Wildrose: The Historical Collection, #5

Chapter One

A banner, flapping in the wind, boldly stated, WELKUM BAK REMEE.

Remy Dauphin tilted his head, squinted one eye, and smiled. Must be from his neighbor, Caterina Leroy. She was seven years old and the youngest of nine daughters.

Delightful.

Remy peeled away from the window to leave the library of his family’s ancestral estate. Two hundred years old, and counting. His older brother, Claude, would inherit it. A pity. Remy would love to grow old within these blessed walls.

Preparations for his welcome home party bustled in the stories below. The tantalizing smell of a hintaberry tart wafted up the stairs, teasing him.

Well.

He better check on those.

As he spun on his heel, a book leaped off the shelf and slammed into his chest. Taken aback, he coughed and grabbed it by the spine. Dust sprouted from the edges. The moment his right hand touched the leather, an unidentifiable pull gripped each finger, as if strings looped around his bones and drew them to the cover.

He shook his hand.

The hold didn’t loosen.

Gripping his right wrist with his left hand, he attempted to fling the book free of his palm, to no avail. He grabbed each finger with his other hand and attempted to yank them off, but the magic clung tenaciously. No matter what he tried, invisible tension remained.

I worked for a traveling book binder the last six years, he muttered, and I’ve never seen book magic like this before. What strange magic is this?

A mixture of fascination kept him focused on the grimoire. Nevermind the title, he’d figure that out in a moment. He may have flitted around Alkarra for years—and noted obvious changes in his family since he returned for good last week—but this was something else.

No book had ever thrown itself at him.

And so boldly.

What do you want? He turned his right hand to better view the front cover.

Wildrose

A grimoire.

Greater space existed below the word grimoire, as if more should have been there. A magical book of spells wasn’t out of place—certainly not in his family. His father, Nelson, had a near tragic love of grimoires. He built a successful career and modest fortune on finding, rehabilitating, and selling rarely-used grimoires. This piece should have come with no shock. None of them had ever launched themselves, though.

Wildrose, Remy murmured. "I haven’t heard of you."

Remy! Remy? Where are you?

Mother’s call rang through the Dauphin estate, nestled along the edge of the countryside on the far outskirts of Ashleigh city. Her dulcet tone was like music. He’d missed her.

Here, Mother!

Come down! Some of the Leroys will arrive soon, and they want to welcome you back. After a pause, she added, Amelie might be with them.

Her tone turned up at the end, setting his jaw on edge. He wrestled the urge to tell her to be quiet.

Amelie.

Really?

Could Mother be more conspicuous?

At twenty-seven, he was hardly ready to settle into courting and real life as Father called it. His employer had just died, the business dissolved, and he’d moved home in a bid to figure out some major life twists.

His nose wrinkled.

Also, Amelie Leroy?

Certainly not.

Amelie the Awkward, his friends always called her. The title had been well-earned. Seven years younger than him, she had gangly arms and a pimpled face. At least, she had six years ago.

She hid in the bushes to spy on him, sighed endlessly while reading romance novels when he had to endure dinner with her family—though, really, her parents weren’t so bad—and stared at him with intense adoration every chance she had. The intensity of her affection had been daunting.

However, despite visiting twice a year, he couldn’t recall seeing her.

The Leroy family lived next door all of Remy’s life, forming a powerful bond between Remy’s parents and James and Joyce Leroy. Handfasting a Leroy girl, and sharing grandchildren, would seal Mother’s infinite joy.

Come down, Remy! she called. We need to finalize a few details on the guest list. I’ve invited several young women from the neighborhood. Her trilling voice was downright musical now. Several of which you have yet to meet. We’ll find a wife for you yet!

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

This would be agony. For Mother’s sake, he brightened his tone.

Be right there!

The second his response finished, a potent force jerked him out of the room by his arm. The grimoire, still attached to his hand, elevated him into the air. With a shout, he attempted, unsuccessfully, to free himself. The book jerked forward, driving him out of the library.

Whoa! Remy cried.

He stumbled over his own feet, yanked into the hallway. He slammed into the balustrade with a shout and nearly cracked a decorative board in half. He flailed, attempting to reach for the book with his other hand.

Let me go!

The book led the way, zipping down the hall. Unable to keep up with the unnerving speed, Remy lifted his legs to avoid a chair. The grimoire swung his feet off the ground. He soared down the long hall, racing past rooms.

This must be a hallucination. Had he eaten a bad mushroom? Claude tried them before. His description of the experience resembled this quite closely.

No.

Impossible. He hadn’t eaten yet today.

Two broad windows streamed sunlight into Mother’s favorite tea room at the back of the Dauphin estate, which overlooked their orchard and the Leroy backyard. Beyond that, the rolling, thick forest of Letum Wood sprawled to endless horizons and vistas.

Oh no! he yelled. Not the windows!

He barely had time to wrench up his shoulders and curl into a ball, anticipating a painful shatter of glass over his shoulders, when the windows breezed open and he sailed through.

A scream blocked his throat as earth flew past his dangling legs three stories below. Hedges, trees, gardens, and high grasses proliferated in the early summer sunshine. Puffy white clouds studded a bluebird sky, defying the utter terror that rushed through him.

Where are you taking me? he shouted.

Past the estate, over the hedges into a wild field, and through the wood they raced. The book dodged around trees as if it had done this before, expertly avoided a gargantuan oak with a glaring eye knot, and kept him high enough off the ground that the tips of his shoes skimmed the tops of the grass. A gigantic tree, wide as a carriage, loomed ahead. His lodged scream broke free. At the last second, the book swung him to the right, wheeling him above and below several gargantuan branches, then winged into a field.

The grimoire dropped Remy in an open, grassy spot, tumbling free of his hand. They collapsed to the ground together. The elegant cover flopped open and shuffled to the first page.

Gasping, Remy braced his hands beneath him.

Are you mad? he cried. What are you doing? How did you bring me here? What is going on?

His head snapped from side to side, studying the quiet meadow. Forest hemmed in a wide, grassy lot that more than tripled their current estate. It was almost completely cut off from everything else, though the road hadn’t been far away. He’d never been here before, that he could recall. A peaceful quiet reigned.

Not unpleasant.

The grimoire trembled, then settled with a sigh, reminding him why he was here in the first place. He peered at the words on the first page. Astonishment made him gasp. The title had changed!

Wildrose: The Manor.

A grimoire.

"You only said Wildrose before. Why should it change now?"

A table of contents trailed into a multitude of options. The thick book had pages upon pages upon pages of lists, blueprints, designs, descriptions of intricate details, all the way to shelf depth and crown molding. An entire house contained in a book the height of two fists stacked on top of each other. He’d never seen one quite this thick.

My former boss would have something to say about your binding. He sent an errant gaze to the stitching. Well . . . not so bad. Durable, certainly, if you’re dragging unsuspecting witches all over the place.

Intrigue pushed him to return to the beginning of the grimoire and peruse it again, this time with greater attention to detail.

Remy turned page after page, muttering questions and exclamations under his breath. Different chapters appeared with an animation that bordered on emotional. He couldn’t deny the value of such a find. Must be quite rare, too. Such a strange treasure. Father brought home peculiar magic often, but this beat all the others.

Was it a new acquisition?

From the far edge of the field floated a voice.

Remy?

He straightened and instantly replied, Claude?

His brother, almost a spitting image of Remy himself, stumbled into sight. Unlike Remy, whose blond hair lay on his shoulders, Claude kept his short. Remy had sky blue eyes; Claude had chocolate brown. Remy was always clean-shaven, but Claude kept a shimmer of stubble.

Claude staggered sideways, belched, waved a hand, and fell to one knee with a laugh. In less time than a heartbeat, he’d toppled all the way into the grass, disappearing behind the waist-high strands. Remy sighed.

Drunk again.

Of all the changes in his family since he’d returned, Claude had altered the most. The heady stench of ipsum stained Claude’s breath as Remy approached. The sour smell hung in the air like invisible, limp clouds. Claude’s ruddy face narrowed into a grimace meant to be a question.

What’re you doing out here, Remy?

The slurred speech and drawling e’s testified to his drunkenness.

Before noon.

Rather unsavory.

Is this a result of a late night, or an early morning? Remy asked with forced wryness. It could be worse, he supposed. Claude responded as well to perceived judgment as one might a nest of angry bees, which meant he was sometimes easier to deal with when inebriated.

Claude blinked hard.

What?

Remy rolled his eyes. Nothing. What are you doing out here, of all places?

Claude stood, spun around, lost his balance, and landed on his bottom again. He scratched his head.

Don’t know.

Wandered into the forest after drinking all night, probably. This wouldn’t be the first time, according to Father’s most recent letters. Unfortunate. Now that Remy had returned home, it would be easier to help Claude through . . . whatever pained hm. Witches didn’t drink into oblivion for no reason.

Claude, still blinking harder than made sense, broke into a chortle. His hand lifted, pointing to the book.

I know that grimoire.

Too late, Remy realized that the Wildrose grimoire hovered above the field, tailing him like a puppy. He’d prefer not explaining to his family what just happened, but his curiosity won out. Instead of convincing Claude he imagined it, Remy asked, You know this grimoire?

Sure. That’s the house I tried to build.

You tried to build a house?

Last year. Didn’t I write to you about it?

No. I would have remembered that.

Claude chortled, then fell onto his back. Waste of time! He hacked up a cough and closed his eyes, humming in the sunshine. Didn’t do anything. Bought the stuff. He yawned. It just . . . just sat there. Too many lists, if you ask me.

"Bought what stuff?" Remy asked, but Claude didn’t answer. His hands twitched as he dove toward a ready sleep.

Remy tentatively brought the grimoire back into his arms and shuffled to the beginning. It required both hands to lift it. Pressure didn’t hold his hand hostage, nor grasp him, which probably meant something. Whatever brought him here, this book or the magic within, placated at this spot. Clearly, it wanted him to see this empty field. He turned the book over, inspecting each part of the leather exterior.

Claude sat up all at once, eyes wide. Cursed, he shouted, an arm in the air. That bloody magic is cursed, I swear it!

Remy startled, observed his delirious brother, and then calmed. Claude, not noticing Remy, hiccuped. He giggled and lay back down.

It’s a wretched book. Requires so much work and detail. Father says it’s part of our inheritance. His grimoire collection is worth almost as much as the Dauphin estate. I think we should sell it.

The estate?

No. Claude waved a hand. The grimoire collection. He yawned and snuggled his face into the grass. Remy wished he’d go to sleep already. Stupid books. Can’t believe this is part of our inheritance.

Remy frowned. The grimoire?

No! Claude shook his head like an exaggerated toddler. He pressed a hand to his forehead and winced, slowing the intense motion. "No, no, no, Remy. Not the grimoire. The land. This plot. Eyes closed, he waved a hand in a maniacal circle. Father bought this."

This spot of forest had always been wild. The neighborhood where they’d grown up pressed the boundaries of civilized society, according to Ashleigh city witches. Their home was on a road near a collection of six estates that formed a half circle, not far from the small village of Pershington, outside of Ashleigh city.

Growing up, it had been a delightful mix of sophistication and open space.

I didn’t know the lot was for sale, Remy said.

Claude shrugged. His breath elongated as he inched closer to sleep for a third time.

Worthless. He turned onto his side, rested his cheek on top of a mossy rock, ignoring the sharp stalks of dried grasses in which he burrowed. Just a buncha forest . . . wild creatures . . . He yawned. Worthless tract of . . .

Claude dropped into a snore.

Unsurprising that Claude couldn’t wrestle functionality from a grimoire this elaborate. Claude was more of an untamed investor. He threw currency at schemes, tested them, then backed out unless prodigious success resulted. Claude possessed no patience. He desired a quick return, easy for the taking.

A distant stirring of memory recalled Mother mentioning a house in one letter. Claude dove into the project with his usual gusto, desiring an estate in which to live, but abandoned the project after a month.

Too many details, she’d said.

Remy pressed both hands to either side of the cover, sandwiching the grimoire. Intrigue captured him as effectively as the magic stealing him to this spot. The elegant pictures, the depictions.

Understated brilliance awaited within.

In fact, it called to him.

Claude snorted and twitched, drawing Remy’s attention. He shook his head, withdrawing from the siren song.

Take a nap, Claude. No one will bother you in this field, and the sunshine might do you some good. You’re pale, these days. Too much time in your taverns. I’ll be at home, preparing to see the Leroy girls again. He groaned. Mother is on a matchmaking bender and she’s already mentioned Amelie. Can you imagine how awkward it will be? I want nothing less than a handfasting, though I do enjoy James Leroy.

Claude gave a light snore. With the grimoire tucked under his arm, Remy strode out of the field and into the forest, homeward bound.

Waiters slipped gracefully behind Remy’s back that evening, a worker’s anthem in their footsteps and the gentle clink of plates on trays. The soothing social lullaby was welcome amidst so many mingling bodies.

Mother hadn’t exaggerated. She invited all the young women.

He recognized a Leroy face here and there, but they were the youngest girls. Caterina and Manon and Sophie. Too young to be any threat to him. Other ladies, clearly in their late teens and twenties, grinned from behind fans. Remy smiled weakly and tried to mean it, but longed to find his boyhood friends and escape outside.

Candles lent a stuffy perfume to the thick air, despite open windows trailing a light breeze. The room, overly bright thanks to the fully lit chandelier, glittered. Magic prevented the wax from dripping to the floor, thank heavens, or he would have had sizzling wax in his hair more than once.

Mother and Father stood on the other side of the room, smiling as they welcomed newcomers into the foyer and main hall. Mother wound her arm through Father’s, gripping him with an affectionate squeeze and warm smile. Remy made a mental note to check on her in a bit. Her knee had been bothering her, and she couldn’t stand for long.

An arm elevated, clutching a wine glass, as two familiar male voices rang out, Remy has returned!

His best friends from Mr. Riley’s School for Boys slammed into him, sloshing their plum wine onto his frock coat, and patting him on the back. Concerns for his family faded to the back of his mind as they pulled him off to the side.

My job is so boring, Allard said with a cluck and shake of his head. This business of being a responsible adult is a mess, you know. No wonder Father always groaned over taxes. I’m working too much to court a pretty girl, even!

Not half as bad as what’s going on with Jimmy. Bill nudged Allard in the ribs. Tell Remy what happened.

Allard’s thin mouth went slack. You won’t believe it, Remy, he breathed. Not a word. You agree?

Sure.

It’s all because of Amelie Leroy.

Remy recoiled.

Amelie?

Sniggering, Bill asked, Have you seen her yet?

No.

Don’t bother. Allard tossed back the last of his wine. She’s a lost cause, and a cold-hearted witch. You’ll never have a chance with her. No one else has, anyway.

Sneaky little Amelie that used to spy on us through the hedges? Remy asked in a low tone, glancing to the side to ensure James or Joyce weren’t within earshot. They wouldn’t appreciate gossip about their daughter. What are you talking about?

A shout came from the front door, only a few paces away. Claude stumbled through the doorway. Dried grass and twigs littered the back of his shirt. He hadn’t changed, but he had restocked his ipsum. He clutched a half-empty bottle in one hand.

Where’s my brother? he slurred.

Bill frowned.

Allard turned his back with a touch of cool hauteur. Remy clenched his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath. What a humiliating display.

Later? Remy asked.

They nodded, sending him away with vague nods. The wine had started to sink in, because their glazed eyes shone as they turned their attention to the sheer amount of dazzling girls.

Remy slid into the hallway as Claude bumbled in that direction. As Remy turned the corner to catch up with his brother, a body appeared. He avoided a collision by grasping the upper arms of the other witch.

A bitty gasp followed.

Oh!

Forgive me! he said. I didn’t see you. I⁠—

Remy paused, blinked. Quick as his horror over Claude and bowling into this girl occurred, astonishment followed.

He’d know that dark hair and that slightly-upturned, pert nose from anywhere. A Leroy daughter, but certainly not a younger one. The dumpy Leroy daughters, who had pretty enough faces but droll expressions and a lack of humor, typically shared flouncy, tightly-coiled tresses. This girl—no, woman—had no such awkwardness. Her locks flowed onto her shoulder with lazy curls.

This had to be Amelie.

But, no.

It couldn’t be Amelie.

This woman was a delightful little vixen, and Amelie had been a blundering teenager with acne and a whisper. The smattering of freckles over her cheeks became more visible as her face lowered into surprise.

Remy? she breathed.

A-amelie?

A frosty smile graced her lips. Amelie curtsied and stepped to the side with polite, but vague, irritation. The response was as proper as one might expect. Apparently, the Network school system had been good to her.

She had attended, hadn’t she?

The Leroys sent all their daughters to Network schools, as a point of pride. Remy side-stepped to block her path.

You can’t be Amelie.

Her cool smile turned frigid.

Can’t I?

That is . . . I haven’t seen you in years.

I’m aware.

How have you . . . that is . . . how old are you now?

Her hair shifted when she tilted her head to the side. Is that really what you want to ask me?

Horrified that he should be the awkward one, Remy stammered through an excuse that didn’t form words. With painstaking tolerance and a waxen, charitable smile, she waited for him to finish.

Ah, slurred a voice from behind, so you’ve finally seen her, have you, my brother? Our ugly little Amelie has grown up at last.

Amelie’s gaze tapered to slits.

Claude’s voice sliced like a serpent, punctuated with a tint of wine. He dropped a hand on Remy’s shoulder, then leaned so much of his weight onto Remy that he staggered to stay upright. The smell of a rancid belch floated with Claude. His forehead pressed to Remy’s shoulder in a delirious giggle.

Disgust curled Amelie’s upper lip. Before Remy could apologize, she recoiled another step.

Ah, she slurred in return, perfectly mimicking his toneless words, the pig of the neighborhood has returned from his slop to embarrass his parents yet again. Who here is the most surprised? Certainly not me.

Claude scowled.

Amelie’s stoic indignation and firm response shocked Remy. Shy little Amelie! She had once adored him from a distance and could barely squeak out a word in his presence. Yet this . . . woman . . . nearly filled the room, and in opposition to a too-broad male personality?

Impressive.

A bit terrifying, too.

Claude moaned and nearly stumbled into the wall. Remy leaned to the side to pin his brother in place and prevent him from falling, then managed a sheepish smile that Amelie ignored.

Unfortunately, Amelie glared at Claude, this isn’t even half as embarrassing as what he’s done while you’ve been gone. Count yourself lucky for being spared the horror of other social events. Your parents weren’t.

Claude slid down the wall, melting like a candle. She spun on her heels and left with the tap-tap-tap of departing shoes. Remy hesitated for a full ten seconds, torn between his desire to speak to Amelie—perhaps that was the first time he ever thought such a thing—and the obligation to help his brother.

Amelie vanished before he could conjure something to say.

Remy wheeled around, a tongue lashing at the edge of his teeth, but Claude sat on the ground, gurgling small bubbles, and utterly oblivious in the worst way.

The Turners, who lived three doors down, strolled by. Their fixed smiles drooped when they caught sight of Claude, slumped on the floor. His ipsum bottle streamed a thin trickle of liquid to the marble floor. Mrs. Turner buttoned up her rampant disapproval with a slight widening of her eyes at her husband, who immediately steered them toward the doorway.

Remy shook his head.

You’re a bloody fool, Claude, and you always have been.

He cast a glance around, confirmed no one else entered the hallway, and spoke a quick spell. Claude levitated into the air, his body hanging like a slack jellyfish. He floated ahead of Remy’s magical guidance all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Remy settled his brother, but he thought of Amelie.

Gentle star shine beckoned Remy outside sometime past three in the morning. As always, Mother and Father continued, oblivious to the late hour, at the round table with their closest friends. The Leroys, as well as one other couple—but definitely not the Turners, thanks to Claude—tossed cards back and forth. Light ipsum followed. Every now and then, a hiccup and a giggle floated on the breeze.

Remy closed his eyes and relished the quiet.

He’d never seen so many available young women in his life, all of them wide-eyed curious about his time with the book binder, in the other Networks, and what his future plans might be. Of special emphasis was his next career move, whether he might be able to support a family, and if he had plans later that week.

Savage desert dogs, all of them. Was he a hunk of ham in a meat market? Each young woman had approached him at one point, salivating in her own pretty way.

All except Amelie.

For hours, she skirted the edges of the house, speaking to her sisters, older matrons, or men that could be her grandfather. Her studious avoidance of anyone her age sent a rather clear signal.

Everyone left her alone.

Except Mother.

Something in the smell of fresh forest, or perhaps the whirling sensation of nearby magic, guided Remy’s focus into the distance. He set aside the conundrum of Amelie Leroy and remembered that afternoon. His thoughts soared beyond home, beyond understood boundaries.

Beyond here.

To there.

The spot of land that Claude claimed was part of their inheritance was little more than a clearing in a gigantic, overgrown, dangerous forest. Naturally, Remy’s thoughts popped to the grimoire that took him there. In his memory, the spot had a hallowed recollection, despite the fact it had been less than a day since he discovered its existence.

Soon as his attention turned to the grimoire, a heavy something landed in his hands. He reared back, shocked to find the book in his fingers. Had he summoned it? Perhaps it invited itself. It had proven to be rather pushy that afternoon.

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