Chapter 10 - Marjorie is Invited to a Ball

Marjorie could not believe that Papa had not declined the invite. “Are you considering it?” she pestered. “Oh, Papa, would you allow me to attend the ball?”

Table of Contents:
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Recap: In the previous chapter, Bamoy the magician confessed to his daughter, Marjorie, that the grimoire he had long called his own was not, in fact, his. He also told her that she was in line to inherit the book, which explained why she was able to read sentences on its pages, while for him the letters were indecipherable.

Marjorie agreed to help her father search for a spell in the grimoire potent enough to banish the Elf from their graveyard. She was determined that no such creature would drive the family out of their home.

Thus began her first day of training in magic.

Will Marjorie be able to get the hang of the magical arts on time, before something else happens to unleash chaos?

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Though Marjorie loved their home, including the graveyard in which it was built, she could not deny the relief that washed over her as she rode with her father towards town. It was a comfort to place distance between herself and the headstones.

She might have been startled the night before after seeing a light through the hedge, but what she now felt was different. It was not the sort of fear that would tempt her to hide under her bed. This was no longer a situation from which she could excuse herself.

Marjorie had made up her mind that morning to offer Papa assistance. However, she had not expected the nature of the assistance he would request. The only thing that kept her confident was the fact that, when she held the grimoire, it had spoken to her.

Your name could be there, Papa had said.

Marjorie was no longer the girl who played hide-and-go-seek among the headstones. Fifteen summers did not sound at first like a great number, but Papa’s confidence in her made the number seem twice as large. She might as well have been thirty. She might as well have been one hundred.

If the grimoire had chosen to cooperate with Marjorie, it meant she was no longer a child. Her years of skipping up leaf-strewn paths were over. One day, she might manage a business of her own, much like her father’s. One day, she might also be given an affectionate moniker by the townspeople. 

It depended on whether they could rid themselves of that pest, the Elf. After all, the town could not give a moniker to a witch who was not there, and Mama already said that there was a chance they would have to leave…

As they neared the buildings of St. Claire’s Town, she felt compelled to ask a question.

“Papa? You said that the grimoire passes to the eldest child of a magical family. But if something happened to Aunt Astrid, would it not then go to you?”

It didn’t make sense that he had bestowed the honor of the inheritance to her, unless there was a stipulation in the magical rulebook that she’d yet to be informed about.

Papa mulled over her question in sullen silence.

“You are asking,” he said at last, “if I would inherit, should my sister die?”

“Yes,” said Marjorie, voice dropping as she sensed that her question hit a nerve.

He shifted uneasily on his horse, not looking her in the eye.

“You do not know the power of a fully-trained witch,” Papa said. “It is unlikely that anything should happen to kill my sister. But if that should come to pass…”

“Would you not, under any circumstances, be able to inherit the book?” she pressed. “You are family, after all.”

“I suppose I would inherit the book if Astrid dropped dead today,” he said reluctantly. “However, it would not be honorable. It wouldn’t change the fact that I stole it. Even if I were to inherit the grimoire, it will never be mine.”

Marjorie sensed that the subject had come to an end. Papa urged his horse to move faster, and so did she. Before she knew it, they were within walking distance of the town at the foot of the hill.

Consisting mostly of farmers and lumberjacks, the town of St. Claire’s was larger than it had been when the graveyard was in use—but it didn’t have much to boast of. St. Claire’s was so far from any city that families moved away on a yearly basis.

Marjorie often did not learn about these migrations until her father mentioned them; he learned of local goings-on because he visited with his wares. She thought about asking whether Felicity’s family remained there, then figured he would have mentioned if her best friend had moved away.

Unless it slipped his mind, Marjorie thought, uncertainly. He’s not gotten much sleep since yesterday.

But she had already upset him with her previous questions, so she bit her tongue. She would find out in due time whether Felicity was available for a visit.

Though the ghostly drop in temperature had also affected town, it was not so severe. The graveyard was far enough away that distance diluted the curse; she did not see her breath go up in the form of vapor.

All the same, women wore thick woolen cloaks as they chatted and hung up their laundry. Children in jumpers played on sidewalks, creating more stains for their mothers to scrub. A group of men returned from the forest, carrying piles of chopped wood with which to warm their homes. They were laughing at a comment that one of them had made.

When Marjorie and Papa came into view, all of this came to a halt. The women stopped mid-gossip to beam at their visitors; the men looked sheepishly at one another, as if fearing Bamoy might have heard the comment that caused them mirth. The way they glanced at her implied that their banter had not been suitable for a lady’s ears.

She caught the eye of one of the men. He seemed to be the youngest, perhaps a bit older than her. He trailed behind the others as if he did not quite belong.

Marjorie smiled at him encouragingly, not wishing for the youth to be afraid of her father. The young man returned her smile, offering a clumsy bow (it was difficult to bow properly while carrying wood in one’s arms).

“Bamoy!” cried a young girl, whose woolen dress had soaked in a generous amount of mud.

The children abandoned their mud pies and rushed to greet him. They were followed by the wood-bearing men, who raised their free hands in greeting.

“We wondered when you would be coming,” called the leader of the group. His silver hair denoted him as the oldest, perhaps the town patriarch. “It’s been a good month since you’ve joined us for an ale.”

“My apologies.” Papa dismounted his horse, opening his bag. Reaching inside, he retrieved from it one of his sealed jars. “I had to dig in the forest for an ingredient or two. I hope this will provide relief for your lady wife’s cough, Mr. Perry.”

Mr. Perry set his pile of wood on the ground and received the jar from Papa. “Just in time,” he said, with a grateful smile. “With winter approaching, it’s been getting worse. The sudden chill we’ve felt since last night has caused me to worry. I contemplated visiting your house to ask if you might know what the matter is.”

Papa’s smile became uneasy. “You’re welcome at my home any time,” he said, choosing his words with care, “but I prefer to come, myself. I need fresh air.”

“Aye, and agreed,” said Mr. Perry. 

He reached into his pocket for a coin purse. He picked a generous handful of coins and handed them to Papa, who accepted the payment with a grateful bow of his head.

Papa then surprised Marjorie by handing her the coins. He flashed her a smile. The meaning was clear: Buy yourself something.

“This must be your daughter,” said Mr. Perry, as a giddy Marjorie tucked the coins into her cloak pocket. “She’s become a young lady since I’ve last seen her.”

“Oh, yes,” said Papa, beaming. “Clever, too. She’ll be coming with me to town more often. Mrs. Brahms agrees that I need an assistant, and Margo has proven more than once that she knows what she’s doing.”

Mr. Perry chuckled, wiping his hands on his coat sleeves. He turned and ushered the youth forward.

“This is my son, Julian. I’m sure you’ve seen him before, but he has a tendency to hide himself. Julian, this is our friend and lifesaver, Bamoy.” With haste (and a bit of a wry smile) he added, “And his daughter, Miss Marjorie Brahms.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Julian. “Miss Brahms.”

His flushed countenance might have been due to the cool breeze surrounding them. However, Marjorie noticed that Julian did not meet her gaze. He stood beside his father, hugging himself, as if wishing to become invisible.

“It’s a shame that your children didn’t attend the schoolhouse,” Mr. Perry continued. “There are plenty of young people in town who would be delighted to know Marjorie and Adam.”

“Yes, well,” said Papa, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “Nina preferred for them to be educated at home. You’ll be seeing more of Margo, as I’ve said. I’m sure Adam will tag along at some point. He’ll be angry enough that we left without him today.”

Mr. Perry pocketed the jar. He then knelt to retrieve the firewood, wiping sweat from his brow.

“I won’t keep you busy any longer, Bamoy,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of deliveries to make. If you need help, feel free to ask.”

“What’s the news in town?” Papa asked, as the group resumed their trek. The children trailed beside Marjorie, curious eyes fixed on her as if she were a creature rare as a unicorn.

“Matter of fact, there is,” Mr. Perry replied. “A woman checked in at Mrs. Gourd’s inn last week and has been making some most unusual…er…requests of the townsfolk regarding the furnishings of her room. She’s an American.” This he added with bewilderment, as if he thought the presence of an American odd as that of a banshee. “She offered no explanation as to why she decided to come here, rather than stay in fashionable Edinburgh.”

Marjorie stilled at the words she’s an American but maintained her graceful facade. Her hands began to sweat as she concentrated on keeping Marmie’s pace steady. Her father’s smile also stiffened; she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. 

No, it could not be Astrid. There were plenty of American women who liked to travel. The Brahms were simply feeling paranoid, after all that they had been through.

“Strange things do happen,” was all that Papa managed. He turned to Marjorie, his smile forced. “Come—our next stop isn’t far.”

Marjorie followed without a word.

They rode away from the wood-bearing men, the coins in her cloak making a pleasant clinking sound. Perhaps she would indulge and buy that new book by Mr. Dickens; she enjoyed reading his work during the winter.

Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes locked with those of Julian Perry. This time he held her gaze with a shy smile. Marjorie nodded a hasty farewell, wondering at the pleasant flutter that she felt in her chest.

They stopped at the home of an elderly woman named Mrs. Wood, who purchased a brew from Papa meant to ease stomach pain.

Mrs. Wood gushed over Marjorie’s presence as much as Mr. Perry had done.

“She has your keen gaze,” the woman said kindly. “Could she not join us for the ball Mrs. Widdington has planned for Saturday? I’m sure she would enjoy herself, and it would be a capital way for her to meet the people.”

Ball? Marjorie turned to her father with wide eyes. Because of his occupation, all social invitations had to be approved by him.

Her father’s expression was torn. She understood why: they were no ordinary family, and with an Elf tormenting them, who was to say that a tragedy wouldn’t take place?

Looking at his daughter, he must have seen her eagerness, for he did not shoot down the idea. The half-smile he wore gave her hope that perhaps he would agree.

“I’ll speak of it to my wife,” he told Mrs. Wood. “Perhaps Mrs. Brahms would also like to attend.”

“Yes, Bamoy,” said Mrs. Wood, and with a curtsy she closed the door, leaving Marjorie and her father to continue with their errands.

Marjorie couldn’t believe that Papa had not said a flat no to the prospect of a ball.

“Are you considering it?” she pestered, as she mounted Marmie again. “Oh, Papa, would you allow me to attend the ball?”

His smile was one of tender amusement. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t meet people your age. Let us see what happens tonight. We do not know if some other terror awaits us at the witching hour.” Pausing, he finished, “Consider that a perhaps, rather than a no.”

“I have nothing to wear to a ball,” panicked Marjorie. “I’ve never been to one.”

“There is a dress shop in town, my rose. I’ve given you payment in advance for your aid. However, be prepared. We are in an uncertain position. If I should decide the very hour before the ball that you will stay, I expect no arguing.”

Marjorie nodded. If her father perceived danger, that alone would be reason enough to stay home and take up arms. 

Not that I have any arms to take up, she thought with a smile. Perhaps I should use the money he gave me to purchase a dagger, instead.

But, no—she had little use for a dagger. She would use her money to find a dress suitable for a ball. Did not wealthy ladies have debuts? Marjorie would consider this to be hers, even if it was not being hosted by her family.

It would be the first time the town of St. Claire’s would see her as a proper lady. She lamented that she did not know how to dance. Perhaps Mama would give her instructions, so that she wouldn’t embarrass herself too much.

Assuming that anyone asks me to dance, she thought, with a sudden drop in spirits.

She was a stranger in this place—the elusive daughter of Bamoy, likely a subject of superstition. She was already on the path to becoming a witch.

Could a witch make friends at a ball? Would anyone ask a witch for a dance?

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Author’s Note: If you’re enjoying my stories and articles, consider supporting me as a writer by checking out my historical fantasy novels, The Sea Rose and The Sea King. Book one is currently 99c; book two is $3.99. They are both available on KU! ($3.99 can buy a used book as a resource, so I can continue writing articles for you!) Thank you for your time and continued support!