Lessons After Dark (18 page)

Word got around quickly.

By breakfast time the next day, two of the maids were eying Gareth as though he were a fire-eater at a carnival, he'd distinctly heard whispering about “Mr. Grenville's health” and “strange men in London.” Fairley, with the boldness of thirteen, had actually come out and asked what had happened and what Gareth had done.

“If the Grenvilles wanted you to know,” Gareth replied sternly, “they would have told you, wouldn't they?”

“But they can't, sir. Nobody's seen them yet.” Undeniably true. Fairley hesitated a second before drawing closer to Gareth's desk and lowering his voice. “And he was in London, and Waite says—”

“I can only imagine. Go on,” he added. Since the Grenvilles
hadn't
yet come down, and he wasn't sure where Olivia was, Gareth supposed the role of authority, and the necessary quashing of rumors, fell to him. “What pearls of wisdom does Mr. Waite have in this situation?”

Fairley looked down. “He says there's Chinese magicians who can make a man's blood turn to lead, sir, or his hands and feet fall off. And Indians who—”

“If Waite's ever met a man from anywhere beyond Calais, it will be the most astonishing news I've heard all year,” Gareth said. “Which is saying a good deal.”

“Then people can't do what he said?”

Gareth paused. His time at Englefield and his conversations with Simon had left him sure there
were
magicians capable of the sorts of feats Fairley described. Some of them could well be from China or India, though Cornwall or Surrey were origins just as likely. It didn't matter. He'd seen concern in Fairley's face beneath the youthfully morbid curiosity. That mattered.

“Mr. Grenville retains all of his limbs, I assure you,” he said dryly, “and his blood contains no stranger elements than any man's. He
was
attacked, which he'll tell you about when he chooses, or not, but he was doing quite well last night, and I expect him to be even more recovered when I examine him this morning.”

Manfully, Fairley tried to hide his sigh of relief.
Poor
lad
, Gareth thought. He'd read what records Simon kept on the boy and had gained some impression of the parade of tutors and relatives' homes that had been facets in his life before Englefield. Human compassion aside, this was the first place where anyone had really been able to teach him. No wonder he'd been worried.

“You may also tell Waite,” Gareth added, “that if the worst should happen, your training would continue. I'm certain Mr. Grenville has made preparations for that.” If Simon hadn't, Mrs. Grenville almost certainly had. She was, in Gareth's experience, a woman willing to consider a truly frightening range of possibilities.

Not, sadly, that a husband's death was so far out of the ordinary, particularly in this case. Gareth didn't like to think it about his friend, but a man who'd set himself against the sort of forces Simon had, was a man who might not count on seeing gray hairs. Mrs. Grenville seemed aware of this, unlike many women who married into war.

Had Olivia thought of the possibility? She'd been young, younger than Miss Woodwell, and there hadn't been a war at the time. Easy enough for a schoolgirl to see the uniform and not think about what it meant.

“Sir?”

Gareth focused his attention on Fairley again. “Is there anything else?”

“No, sir. Only—”

“Only there is, isn't there?”

“Wellll,” Fairley said, stretching the word out like taffy, “are we going to get attacked, sir? I mean, if someone tried to kill Mr. Grenville, maybe they might want to get us too? Not that I wouldn't fight them, sir,” he added hastily, thirteen-year-old pride asserting itself.

No, you damned well
wouldn't
.
Gareth shut his mouth over the words and banished the mental image of Fairley with his eyes dull and his throat bloody. “Mr. Grenville has told me specifically that we're in no danger,” he said. “Besides, the grounds here have their own protections. Is
that
all?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fairley.

If there ever
was
an attack, Gareth would personally see to it that Fairley and Elizabeth ended up locked in a wine cellar or a closet with the servants, ideally with something the size of Balam guarding it. He would have preferred such a location for almost everyone else too, but sixteen
wasn't
too old for a man to fight if he wished, which meant Waite and Fitzpatrick had a right to decide on their own, and Mrs. Grenville and Miss Woodwell were quite capable of taking care of themselves in any battle that was likely to involve Englefield.

So was Olivia.

Gareth wasn't entirely certain if it was more relief or worry to recognize her capabilities. He
was
certain he shouldn't be thinking about it, that the question should trouble him no more than that of Miss Woodwell's situation.

He was also certain he wasn't the sort of man who started drinking at nine in the morning.

Regrettably.

***

“Is Mr. Grenville doing well?”

It was the first thing Olivia found to say, other than “Good morning,” and she managed it only after she and Gareth had left the gates of Englefield and started down the road to the village. She felt ridiculous. Ten years performing before skeptical audiences, three months teaching and working with the man, and now she was a tongue-tied schoolgirl.

He hadn't said anything either. That might have been a good sign or a very bad one, and Olivia spent the first part of the walk wondering which, before taking the plunge and speaking.

Gareth seemed to welcome her question. He smiled at any rate. “Much better,” he said, “though it will probably take him a while to recover fully. I can't speak from any authority as medical school doesn't precisely cover the subject, but I'd wager it'd be good for him to avoid magic for a while, as well as any other taxing activity”

“I agree,” Olivia said, thinking of the roses and shivering, “and I can take over his lessons for a while. Hopefully that'll permit him to rest for a time.” Hopefully. If the curse wasn't simply the first stage of a more thorough attack. Gareth might have been thinking the same thing, for he was no longer smiling.

“When we get to the Talbots',” she said, “I thought I would talk to Rosemary for a while. That might be enough of a distraction so you could…inspect her, I suppose. I don't know if any trace of whatever happened would show up to you, but it might be worth an attempt.”

Gareth nodded. “Will you look as well?”

“I can't, really,” Olivia said and sighed. “Not without being obvious. And I'd really rather not anger the Talbots if we can avoid it. I'd imagine they can make life very unpleasant for us.”

They turned down a road and came into sight of the vicarage, an old stone cottage with a pleasant garden in front. As they approached, a gray-and-white cat ran out from behind the house and past them.

“It looks peaceful enough,” said Olivia, bracing herself and trying to think of the least awkward way to begin the conversation again.

“Most places do,” said Gareth.

The door opened even as he reached for the knocker, and Olivia and Gareth were suddenly looking into the vicar's pale face. He looked between them for a while. Then his wide eyes came to rest on Gareth, and relief tempered a little of the frantic dismay. “Thank the Lord you've come,” he said. “Rosemary's upstairs.”

Rosemary Talbot lay white and still in her bed, and Gareth couldn't find a reason for it.

Her breathing was shallow but regular, her pulse fainter than he'd have liked but steady. She had no fever, and when he examined her, he could find no wounds. Certainly there was nothing about her that resembled the way Simon's arm had looked the night before.

He shifted his vision and found nothing more definite. The rose-pink threads that made up her body were faded, but that was all.

In any case, he could do something about that. Gareth put a hand on Rosemary's shoulder and carefully fed some of his own energy into her body, watching as the threads took on a brighter shade. She didn't open her eyes, but her breathing became deeper, her pulse stronger.

“She
should
be well enough,” he said, sitting up, “in time, with rest.” His gift usually showed anything really wrong, even if it wasn't apparent from outside.

All the same, it was best to be sure. “I'd like to speak with both of you in the hall,” Gareth said to the vicar and his elder daughter. “Mrs. Brightmore, if you'd be so kind as to keep watch in case Miss Rosemary wakes up?”

“Of course,” Olivia said. Meeting Gareth's eyes, she also nodded a second after she'd spoken. She'd understood his silent message. “I'll be right here.”

Outside, Miss Elizabeth Talbot clung to her father's arm, while the vicar faced Gareth with somewhat less panic than he'd shown before. “I know it's Providence that brought you to us,” he said, “since we didn't have time to send a message. I don't know how to thank you, Doctor. She is going to be all right?”

“She looks very much like she will,” said Gareth, “though I'll want to come back tomorrow to be sure. When did this happen?”

“Perhaps a quarter of an hour before you arrived,” said Miss Talbot. “She simply…collapsed.”

“Had she been feeling at all ill beforehand?”

Reverend Talbot shook his head. “Not that she mentioned, but she
had
been rather subdued for a day or two. She said she was simply tired, and she went for a walk a little while before you came. Perhaps the activity was too much, and I shouldn't have let her go.”

“Papa,” said Miss Talbot, “it was by no means your fault. She looked well enough. She was only…quiet. But you must have seen her,” she said to Gareth, “or Mrs. Brightmore or the girls. She went to Englefield to call on them two days ago. Did…did anything happen there?”

“No,” said Gareth. He could only hope his voice sounded normal. “She seemed quite all right to me.”

Rosemary Talbot hadn't called at Englefield any time in the last few days.

Two days ago, Fitzpatrick and Waite had opened a door. Olivia had closed it, but had she closed it in time?

***

Gareth had hoped either Olivia or Simon would dismiss his theory: nothing else could possibly have come through when the boys had summoned Balam. Ludicrous idea. Only a layman could have believed him. He would have welcomed mockery.

Instead, Simon swore, and Olivia sighed. “Rosemary had much the same look that the roses did,” she said. “Drained.
Used
, I would say.”

She'd been silent on the way back to Englefield, and so had Gareth. Not all of it had to do with awkwardness or even thought. Gareth hadn't wanted to speak about the situation until they were within whatever protection the house could provide, and he thought Olivia had felt the same. The windows in the village had looked far too much like eyes.

“Will she recover?” Simon asked.

“I thought so,” said Gareth, “but—”

Olivia nodded. “I think what went into the roses was the most destructive and least-thinking part of the demon. Besides, animals are more resilient than plants, by and large. A grown woman certainly has more reserves than a bunch of cut roses. But whatever happened could have seriously damaged her, I think, if Gareth hadn't been there.”

“Ah,” said Gareth. The compliment was disconcerting. The urge to straighten his shoulders and grin was more so. He cleared his throat. “So there's something out there that's…possessing people?”

“It sounds that way,” said Simon, and his hands clenched on the bedclothes. “At the worst time possible, no less, which was doubtless its intent, since it failed to take over
my
mind.”

“Why didn't it attempt to control someone in the house, then?” Olivia asked. “There were plenty of people around.”

“The wards,” said Simon. “They would have expelled it rather forcefully, almost as soon as it entered. If it had possessed me, since I belong to the house, it could have got back in. If it had killed me, the wards would have collapsed, and it would have had access to any number of things I would imagine demons enjoy.”

“And now it's…somewhere in the village,” said Gareth. “Some
one
in the village.”

“Possibly,” said Olivia. “We don't know what kind of demon it is or how long it can survive this world without some sort of body. But you're probably right,” she admitted with a sigh, “and I don't see any more pleasant alternative.” She looked questioningly at Simon, who shook his head. “Then there we are. I wish to God someone knew where Rosemary went this morning. Somewhere close enough to see us coming, I'd think, but that doesn't rule out very much.”

“No,” said Simon. “Not when we don't know the sort of hosts it can use. I'll read up. Not much else I
can
do right now, is there?”

“No,” Gareth said firmly and without letting any sympathy slip into his voice.

“You do have a degree, I suppose. Mrs. Brightmore, your help with research would be valuable, but I'll also need you to reinforce the house's protections. This incident's rather enlightened me on that score. Both of you, keep a close eye on the students. For the next few days, I don't think anyone from the house should go to the village without one of you, or Joan, accompanying them. And all of you should be wary. Don't let anyone touch you, since it seems that's how this thing switches bodies.”

“And the people in the village?” Olivia asked.

Simon grimaced. “We can't do anything for them just now. Not until we know more. The demon hasn't made any direct physical threats, so far. We'll have to hope that continues.”