A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(28)
But fortune for once was with her. Beatrice was already at her usual table in the back, partaking of an early luncheon, and for once was alone. Despite the fact that the tearoom was already half-full, they made eye contact as soon as Nan opened the door. Nan made her way through the crowded tables and chairs, but as soon as she reached Beatrice, that worthy ate the last bite and stood up. All the black glass beading and jet ornaments on her person danced, as if showing an agitation that Beatrice herself refused to display.
“I’ve been expecting you, dearie,” she said. “There’s something nasty in the wind, and we need to talk about it. Come along, then.”
She led Nan out into the snowy street again and trotted along at a brisker pace than Nan had ever seen her make before. That might have been due to the cold, but Nan fancied that it was more than likely due to the fact that Beatrice wanted to have this conversation as much as Nan did.
Nan would not have been at all surprised had Beatrice led her to a little witchy cottage nestled among enormous trees—Chelsea still had such things after all, for despite a great deal of building, it had not been turned entirely into row houses, terraced houses, and elegant homes. But instead, she found herself waiting for Beatrice to unlock the front door of a perfectly ordinary white terraced house, which stood in its row with all the other white terraced houses, one solid block of building broken up by windows, doors, and black iron fences. She could not have imagined anything more unlike Beatrice Leek.
But once they stepped inside, well, she might very well have been in a witchy little cottage off on the moors or the wild lands of Ireland.
The hall was not fashionably papered; it had been hand-painted, possibly by one of Beatrice’s artist friends, in an imitation of a medieval tapestry. The scene was of a forest meadow, dotted with flowers and full of animals and birds both real and mythical, the centerpiece of which was a unicorn. There were three coat racks, all of them burdened by shawls, coats, and hats. There were two umbrella stands, full of walking sticks and staffs, all of them fancifully carved. Some of the staffs were surmounted by glass globes or odd little sculptures. They were met at the door by the biggest black cat Nan had ever seen, which meowed at his mistress, then jumped up into her arms.
“And who’s my handsome man, then?” Beatrice cooed to her—pet? familiar?—and handed him unceremoniously to Nan. “You go along into the parlor, first door on the right, and I’ll make some tea. His name’s Caprice. I call him Cappy.”
Cappy weighed every bit of eighteen pounds if he weighed an ounce, but he gave no objection to Nan holding him. In fact, he purred so loudly he sounded like clockwork being wound up.
She went into the parlor, and discovered that the theme of the walls was more of the same as in the hall. Here, tall, elegant women in flowing gowns danced, disported, or dozed amid the flowers and the animals. There were no framed pictures on the walls, but they would have been superfluous.
The parlor was small, just big enough for three comfortable chairs and a couple of tables. There was a good fire in the grate, and Nan took the chair that showed the least wear, assuming the one with the most wear was Beatrice’s favorite.
Cappy draped himself over her lap with every sign of pleasure and continued to purr. A few moments later, Beatrice arrived with tea in mismatched crockery.
“Now,” she said, when she had poured for both of them. “Tell me what brings you here, with worry in your face.”
Nan explained; it didn’t take long, because there really wasn’t much of anything that they knew. Beatrice listened without interruption, and when Nan had finished, Cappy jumped down off her lap and moved to his mistress’s.
“Well,” Beatrice said at last. “There is something making the little Earth creatures uneasy . . . but not frantic, not uneasy enough to correspond with something as terrible as that vision. I would say, if I were to hazard a guess, that this is one of two things. A psychical or magical attack against that child, or, rather than a definite problem, this represents the possibility that something very bad could happen, and the seeds of it will most likely be planted on Christmas Eve.”
“I wanted to contact the Oldest Old One, if I could, but I haven’t been able to get his attention,” Nan said. “At the very least, he should be warned something might happen. Could you ask one of the little ones to carry a message for me?”
Beatrice pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, a body would think that the Oldest Old One would already know about such a thing . . . but we both know he gets distracted. He won’t take offense if he already knows, and if he don’t, well, then he will.” She nodded. “And lucky for us, I’ve got a brownie in the house.”
“A . . . what?” Nan asked.
“’Tis a little Earth creature—but a rare one that shares a house with you.” Beatrice put Cappy down, and got up from her chair. “They’re not very common anymore, more’s the pity, and even so, they’re rare in cities. Let me trot along to the kitchen and fetch what I need.”
Beatrice came back with a flat, dished stone, a tiny cup of milk, and a scone topped with double cream and jam. She moved one of the chairs aside, and that was when Nan realized that there was a faint circle woven into the rug there, and that those weren’t flowers—they were symbols. Beatrice moved a stool to the center of the circle, and sat down on it. “When I was younger, I’d sit on the rug,” she sighed. “But if I did that now, you’d have to fetch a neighbor to help me get up. Aging is not for the faint of heart!”