Lessons After Dark (10 page)

Five pairs of eyes watched Gareth. Five faces turned toward him, curious and amused, expectant and nervous. All were attentive for the moment. Gareth suspected it would be no mean job to hold that attention, eager though the students were.

Olivia had always managed it. Olivia was at home on a stage, and if he wasn't, that was a point in his favor under most circumstances. She also had flashy magic tricks to her advantage. The magic might have been real, but the tricks were still flashy. Showmanship. Gareth had knowledge, and therefore would need none of that.

Besides, he was trying not to think about the woman.

“Good afternoon,” Gareth began. “At Mr. Grenville's request, I'll be teaching you the basics of medicine”—he gestured to the table in front of him, where he'd laid out some neatly rolled bandages and straight pieces of wood—“and anatomy. Miss Donnell?” She was too young, really, to be a “Miss,” but he wouldn't make her the only one in the class he addressed by first name. “You have a question?”

“Will we be learning about diseases and poisoning too?” she asked, eyes serious and steady in her freckled face. “Or mostly broken bones and cuts and things?”

“Internal and external both,” said Gareth, trying not to look as surprised as he felt. “Of course, this will not qualify any of you to practice medicine under any normal circumstances, nor will we particularly touch on surgery. Not most types. I'll be teaching you what the late Major Shepherd called ‘first aid': the immediate care of a wounded patient.”

He saw recognition in Miss Woodwell's face—hardly surprising, given her father—and, more curiously in Fitzpatrick's.

The others didn't seem to know the term, but Waite and Fitzpatrick exchanged a look before the older boy raised his hand. “In adverse conditions, I assume, sir?” he asked when Gareth called on him.

Long
after
midnight, and a wind that did nothing to cool anyone, particularly the men who tossed and turned on their beds, but had managed to put out half the lamps. Screaming. Crying. The smell of blood, the cleanest smell in the air.

“Yes,” said Gareth. “As far as we can manage them.” He cleared his throat. “Today, however, we'll begin with theory. The major arteries in the human body…”

Words and theory could make a wall when he needed them to. Gareth had discovered that some time ago. Overseas, his construction had often been slapdash and hasty, but it had served him well enough. Now he built carefully, brick by brick, speaking of the jugular and the carotid, the femoral and the radial, naming things so he would picture them less vividly.

“Some of you, I am sure, are wondering about supernatural healing. Hard not to, I'd imagine, given your presence here. It exists. I'd be a fool to deny it.” Gareth allowed himself a small smile at that. “By and large, though,” he continued, “I intend to stay focused on the normal aspects of medicine. Tell me why. Mr. Fairley?”

“Magic's still easier if you know what's going on, sir.”

Gareth nodded. “That's part of it. You can pour all the power you want into a broken leg, but if you don't know how the bones are supposed to line up, your patient's likely to end up worse off than before. To put it lightly.”

He'd come into his power early, too early to remember his first experiments very clearly at all. Nevertheless, he did recall what he'd been able to do at fourteen and how clumsy it had been in hindsight. Medical school had taught him what to reach for and what to avoid, and Gareth thanked God he hadn't tried anything really serious beforehand. Broken bones, at any rate, were reasonably straightforward.

“That's one reason,” he said. “Another reason is that most of you won't use it.”

He noted the reactions: Miss Woodwell's skepticism, Fitzpatrick's disappointment. Elizabeth, he noticed, seemed not to care very much one way or the other. She'd been more interested in the pulmonary arteries. Fairley didn't look particularly surprised either. It made sense. They, out of all the students, might most easily have figured out what Gareth was about to say.

“Supernatural healing is an inborn talent, like controlling the weather or floating on air. I have this particular talent. Had it most of my life.” Gareth cleared his throat and repressed the urge to run a hand through his hair or to pick up a pen and toy with it as he spoke. He'd never spoken of his abilities so bluntly before, and the words dropped like lead weights onto the floor. “There may well be other people with the same talent. As far as I'm aware, none of you have it. Therefore, there's not much use in talking with you about magical healing.”

He stepped back, letting them digest that, and Miss Woodwell raised a hand. Gareth nodded at her.

“Natural talent isn't the only method, though. Sir,” she added with a half-rueful grin for which Gareth couldn't fault her. She did make a very odd schoolgirl. “There must be ceremonial magic for healing. It's such a basic sort of a need. I'd bet you anything there are spells in some of the books here, at that.”

“It's quite possible,” he admitted. “I wouldn't know. I don't have much to do with magic, but I would imagine everything I just said still applies. There is, after all, likely a reason the Grenvilles asked me to teach this class.”

Miss Woodwell dropped her eyes. “Of course. Sorry, sir.” She looked embarrassed but not cowed, which would have been a relief had Gareth been at all concerned about intimidating her. He thought a cavalry charge would find the task difficult.

It seemed he was to live out his days surrounded by headstrong women. If his sister had ever shown the least interest in magic, Gareth would have suspected a curse.

“Quite all right,” he said. “Honestly, as long as you also pay attention here, you could do worse than find those spells. Especially if—” Gareth hesitated, looked at Elizabeth, and then remembered some of the faces he'd seen white with pain and how young they'd been. “Especially considering what you've signed up for. I'd ask Mr. Grenville about them, if I were you.”

“Or Mrs. Brightmore,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully. “Thank you, sir.”

“Yes,” said Gareth. He did work with Olivia. There was no changing that, not without treating her badly or leaving himself, neither of which he would do. Therefore, he was not about to flinch whenever anyone spoke her name. “Now, if you and Miss Woodwell would come up here, we can begin the practical part of today's lesson.”

As the girls rose, he heard footsteps approaching in the hall outside.

They were light. Probably female. There were a number of women in the house. The person approaching could have been Mrs. Grenville or Mrs. Edgar or one of the maids. However, he was in the room where Olivia had taught, now sitting in the chair he'd started occupying when he'd listened to her, and he couldn't help but wonder.

The footsteps grew closer then stopped just outside the door.

She could come in. Gareth had never said anyone should stay away from his classes. Olivia would make a seventh person, which would let Gareth out of practice-dummy duty, and she could even, perhaps, answer some of the questions about healing with ceremonial magic.

It would be rather nice, actually, if Olivia did decide to join them. Gareth would have the opportunity to prove he could work with her, that he was enough in control of himself to treat her as a colleague without any question of either incivility or…

Outside, the footsteps began again. Whoever it was passed the door, headed down the hall, and was gone.

Gareth fought back the urge to swear.

Michael opened his eyes and relaxed. “Done, ma'am.”

Looking out of the large window, Olivia eyed the gray clouds overhead. They were considerably thicker and darker than they'd been ten minutes ago, but no rain was falling yet. “Good,” she said and smiled a little. “Again.”

“You learn quickly,” said Joan, rising from her chair at one end of the ballroom. She eyed Michael for a second, fingers toying with the rose-colored cotton of her skirt. “Do you always work indoors?”

“Mostly, ma'am,” Michael said. Under her scrutiny, he'd stood up a little straighter and clasped his hands in front of him.

“Why?”

“Never wanted to get caught out in the rain, ma'am.”

A smile flickered across Joan's face. “Sensible. But now it doesn't have to rain, so…” She shrugged. “Ever been around animals when you used your power?”

Michael frowned in thought. “We had a cat,” he said slowly. “When I was little. She never minded, not as far as I remember. I was in the stables once or twice too.”

“Did you ride?” Joan asked. When Michael nodded, she made a brief thoughtful noise and then turned to Olivia. “Can you?”

“I—yes,” Olivia said. Once, it had come as naturally to her as walking. That had been before Tom, before London, before Lyddie or Hawkins or Madame Marguerite. “But it's been quite some time.”

“That shouldn't be a problem. Take him out and have him try a few things on horseback. One of the advantages of natural talent,” Joan went on, “is you can do things quickly in a variety of situations. Or you should be able to.”

“Absolutely,” Olivia said. For a moment she was simply relieved she could put Michael on a new path before he got bored with the old one. Then she realized what she'd agreed to. “Ah,” she said, “I don't—”

“I'll lend you some clothing. You can get more made in the village later, but this is sudden, I know. I'd do it myself, only I've apparently got to deal with Society for a few days”—Joan made a face—“and I want to move quickly.”

“I can't say I'm surprised,” Olivia couldn't resist saying.

Joan laughed. “No, I didn't think you would be. Let me know how it goes, and good luck.”

A day and a half of hasty alterations and severe second thoughts followed. Ten years, Olivia realized fairly quickly, was a long time. She didn't have the reflexes she'd had at sixteen, nor would her bones mend as quickly if she took a fall. And she would have to divide her concentration between riding and observing Michael.

More than once, she considered making her excuses, but this was her job and she
could
ride and everything would more than likely go smoothly. Besides, if Joan had to deal with Society, chances were good that Mr. Grenville would be busy too, and the only possible substitute for Olivia would then be St. John. She'd be damned if she let him know she was unsure of herself.

Therefore, she showed up at the stables on a cold and clear morning, wearing a coat and scarf that thankfully covered the worst alterations to Joan's riding habit, and allowed one of the grooms to help her onto the back of a small gray gelding.

Once seated, she found to her great relief her body remembered the right pose. Memories came back along with it. Once she'd cantered down the paths of her father's estate, leaving cousins and governesses behind. Once, she'd ridden up hills and across streams with no more thought than she'd given to pouring tea. That had been ten years ago, but Olivia thought now she was equal to a calm walk down the flat paths by the gardens.

Michael sat his bay pony with ease, helped considerably, Olivia suspected, by the fact that he was also sitting astride and wearing breeches. He showed an inclination to trot at first, which Olivia thought best to indulge for a bit. She sent him off to “let the horse get some exercise” and took the opportunity to accustom herself a bit more to her own mount, not to mention her clothing. Joan's habit had been taken in considerably in some places and let out almost as much in others, and it was still uncomfortably snug across her breasts.

After a slow walk around one of the fountains and a few deep breaths—not too deep, considering the circumstances—Olivia felt considerably more equal to the task ahead of her. The scenery was an unexpected pleasure too, for all that it was late autumn. The hedges were well kept, framing the graceful fountains and statues in rich dark green. She could smell wood smoke in the air, a cozy, comforting sort of scent.

A few minutes later, Michael returned, reluctant but not as much so as he might have been in other circumstances. “Do you want me to start now, ma'am?”

“When you feel ready,” Olivia said. “See if you can make it more or less overcast.” The sky above was mostly blue, the clouds floating across it puffy and white. It was a pity to change it, really. Clear days were rare enough at this time of year, but business was business, and it would clear up afterward if everything went right. “Still no rain, though.”

“You don't have to tell me, ma'am,” said Michael cheerfully. “I'm out here, aren't I?” As Olivia laughed, he looked up at the sky and began to concentrate. The horses, to Olivia's relief, showed no signs of panic. Both stood still, tails swishing, and Michael's bent its head to sniff at one of the fountains.

Overhead, the puffy clouds bloated and grew. It was happening much faster than it had in the past, Olivia thought. Being outdoors did help, then. Not really surprising, given the nature of Michael's power. She glanced back down at him—

And saw his face go rigid with fear.

“Michael?” She spoke calmly, or tried to. His eyes were open now, but Olivia didn't think he was seeing her. She wasn't sure he was seeing anything. His stare was glassy, and his face still turned upward.

The clouds were huge now, blotting out half the sky, and almost black. Around them, the wind picked up, clutching at Olivia's scarf and hat. The horses' manes and tails streamed. The horses shied, particularly Michael's pony, aggravated by its rider's sudden tension. Somehow, unconsciously, he clung to the saddle.

Rain began to fall, a rain so cold and stinging Olivia almost thought it was hail at first. Within a matter of moments, her hat and coat were soaked, and the gelding was whinnying in distress. Olivia nudged him in the side, trying to get him over toward Michael and keep him calm at the same time. She wished Charlotte were there.

The wind was howling now. “Michael!” Olivia raised her voice and let it take on an edge. “Michael, send it away. Now!”

She saw it in Michael's eyes when he came back to himself a little. “Mrs. Brightmore,” he said, and his voice was slurred. “Trying…too much…too easy.”

“Let go, then.” Somewhere in the distance, people were shouting. There might have been figures running toward them. The wind snatched her hat off, sent it whirling away. “Just let go.” God willing, Nature would right itself when Michael wasn't trying to clutch at it.

He gulped and nodded, and then screamed. “Move!”

Instinct alone made Olivia respond, since she had no idea why or, for that matter, where she was supposed to be going. She dug her heels into the gelding's sides again, dimly feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and the horse bolted forward—

Then the world went white.

Some part of Olivia's mind retained enough control to think
lightning
, and to know that she and Michael had escaped the bolt. The rest of her just sat, numb, as the gelding reared and bucked. She didn't have time to feel either fear or pain as she fell, not even when she landed and something snapped in her ankle.

She simply lay there, in the cold mud, with white and violet spots dancing in front of her vision, and wondered what had happened.