The Threads of Magic Alison Croggon (warren buffett book recommendations TXT) 📖

father every evening, and there would be endless dressmaking appointments. Sibelius had scheduled extra lessons about the history of Awemt, and there were rehearsals for the wedding. She wouldn’t have one second alone. Not even when she slept. She couldn’t see any chance of escape.

Georgette’s ladies-in-waiting fluttered about her, pressing cloths soaked with lavender to her forehead and drawing the curtains in her bedchamber to keep out the harmful light. Georgette hated this kind of fuss, but for once she didn’t object. Finally the duchess dosed her with laudanum.

Georgette swallowed the bitter draft obediently and allowed herself to be put to bed. She lay in the dim room feeling light-headed, letting her thoughts tumble disjointedly through her head. What now? Maybe Amina hadn’t forgotten her . . . And even if she had, perhaps escape wasn’t impossible? Maybe, she thought drowsily, there really is a way out . . .

She fell into a deep sleep almost right away and dreamed that she was making wine. Since she had no idea how wine was made, the dream consisted of her gathering huge bunches of pale green grapes, translucent as glass, and throwing them into a gigantic silver ewer, where they thundered in ever-decreasing circles until, through some process she could never quite see, they turned into bottles of wine. The sun was huge and round and sounded like rain, its golden light pouring down in cataracts of fluid light —

She woke up with a jump in the middle of the night as a particularly loud thunderclap broke over the palace. It wasn’t the sun making that noise, it was the rain, pouring down in floods outside. The window shutters were rattling violently.

Lady Agathe, fast asleep in her chair, hadn’t stirred. The bedchamber was still stuffy and hot, so Georgette climbed out of bed and opened the window. A gust of wind tore the shutters from her hand, rushing into her chamber and throwing a gout of rain over her. Georgette gasped and blinked.

She leaned out and stared over the palace garden. It was almost invisible through the rain and darkness, except when jagged lightning threw harsh illuminations over the thrashing trees. She shivered and reached out to catch the banging shutters. Finally, after a tussle, she managed to latch them again. By then her nightgown was soaked.

Lady Agathe was still fast asleep. That’s strange, thought Georgette. Surely all that noise should have woken her. And then, for no reason she could trace, she began to feel frightened. There was someone in the room watching her, she was sure . . . She squinted through the shadows but could see nothing. For some reason that didn’t reassure her: the conviction kept growing. She stepped over to her writing table and, her hands trembling slightly, struck a flint to light a candle. In its yellow light, the room seemed just as it should be. She breathed out. It was only her imagination. Nobody was here.

She was about to blow the candle out and climb back into bed when she saw a black cat sitting in the middle of the floor, gazing at her with emerald-green eyes. Somehow she hadn’t seen it before. Georgette laughed. “How did you get in here?” she said. “Lady Agathe will have a fit. She loathes cats . . .”

“Lady Agathe clearly has no taste,” said the cat. “And I should tell you that it was some business making my way through that storm.”

Georgette nearly dropped the candle. She stared, her mouth open.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” said the cat. “So you’d better get moving.”

“What?”

“If you want to leave the palace, that is. I’m told that’s what you want, and I have agreed, at considerable inconvenience to myself, to help you do it.”

Georgette pinched her arm, convinced that this must be an extension of her dream. But then, dreams could be real — she knew that now. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts. “Did Amina send you?”

“Missus Bemare to you, I should think.”

Georgette blinked.

“At the bottom of your bed there are some clothes. I suggest you put them on.” When Georgette still didn’t move, the cat growled softly. “Have you forgotten how to dress yourself?”

Georgette came out of her daze to find herself possessed with an unexpected hilarity. Why not do what the cat told her? And indeed, there were clothes at the end of the bed. Boy’s clothes. Linen undergarments, breeches, shirt, waistcoat, jacket, a pair of serviceable boots, a large cap. She glanced at Lady Agathe, still snoozing in her chair, and hurriedly dressed herself. Her hair was still in rags, twisted for morning ringlets, so she stuffed them under her cap. The cat watched her unblinkingly.

“Now,” it said, “follow me.”

“Are you magic?”

“That’s a very personal question.” The cat stretched. “You can ask questions later. As I have already told you, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“But I should call you something. I mean, you must have a name.”

“Day humans always pronounce it wrong. But you can call me Amiable.”

“Amiable?” Again the bubble of hilarity rose inside Georgette, but she suppressed it in case she might offend her rescuer. Whoever else this cat was, it seemed more haughty than amiable. “Delighted to meet you, Amiable. I never imagined I might be rescued by a cat.”

“Don’t be discourteous; it’s unbecoming.” Amiable was already at the door, which against all protocol was standing open. The cat whisked out into the passage.

Georgette took a deep breath before she followed. This was too absurd to be true. But it felt real.

The palace at night was spooky, especially with the storm raging outside. Empty, echoing spaces stretched into shadow, and tapestries billowed in stray drafts. Painted faces loomed out of the gloom when lightning flashes seared across the dark halls, making Georgette start. Despite the howling wind and thunder, no one was awake — not even the guards who were supposed to watch the doors. Everything was drowned in sleep.

All the lights were doused, but Amiable seemed to