Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(41)

I didn’t know how to tell Mrs. Dalrymple that I’d not only met her granddaughter, but had stood by and done nothing while Callista terrorized her. So I settled for blushing horribly as Mrs. Dalrymple beckoned Ivy from across the room. She clucked her tongue as Ivy approached in a green dress accented with burnt prune lace. “I don’t know why my daughter insists on dressing her in the Cowell house colors. They flatter no one.”

I did not let my expression change, because I was having enough trouble marinating in my shame over my treatment of Ivy, even while she fed me information about Callista’s wardrobe insecurities. My classmate dropped a curtsy to her grandmother. “Yes, Grandmama?”

“Ivy, dear, have you met the lovely Miss Reed?”

“Yes,” Ivy said, carefully, nodding toward me. “We are acquainted.”

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Dalrymple banged her cane on the floor. “Now, do take her around and introduce her to some of the more pleasant young people.”

“Oh, Grandmama, I couldn’t do that.”

“It’s really not necessary,” I protested.

“Of course, it is,” Mrs. Dalrymple assured me. “Now, run along and be charming.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, curtsying even as Ivy sent me a miserable look. And despite the fact that Mrs. Winter and a good portion of magical society was watching

“I’m so sorry,” I told Ivy. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Why, because you’re afraid Callista will see you walking with me?” Ivy asked pointedly. “Afraid she won’t hand you your bonbon this week?”

“No.” I stopped in the middle of the crush of well-dressed people watching the students dance in intricate patterns on the ballroom floor.

“It’s not like you’re the only one who stands by and does nothing,” she said, her voice softening a bit. “And it’s not like I’m her only target, merely her favorite.” She cleared her throat and offered me a brilliant smile. “Now, let’s introduce you to at least three people, so I can claim that I fulfilled my promise to my grandmother. And then I’m going to go hide behind a potted fern and eat profiteroles.”

“I may join you,” I sighed. “I love profiteroles.”

Ivy snickered and dragged me along. It was difficult to accomplish, moving through the crowd as if I had the right to be there, to enjoy myself, instead of carefully maneuvering around wide hoop skirts and oblivious men while hefting a heavy tray of punch cups. How could I be vivacious and bright when, in my head, I was calculating exactly how many minutes I had before I had to collect, wash, and recirculate the silverware?

But Ivy gamely made the rounds with me, tucking her arm through mine and adding thoughtful comments to her stammered introductions to some of the less intimidating students, such as “This is Kipling Cartwright. He collects exotic snake scales.” Or “This is Annalise Chun. She once brewed a dream draught so strong it ate through her cauldron, the table and flooring under it.”

It was clearly as uncomfortable for her as it was for me, but I admired her for doing something that put her on edge, despite the help I’d never given her. Owen, on the other hand, had abandoned me completely, standing on the far side of the ballroom, laughing with his friends from Palmer. I thought about doing something that would call his absence into Mrs. Winter’s attention, when I heard a gasp from behind me.

The undersized girl from the library, who as it turned out, was not a ghost, was standing near a bank of potted palms, her pretty, if a little juvenile, green silk dress had been stained with one of the dreaded strawberry tarts. The sticky red filling splattered across her waistline like a bloody wound. Given the way Callista’s crony, Millicent, was sauntering away with a triumphant little smirk on her face, I doubted very much the jostle that deposited the tart on the younger girl’s dress was an accident. And since Millicent had never had an original thought in her life, I guessed that this was somehow Callista’s handiwork.

“Oh, no,” the stained girl whispered, glancing around the room, though I wasn’t sure if she was looking for help or checking to see who had seen the incident.

“Oh, that poor little girl,” I sighed. “That’s low, picking on a first-year student, even for Callista.”

“Alicia McCray isn’t a first-year student. She’s just small for her… our age. She’s not well, never has been.”

I looked at the ghost-girl, Alicia, again, noting the wary wisdom around her eyes, the sardonic twist to her lips. She was older than she looked. What could this poor sickly girl have done to draw Callista’s “notice?”

“Alicia was born with a condition called ‘reverberation.’ Her magic is strong, but her body isn’t capable of repairing itself from the energy drain involved when she uses it. So the echo of her magic turns inward and festers, I suppose, is the best way to put it. Sometimes, it can explode in large, destructive bursts, which only makes the patient suffer more afterwards.”

“Is that why she’s small and pale?” I asked. The circumstances sounded all too familiar. What was it about magic that could drain a person’s health away so completely? It seemed so counter-intuitive that a force that was supposed to give so much to your life was able to make it so miserable. Then again, my magic was coming back into balance and I wasn’t exactly overflowing with happiness.