7th December, 1894 — Adebayo Estate, Cambridgeshire
It had been easier to weather it before; she had still been managing to seem herself, unaffected and content. But now it wasn’t just spotting Mr. Echelon-Arnost across a room at an event, or feeling vaguely guilty when another debutante mentioned the rejected courtship. Now the details had surfaced in recent social gossip, and Callista had felt a wave of sorrow all over again. But if she was feeling sorry for herself and frustrated at the world, she had been doing her level best to hide it from everyone else by spending hours alone in her greenhouse. She tried not to take it out on the plants, but she was working unnecessarily vigorously today, earmuffs clamped over her ears and angrily patting down earth as she repotted some toddler mandrakes for the winter. She couldn’t hear their bawling screams, but she felt them, the inexpressible emotions locked fast in her chest.
Someone must have heard the mandrake’s cry, though, because somewhere by the door of her greenhouse there was a muffled thump of someone falling. Callista didn’t notice until she had tidied up, brushed soil off her gloves and hung up her gardening smock – and finally, as she set off back for the house, she saw them.
* * *
With a little help from one of the household staff opening doors for her and a levitating charm, Callista had gotten the visitor back indoors and sprawled out, still unconscious but hopefully more comfortably, on a chaise longue in the drawing room. A hired architect, the housekeeper had said. They had been out cold for an hour or two. Callista had been sitting, and fretting, and flitting around the room and fretting some more. The last thing she needed now was for anyone to hear she was trying to murder house calls. Finally, their eyes fluttered. “Oh, thank goodness!” Callista murmured, hastening to their side to help steady them as they came around.
Someone must have heard the mandrake’s cry, though, because somewhere by the door of her greenhouse there was a muffled thump of someone falling. Callista didn’t notice until she had tidied up, brushed soil off her gloves and hung up her gardening smock – and finally, as she set off back for the house, she saw them.
With a little help from one of the household staff opening doors for her and a levitating charm, Callista had gotten the visitor back indoors and sprawled out, still unconscious but hopefully more comfortably, on a chaise longue in the drawing room. A hired architect, the housekeeper had said. They had been out cold for an hour or two. Callista had been sitting, and fretting, and flitting around the room and fretting some more. The last thing she needed now was for anyone to hear she was trying to murder house calls. Finally, their eyes fluttered. “Oh, thank goodness!” Callista murmured, hastening to their side to help steady them as they came around.
