Long Live the Queen (Book 5 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Twelve: Glowier

Matthi opened the door to her office with a lined, shadowy face which suggested she had fallen asleep at her desk.

"Ugh," she said, after half a glance at Ellini. "Every time I see you, you get glowier."

"Matthi," she said, fidgeting with impatience. "My sister-"

"Seen 'er," said Matthi. "Nice girl. She talks a bit much, but then some people like that kind of thing."

She glanced again at Ellini and sighed, pulling the door wider. "D'you wanna talk about it?"

This was all the invitation Ellini needed. "Oh Matthi! I'm so – I can't even explain. Everything's different this morning."

"I can tell. Nice hair, by the way. Looks dyed, but with depth rather than colour."

Ellini raised a hand to check that her hat was still in place. Nobody else had mentioned the difference in her hair. She had hoped that, pinned up and covered with a suitable hat, it was unnoticeable. But then she'd never been able to hide anything from Matthi.

"Jack described it as a kind of dark glow," she ventured.

"I felt the spell take effect, d'you know that? About ten o'clock last night. Anyone with a magical inclination would've felt it, I reckon. Which means Madam Myrrha's probably got a fearful 'eadache this morning."

She went to sit behind her desk – which, Ellini couldn't help but notice, had a half-empty bottle of whisky on it. "What's it do?" she added.

"I'm sorry?"

"The new 'air," said Matthi, putting her feet up on the desk. "Does it do anything?"

"I think it's just symbolic of – of a change inside me."

"Yeah," said Matthi. "The glowiness. I'm with ya."

For the first time, it occurred to Ellini that her friend might not want to hear about her happiness. In the same moment, it occurred to her that she didn't have to talk about it. She and Matthi had always been able to communicate without words. And in any case, the feeling didn't need expression. It wasn't so unsteady that it needed to be bolstered by being talked about.

"How are things with the girls?" she said carefully. "And with you?"

"It's the same thing."

"All right," said Ellini, smiling. "But that's not an answer."

Matthi's hand wandered to the neck of the whisky bottle, and then snapped back again. "Let's walk, shall we?" she said, standing up so suddenly that she jolted the desk. "I always like to visit the 'ope Gallery before breakfast. You can tell me about the fire-mines on the way."

The Hope Gallery was the long room on the first floor which housed Emma Hope's paintings. There was a brass plaque above the door which encapsulated Emma's tender-hearted sentiments:

Never forget. But, for God's sake, forgive.

And inside – immaculately framed and mounted on the walls – were her paintings and sketches. Not the lovely, pastoral scenes she was painting now at the Ruskin School of Art, but the slave-girl scenes. Canvases as dark as Caravaggio's, oil paintings that were all black and red and sickly white, sketches where the pencil had bitten deep into the paper.

They were robbed of some of their power by the daylight pouring in through the windows. But not all. Emma had a talent.

"You visit this place before breakfast?" said Ellini, as they wandered from one canvas to another. "It would take away my appetite."