
This weekend, Lord and Lady Pympoole-Bothame announced the betrothal of their eldest son, James Pympoole-Bothame, to the Honorable Miss Amelia Batton, the youngest daughter of Viscount Mountbatton. The engagement came as no surprise to anyone, since interested observers have been speaking for months of a tender relationship between the young couple, and according to rumor, they were to be seen walking hand in hand in the garden at the ball given at Claridge’s (see our earlier report). James Pympoole-Bothame, whose pleasing appearance and faultless manners distinguish him among the unfortunately small number of eligible men of means of marriageable age to be found in high society these days, is also an outstanding horseman and fencer, while his future wife is noted for her exquisite taste in the latest fashions and her laudable inclination to works of charity. The wedding of the couple will be celebrated in July, at the country residence of the Pympoole-Bothames.
FROM THE LONDON SOCIETY GAZETTE
LADY DANBURY’S JOURNAL
24 APRIL 1785
EPILOGUE
Belgravia, London
14 January 1919
“VERY PRETTY, my dear. Those muted colors look elegant yet also welcoming. It was worth sending to Italy for the curtain fabric, don’t you agree?” Lady Tilney had walked all around the drawing room examining everything. Now she went up to the broad mantelpiece and straightened out the photographs standing on it in their silver frames. Lucy was secretly afraid that she might run her gloved forefinger over the mantelpiece and tell her that she didn’t supervise the housemaid strictly enough. Which was definitely true.
“Yes, I must say, the furnishing is really stylish,” Lady Tilney went on. “The drawing room, you know, is the visiting card of any home. And here anyone can see at once that the lady of the house has good taste.”
Paul exchanged an amused glance with Lucy and gave Lady Tilney one of his bear hugs. “Oh, Margaret,” he said, laughing. “Don’t pretend this is all Lucy’s work. You chose every lamp and every cushion yourself. Not to mention the stern eye you kept on the upholsterer. And we can’t even return the favor by helping you to assemble an Ikea shelving unit.”
Lady Tilney’s brow wrinkled.
“Sorry, a little inside joke.” Paul bent down and put another log of wood on the crackling fire.
“It’s just a pity that that terrible, distorted picture ruins the whole effect of my esthetic composition!” complained Lady Tilney, pointing to the painting on the opposite wall. “Couldn’t you at least hang it in another room?”
“Margaret, that’s a genuine Modigliani,” said Paul patiently. “In a hundred years’ time, it’ll be worth a fortune. Lucy screeched for half an hour on end when she found it in Paris.”
“That’s not true. For a minute at the most,” Lucy contradicted him. “That picture, anyway, means that the future of our children and grandchildren is secure. That and the Chagall hanging on the staircase.”
“As if you needed it,” said Lady Tilney. “I am sure your book will be a bestseller, Paul, and I know that the Secret Service pays the two of you a truly impressive salary. As is only right, considering all you have done for the country.” She shook her head. “Although I cannot think it right for Lucy to pursue such a dangerous profession. I can hardly wait to see her settle down and become a little more domesticated. Which, thank God, will be the case now.”
“And I can hardly wait for the invention of central heating.” Shivering, Lucy dropped into one of the armchairs beside the fire. “Not to mention other things.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “They’ll be here in ten minutes’ time,” she said nervously. “Louisa could begin laying the table.” She looked at Paul. “How do you think Gwyneth will take the news that she’s going to have a little brother or sister? I mean, it’s bound to be an odd feeling.” She stroked the slight curve of her stomach. “Assuming that our child has children, they’ll be old before Gwyneth is even born. And maybe she’ll be jealous. After all, we left her behind when she was a baby, and now if she sees—”
“I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” Paul interrupted her. He put a hand on her shoulder and kissed her lovingly on the cheek. “Gwyneth is just as generous and loveable as you. And Grace.” He cleared his throat, to conceal his sudden emotion. “I’m far more afraid of the moment when Gwyneth and that young man tell me I’m going to be a grandfather,” he added. “I hope they’ll leave it for a few years yet.”
“’Scuse me!” The housemaid had come into the room. “I forgot, do I lay the table in the dining room or in here, Mrs. Bernard?”
Before Lucy could answer, Lady Tilney had taken a deep, indignant breath. “First, Louisa,” she said sternly, “you must knock on the door first. Second, you must wait until you hear the words come in. Third, you are not to appear in front of your master and mistress with your hair so untidy. And fourth, you do not address them as Mr. and Mrs. Bernard, but as sir and ma’am.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the intimidated housemaid. “I’ll just go and get the cake, then, ma’am.”