Free Phoenix and Ashes by Mercedes Lackey

soon after
ascending to the throne of unofficial queen of Broom. She had much larger
ambitions.
    Alison
aspired to Longacre Park.
    It
was not a new desire. As a scrawny adolescent, hard-eyed with ambition, she had
aspired to the circles of those who fêted royalty. She would gather with
other spectators on the pavement whenever a grand party or ball was being held,
and vow that one day
she
would be among such invitees. When she had
been taken up by an aging courtesan with enough of the gift of Earth Magery to
recognize it in another, she had seen it as a first step to those circles and
deserted her dreary working-class family, even though all such a relic of
Victoria’s time could hope for was the company of prosperous shopkeepers
and minor industrialists.
    But
Alison had bided her time, and ensnared the first of the unmarried gentlemen of
moderate means to cross her path, sacrificing wealth temporarily for
respectability. She had slipped up a trifle, allowing him to get her with child
twice—well, he was more virile than she had thought. She had rid herself
of him soon enough, which left her a comfortably off widow, and had laid the
foundations for better conquests by learning the lessons that would fit her for
the circles of the exalted, while at the same time mastering her Magery.
Etiquette, elocution—especially elocution, for Bernard Shaw was right,
the wrong accent guaranteed failure at this game—she had instructors for
everything. A good nanny for the children and the proper boarding schools gave
her the time she needed to attain full command of Earth Magic at the same time.
    That
had been at the hands of a
male
Earth Master, of course, and a
suitably old one, who flattered himself that the attentiveness of this attractive
widow was genuine and not inspired by the desire to have all of his secrets.
Strange how male mages never seemed to learn from the lesson of Merlin and
Nimue. A female would not have been so easy to manipulate, nor so hopelessly
naïve. She had learned all he had to teach, and then—well, he got
his reward, and had not survived the experience. He had, however, died with a
look of incredulous pleasure on his face. She had owed him that much. She
wondered what the coroner and undertaker had made of it. And had made of the
fact that he might have been sixty, but when he died, he had looked ninety.
    “Mama,
we’re here!” Carolyn called out, shaking her out of her reverie.
She followed the girls out of the taxi, paid and tipped the driver, and entered
the hotel.
    No
one took any note of them—well, no one except a couple of young officers
in the lobby who gazed at the girls appreciatively. She repressed a grimace.
Had the family been of note, there would be concierges and porters swarming
about them, eager to know their slightest whim, even with the hotel staff so
seriously depleted by the war—
    Well,
if she had anything to say about it, they would be swarmed, one day.
    They
entered the elevator, and with a nod and a shilling to the operator, ascended
to their floor.
    Which
was not the
best
floor. Respectable, and the denizens of Broom would
have been overwhelmed by the elegance, but it was by no means the best the
Savoy had to offer. And that rankled.
    But
she would not show that before the girls. They required ambition, and they had
it, but it must be unclouded by envy. Envy would put disagreeable lines in
their faces. They must be like athletes, or perhaps warriors, with their eyes
and minds firmly fixed on the prize. They must be ruthless, of course, but they
should never waste time on so unprofitable an emotion as envy.
    The
girls fluttered into the salon, still chattering about the gowns. They
understood completely that they must not say
where
the gowns were
coming from, of course, but they were bewitched, properly bewitched, by the
pastel silks and delicately printed muslins that had been spread out for their
approval, and the elegant copies of the gowns that the other fashion