eased out of
sensitive matters, Penhurst had become known as a place
where political agreements were reached before they ever
came to Parliament. Diplomatic agreements were also
concluded here over a glass of port and a handshake,
language differences disappearing in the convivial
surroundings.
Aubrey also saw this as a sign of the Crown Prince's
increasingly important role in matters of the nation. He
grinned. This was the hurly-burly of upper echelon
decision-making. He loved it.
Before they reached the stairs, George tugged at his
elbow. 'Dash it all, Aubrey. I can't wait any longer. Tell me
how you made the branch fall!'
'I knew you'd ask.' Aubrey reached into his pocket and
pulled out a broken twig. 'A practical application of the
Law of Sympathy.'
George grimaced. 'Like affects like?'
'Very good, George. You learned something before the
masters gave up on you.' He held up the twig and pointed
to where it had snapped in the middle. 'I picked up a twig
from the oak tree and after the right spell to link it to one
of the branches of the tree, I broke it. The branch had no
choice but to snap. Like to like. In the dark ages, those
poor misguided souls would hurt dolls to inflict injuries
on their enemies. The principle is the same, but now we
understand magic better we can control the spells, carefully
delineating variables.'
'We could have been crushed.'
'Hardly. I chose my branch well.' Aubrey reached out
and dropped the twig into a vase that was sitting on a
spindly side table. 'Food is calling.'
A footman, his hair brilliantined until his head shone
like a beacon, directed them to the main ballroom, which
was being used as a banquet hall. It was large, with a
lofty ceiling. Aubrey decided that grapes must have been
the plasterer's forte, as vines snaked along the cornices
and great bunches festooned the tops of the six mock
pillars spaced along each wall. A gallery at one end of
the room overlooked the throng, empty and somewhat
ominous.
Two rows of tables stretched along the length of the
room. A smaller table, obviously for the most important
guests, was at right angles to them at the opposite end to
the gallery. Modest bowls of chrysanthemums were
arranged on the white linen tablecloths. Ranks of cutlery
shone with the sheen that only comes from sterling silver.
Five glasses of various sizes and shapes stood in front of
each setting. It was a display of serious wealth that was
meant to impress and the organisers had not missed any
opportunity.
At the door, they handed their cards to the major
domo and waited while he scanned his seating list. The
major domo frowned and gestured to a footman. A
muttered discussion ensued, and Aubrey took the opportunity
to study the guests who had already been seated.
At first glance, the only thing the guests had in
common was that most of the men were old. At least
in their forties, he guessed, from the grey hair and bald
heads. The women were harder to gauge.
Aubrey blinked. Miss Hepworth. He almost didn't recognise
her, sitting between a tall man with old-fashioned
muttonchop whiskers and a woman who was wearing so
many jewels that she looked as if she were carrying a
chandelier.
Aubrey did his best to stop himself goggling. Miss
Hepworth was wearing a black dress that was shaped in
ways that defied his understanding, and her hair was piled
up on top of her head in a braided curly arrangement
that made her look quite different. However the effect
was achieved, it made her look compellingly elegant and
unapproachable.
She was speaking with animation, leaning towards the
old gent as if she wanted every word to be as fresh as
possible. The old gent listened to her with stunned attention.
She didn't look in the least nervous to be in such
company.
And such company. When Aubrey dragged his gaze
away from her, he saw, a few places away, Wammersley,
the Chancellor of the Exchequer, speaking to the owner
of the largest steelworks in the country. Opposite them
was an actress
sensitive matters, Penhurst had become known as a place
where political agreements were reached before they ever
came to Parliament. Diplomatic agreements were also
concluded here over a glass of port and a handshake,
language differences disappearing in the convivial
surroundings.
Aubrey also saw this as a sign of the Crown Prince's
increasingly important role in matters of the nation. He
grinned. This was the hurly-burly of upper echelon
decision-making. He loved it.
Before they reached the stairs, George tugged at his
elbow. 'Dash it all, Aubrey. I can't wait any longer. Tell me
how you made the branch fall!'
'I knew you'd ask.' Aubrey reached into his pocket and
pulled out a broken twig. 'A practical application of the
Law of Sympathy.'
George grimaced. 'Like affects like?'
'Very good, George. You learned something before the
masters gave up on you.' He held up the twig and pointed
to where it had snapped in the middle. 'I picked up a twig
from the oak tree and after the right spell to link it to one
of the branches of the tree, I broke it. The branch had no
choice but to snap. Like to like. In the dark ages, those
poor misguided souls would hurt dolls to inflict injuries
on their enemies. The principle is the same, but now we
understand magic better we can control the spells, carefully
delineating variables.'
'We could have been crushed.'
'Hardly. I chose my branch well.' Aubrey reached out
and dropped the twig into a vase that was sitting on a
spindly side table. 'Food is calling.'
A footman, his hair brilliantined until his head shone
like a beacon, directed them to the main ballroom, which
was being used as a banquet hall. It was large, with a
lofty ceiling. Aubrey decided that grapes must have been
the plasterer's forte, as vines snaked along the cornices
and great bunches festooned the tops of the six mock
pillars spaced along each wall. A gallery at one end of
the room overlooked the throng, empty and somewhat
ominous.
Two rows of tables stretched along the length of the
room. A smaller table, obviously for the most important
guests, was at right angles to them at the opposite end to
the gallery. Modest bowls of chrysanthemums were
arranged on the white linen tablecloths. Ranks of cutlery
shone with the sheen that only comes from sterling silver.
Five glasses of various sizes and shapes stood in front of
each setting. It was a display of serious wealth that was
meant to impress and the organisers had not missed any
opportunity.
At the door, they handed their cards to the major
domo and waited while he scanned his seating list. The
major domo frowned and gestured to a footman. A
muttered discussion ensued, and Aubrey took the opportunity
to study the guests who had already been seated.
At first glance, the only thing the guests had in
common was that most of the men were old. At least
in their forties, he guessed, from the grey hair and bald
heads. The women were harder to gauge.
Aubrey blinked. Miss Hepworth. He almost didn't recognise
her, sitting between a tall man with old-fashioned
muttonchop whiskers and a woman who was wearing so
many jewels that she looked as if she were carrying a
chandelier.
Aubrey did his best to stop himself goggling. Miss
Hepworth was wearing a black dress that was shaped in
ways that defied his understanding, and her hair was piled
up on top of her head in a braided curly arrangement
that made her look quite different. However the effect
was achieved, it made her look compellingly elegant and
unapproachable.
She was speaking with animation, leaning towards the
old gent as if she wanted every word to be as fresh as
possible. The old gent listened to her with stunned attention.
She didn't look in the least nervous to be in such
company.
And such company. When Aubrey dragged his gaze
away from her, he saw, a few places away, Wammersley,
the Chancellor of the Exchequer, speaking to the owner
of the largest steelworks in the country. Opposite them
was an actress
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