The Query:
It is the winter of 1805 and the only thing sixteen year old
Arlen Devlin is thinking of is the ball that will introduce her to high
society and that ‘elegant madness’ known as The Season. But when her
parents are suddenly killed, Arlen's life takes a decidedly witchy turn,
beginning with the discovery of a grandmother she never knew and a book of
spells that has been handed down for generations. However, this isn’t just any
book of spells. This is a family’s heritage, a compilation of every scrap of magick
gathered over the course of history. It’s the family’s grimoire. And someone
wants hers.
Soon Arlen learns
that the tragedy that took her parents’ lives may not have been an accident and
hers isn’t the only heirloom book of spells. Each of the five great witch
families has one and whoever holds the book holds the power in this England,
where magick has as much influence as money, spells are traded for favors, and
witches are courted like queens.
It will take every
talent Arlen has – her mastery of the imp, Vathek, her ability to talk to the
dead, and her flair for potions – to navigate this new world, and maybe, if
she’s very careful and very clever, she’ll survive.
The First Chapter:
Chapter One - February
1805/Providence
It
was a fine day for a sale, brisk but sunny; a good day for traveling as
evidenced by the crowd in the lane. Most came to buy. Some came out of
curiosity. None of them noticed her sitting in the hall, alone, left with
nothing but a single trunk.
Arlen watched
them, blinking back furious tears, winding her fingers together so tight it
hurt. She itched to slap their hands away from whatever they touched, snatch
back what they’d bought. How dare they? These were her things!
Except…they
weren’t.
Not anymore.
Her parents,
coming home from a dinner party in nearby Saxton Greene, had been killed when
their carriage careened into the pond at the entrance to the property. They
were found with their driver all frozen and stiff the next morning when one of
the kitchen maids walked in from the village. The coroner said it was an
accident.
Not long after,
Mr. P. T. James Esquire, Solicitor to her father’s estate, arrived to give her
worse news, if such a thing was possible. Her father, through a series of bad
investments and heavy borrowing, had left nothing in the way of assets behind.
In fact, the estate’s debts were such that everything would have to be sold.
Now all the pretty
things her parents had collected, the baubles and crystal lamps, the paintings
in their gilt frames, the plants in the conservatory – including the lovely
gown she was supposed to wear for her coming out ball – were walking out in the
hands of strangers.
It was all she
could do not to scream.
She looked at the
single trunk left to her, stuffed with everything she could manage to get in
it. That was all she was allowed per the papers she’d been advised to sign. A
single trunk.
She sighed and
wished it were over, hoping there might be enough left to buy her way to London
to find work – although what she would do there she had no idea. She’d never
done anything more strenuous than riding. She wouldn’t know an ash bin from an
ash pan and it had occurred to her more than once that her future appeared
quite dim indeed – if she even had one.
She untangled her
fingers and wiped a stray tear, blinking angrily. She would not cry, she told
herself with a sniff. Not now. Later maybe, when she was alone, when she
was…wherever she might be…
She took a deep
ragged breath and cast her eyes toward the open door where people had been
coming and going since dawn. The cold air swirled around her ankles every time
someone walked by – as they did now.
“Hullo?”
Arlen snapped her
head up.
A saucy looking
boy her own age looked her up and down before asking, “Where’s Mr. James?”
She gazed up at
him in surprise. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she answered shortly. How
could she? He could be in any one of the thirty-two rooms. Rooms that used to
be hers, she thought bitterly.
He shook his head and
muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, already half way to the
double doors that led to the oval gallery.
She was no one now,
she realized, not Arlen Calvinia Devlin, who had been named after her great
grandfather and a place in Africa she had never seen, but just Arlen Devlin. Or
perhaps it would be Miss Devlin. Or…God forbid…perhaps they would call her
something else entirely. She had heard of a countess who refused to call
servants by their given names, and instead insisted upon calling them all Ted
and Mary.
She shuddered, a
sense of unreality washing over her, knotting her stomach. Another draft of icy
air wound around her ankles, biting through the thin stockings, and she heard
whispers…
“…an accident, I
understand…”
“Didn’t they have
a child?”
“A daughter…”
“…left with
nothing, can you imagine? It will be the workhouse for her…”
The rest was lost
as they moved past but an image came to Arlen’s mind, an image of the Devlins –
her family – gathered in the library to hear the reading of the will.
She hadn’t noticed it then but now she saw how eager they had all been, like
dogs at mealtime. Afterwards, when Mr. James had finished telling them there
wasn’t a farthing to be had, they had all looked at one another, stunned and
silent, until Arlen had asked, “What about me?”
“I expect one of
your relatives will have to take you in,” Mr. James said.
And that was when
she’d felt the cruelest blow of all. They all began to protest at once,
claiming financial difficulty, not enough room, too many mouths to feed, etc. Without
further ado or a backward glance they left.
“Well,” Mr. James
had said after a long and uncomfortable silence, “I don’t suppose there was
someone who did not come, someone on your mother’s side of the family perhaps?”
Arlen had shaken
her head; as far as she knew she had no living relatives on her mother’s side
of the family. At least, her mother had never spoken of any. And her father’s
side of the family had just walked out. Her world, so neat and secure, had
collapsed like a house of cards, leaving her behind in the paper wreckage.
“I shall look into
it, of course,” Mr. James had said, gathering his papers, “But in the meantime,
I’m afraid everything will have to be sold. Your parents were lovely people but
neither of them had a head for business.”
Arlen stared at
him, wordless. How could this have happened?
He rose then with a sigh. “Are you quite
certain there is no one?”
She nodded.
“Well, perhaps
there is something I overlooked, something in your father’s papers.” He offered
what was meant to be an encouraging smile but Arlen was not encouraged. Instead
it seemed everything grew darker and closer about her. She shivered, pulling
her cashmere shawl close around her shoulders.
He promised to
look into the matter and left Arlen in the study with a fire burning in the
hearth that did nothing to warm her. After he had gone, she wandered about the
house in a daze, only vaguely aware of the days passing, never noticing the
servants slipping away, until she woke up one morning to find the house cold and
empty.
It had been weeks
before anyone had come. She didn’t remember their names but she remembered the
papers they brought for her to sign along with the terms of the sale. Now it
was just a matter of seeing the estates debt settled. She knew she would be
fortunate to get a pound or two. Sadly, she had no idea what that would buy.
A long sigh
escaped her. Outside the sun still lingered, but it would not be long until
dusk. She shivered, wondering where she would be, knowing only that it wouldn’t
be here. Another sigh was on the verge of escaping when she heard footsteps and
saw Mr. James, walking toward her, beaming, waving a piece of paper in the air.
“I have wonderful
news!”
Arlen’s heart
fluttered in trepidation.
“You have a
great-aunt or something on your mother’s side of the family and she has sent 5£
for your journey! She says a carriage should be around this afternoon. Better
fetch your things.”
Arlen stared at
him a moment longer, the information slow to sink in. She gestured to the
trunk. “This is everything,” she said.
“Ah, good then!
You’ll be ready when the coach arrives.”
Thankfully she did
not have much longer to wait in the frigid entryway of a house that was no
longer hers. The mail coach arrived and Arlen soon found herself sandwiched between
a brisk looking matron and a portly gentleman in tweed who smelled of pipe
tobacco. She turned around for one last glimpse of the house in which she’d
grown up.
For a brief moment it looked perfectly ordinary and
familiar, just as it always had – until she spotted two figures standing in the
shadow of the portico, both of whom bore a strong resemblance to her parents.
They waved cheerily at her, as if she were going off on a grand journey.
