Changeling (Sorcery and Society Book 1)(54)

“How does this work?” I asked, touching my fingertips to the glass.

“Have you truly never seen a scrying message before?” she asked.

“I thought scrying mirrors were for divination, seeking answers in meditation, that sort of thing,” I said.

“They are, but when we need to send our close acquaintances a quick note, we just think of that person and use the tips of our blades to write a message on our mirrors. It will appear on which ever glass is closest to the recipient. Generally, they’re very private messages, so I suppose it makes sense that you’ve never seen one.”

“But why do you spend so much time writing letters and invitations?” I asked.

Mrs. Winter shook her head. “Well, as I said, scry-messaging is just for quick notes. Paper is necessary for formal invitations and correspondence. How else can you intimidate your friends and enemies with the quality of your stationery?”

“You… can’t?” I guessed as she penned an elegant reply on my mirror.

“Now, my question for you is, did you honestly think that inviting Miss Cowell here was a sound notion?” she asked, lifting a brow.

I cringed. She was right. I hadn’t thought that through. I didn’t have the right to ask anyone to Raven’s Rest as my guest, particularly without asking Mrs. Winter first. I was not a member of the family. I wasn’t even a guest really. How exactly, did I expect to maintain my story, asking my classmates from Castwell’s here, where my family was serving as Snipes? Did I really think I could sit quietly and accept tea and cakes made by my mother? What if Mary passed through the parlor while Alicia and Ivy chatted about school? I wouldn’t have been able to stand that pressure. I would have blurted out the whole ugly story and ruined myself.

“I should have asked you before I invited my classmates here,” I said. “I am sorry.”

“Yes, you should have, but that’s not the point,” she said. “It’s expected that a girl from a prominent family would invite her classmates to see her home. We would have sent your family away for the afternoon. No, what I am telling you, is that you should aim higher than Ivy. Yes, she has a desirable connection to Mrs. Dalrymple, but she’s hardly top-tier material. The Cowells are a minor house at best. Alicia McCray is quite the coup, though. She’s not a very social creature, from what I understand. And from what I hear from Madame Beamis’s shop, you caught the brother’s eye, as well. So perhaps your strategy is more appropriate to the situation.”

“Or it could be that showing kindness is the right thing to do,” I pointed out. “And sometimes, good things come out of that.”

“Yes, very amusing, dear,” she said absently, glancing over my vanity. She picked up a sheaf of scribbled, ink-blotted papers I’d abandoned before bed the night before. “What is this?”

“A formal thank you note, to Gavin McCray. He sent me that beautiful arrangement of flowers, but everything I write comes across too flirtatious or too bland or too self-serving. It just sounds like I’m trying to ingratiate myself to him, and I get the feeling he sees too much of that already.”

“That sounds like a noble intention, Cassandra,” she told me.

“Thank you.”

“But utterly stupid,” she added. When I squawked indignantly she said. “You are trying to ingratiate yourself with this boy, whether it’s for the purpose of personal gain or romantic interests. Just remember the Golden Rule of Flirtation, ‘Dignity before flattery.’”

“And what does that mean?”

“You can pay him compliments. Ask him about his interests. Make him believe that you find him to be terribly interesting. But don’t ever, ever let him think that you are scrambling to catch his notice. Don’t lose your dignity, while flattering his. He will lose respect for you. And then the game is lost.”

I sighed. “I planned on saying, ‘thank you for the flowers. I think you are a lovely person.’”

“And that is why you need my help. Take out a sheet of paper. I will dictate the note for you. Consider it a tutorial.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Lest you forget an important entry on the House charts you were supposed to memorize, Gavin McCray is the scion from a fine old Yorkshire family that has scores of money tied up in potion supplies. Herbs, exotic animal parts, that sort of thing. He is interested in dragonboat racing, collecting rare ritual swords, and of, course, geology.”

“And once every six months, he covers himself in marmalade and howls at the full moon,” I added in Mrs. Winter’s bouncy narrative tone.

“Well, if it happens to come up in conversation, be sure to mention that you happen to know of the most charming shop in town that carries an array of extra-moisturizing marmalades.”

I snickered.

“Mr. McCray’s uncle is on several important committees. It wouldn’t hurt to encourage a connection between the families.”

“I understand,” I said, nodding as I took out a sheet of paper and prepared my pen. “But I think I can do that without marmalade discussions, for now.”





13





Painful Lessons





With my invitations unfulfilled and a polite, but warm, note sent to Gavin via messenger, Mrs. Winter had me spend a good portion of my Saturday practicing my scrying penmanship, tracing letters over the mirror with the tip of Wit while concentrating on a mental image of Mrs. Winter’s face. Trailing letters of golden light sputtered to life on her hand mirror, uneven and barely legible. By bedtime, I was able to manage, “somewhat more readable than chicken-scratch,” which I took as a compliment.