Lessons After Dark (4 page)

Olivia held her first class in another one of the converted downstairs rooms, this one a small drawing room fairly near the library. The alterations here hadn't been extensive, since there weren't many students. Olivia's five pupils had arrayed themselves over an assortment of yellow-cushioned couches and upholstered blue chairs. Someone had taken up the carpet, though. Olivia wasn't sure whether they'd anticipated blood sacrifices or spilled tea or both.

Either seemed likely enough.

It had taken all she knew about disciplined breathing to get a good night's sleep, and she hadn't been able to eat much at breakfast. But now, as she faced the class, she felt no fear at all. Her nerves hadn't vanished; they'd been transmuted, as they always were, into a fierce, cheerful energy that lifted her chin and straightened her back.

Take
the
curtain
up
, Olivia thought as she smiled at the class.

“Good morning,” she said. “We will begin with theory.”

They were with her so far. Patient. Curious. Not enthusiastic yet.

“This world has certain rules,” Olivia said. “Some are obvious and well known.” She held up her pen for a moment then dropped it. It hit the floor with a
clack
and rolled toward one of the couches, where Waite picked it up.

The students' faces showed a little more interest, as any physical demonstration would command. Olivia took a breath.

Modulate
the
voice, a little louder than before, catch their eyes.

“Some are less so.” She spoke the single word she'd been repeating in her head since she'd woken up.

A foot away from her, a hand-wide pillar of bright blue fire burst up from the floor.

Olivia kept her eyes on the students as they gasped and stared. She had to admit the reaction was satisfying. Well worth the effort, even though Enochian was even harder to master than Latin. But more to the point, she didn't want to watch the fire. That would make her look uncertain. It was only after half a minute that she let herself glance over, and she made sure it
was
just a glance.

The flame had coalesced into a small ball, leaving the floor unmarked, and was hovering around shoulder height. The fire had always behaved before, but she was never completely certain. Olivia let herself relax a little, inwardly, and turned her attention back to the room.

St. John was standing at the back.

How long had he been there? Why was he there at all? He showed no signs of retrieving any of the students. He was standing with his hand resting lightly on the back of a chair. He intended to watch the class, then. Olivia could think of no flattering reason for him to do so—certainly not without consulting her first—and half a dozen insulting ones. For a moment she froze, and her tightly held balance wavered.

Then she saw his fixed gaze and his slightly open mouth. St. John might have arrived in order to make sure Olivia didn't corrupt the students or steal the candlesticks, but he was staring at the fire like everyone else.

She could handle this. And she'd be damned if she let some officious prig of a doctor throw her off her game.

“Let us consider an analogy” she said. Her voice was clear and calm. Six pairs of eyes turned back toward her. Olivia met St. John's, smiled as politely—she hoped—as she'd done in his outer office, and went on.

“Let's say the world is a city. The way most people live, and even the way we live most of the time, is like a visitor with a carriage and a map. He can follow the main streets easily enough, and he'll nearly always get where he's going as long as he has the address. It's not the quickest way, and he might miss a few things, but he'll be all right.”

She paused, ostensibly to let that sink in, really to take a breath and ready the next part of the lecture. Everyone in the class was looking at her, and it was a thrill again rather than a burden. She'd regained her footing in this particular dance. She did not feel St. John's gaze any more than the others, and if she did, it was only because his presence was so wretchedly unexpected.

“Now think about a man who's lived in this city all his life,” Olivia went on. “He knows he can cut across
this
back street, make a turn just before
that
crossing, and use the other bridge if there's too much traffic on the main one. That's what magic—the kind I just did—is like. Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

The boy put his hand down just enough to point at the ball of fire. “You can't do that normally, ma'am, no matter how long you take.”

Olivia smiled. “Precisely. A native won't just know routes. He'll know about
places
a visitor wouldn't. Perhaps this”—she gestured to the flame, still careful not to look—“is like, oh, that little tearoom that does the best sandwiches but won't stand a crowd, or the bookshop you have to get to through a back alley and two flights of stairs.”

There might have been a surprised chuckle from the back of the room where St. John was still standing. Olivia didn't look. Charlotte had her hand up, after all. “Miss Woodwell?”

“What about the other kind of magic?” Charlotte was leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “You've generally got to prepare a spell or say something, like you did before. What about people who can just do things when they want…or even when they don't?”

Everyone very carefully did not look at Elizabeth, who turned red.

“Good question.” Olivia spoke quickly, getting the class's attention again. She smiled apologetically at Miss Woodwell. “I hate to disappoint, but I have to admit I don't know for certain. I
think
it breaks a lot of the rules, and there are a couple of theories about why, but nobody's really very sure.”

Also, it's not diplomatic to suggest that your students have a fairy or a demon somewhere in the family tree. That is, not on the first day.

Olivia looked around the room slowly and deliberately. “All of you here,” she said, holding Charlotte's gaze for a moment, moving to Michael, who was frowning a little, then on to blushing Elizabeth, “are part of something very new. The whole sum of human knowledge, where magic is concerned, amounts to perhaps one book in a vast library. Perhaps not even that. Mr. Grenville knows a few things. I know a few. There are others who know still more.” Fitzpatrick had his head tilted to one side, listening. He grinned when she met his eyes. Even Waite, lounging against one end of the couch, had an unexpected alertness in his face. “I expect to teach you. I also expect we'll all learn. We'll have to if we're to fulfill our purpose at this school.”

On impulse, Olivia looked past the students, straight at St. John. She couldn't read his face. It didn't matter. She smiled at him.

Then she stepped back and let silence fall.

***

“You may each come up and look into the fire, if you want,” Olivia said at the end of the class. They'd all behaved well, as far as she was any judge, and a reward would carry them forward nicely. “It won't burn you, and it can be a sort of fortune-telling. Most people see a face in the flame.”

“What, their true love?” asked Michael, mouth twisting in thirteen-year-old male scorn.

Olivia laughed. “Someone who'll be important to you by and by. An employer, a political opponent, a friend, a child…or a sweetheart, in some cases.”

“Or an enemy?” asked Waite, more serious and less eager than Olivia would've expected from him.

She nodded. “Or that.” They were all, as she'd said, here for a purpose. There was no point concealing what that purpose might involve. “Line up neatly. Youngest first,” she added and left the front of the room.

A few glances over her shoulder showed her that the students did as she'd instructed, either impressed by her trust or under the belief that she didn't have to be looking at them to catch them in misbehavior. Neither would be a bad thing—and they couldn't hurt themselves with the flame. It was only a little bit of shaped aether.

St. John had started toward the door, but Olivia met his eyes as she crossed the room, and he stopped. He was polite enough to remain, or simply too proud to flee. The latter seemed more likely.

He watched her warily as she approached, and obviously braced himself for anger: threats, tears, something of the sort.

“I hope you enjoyed the lesson,” Olivia said in her most pleasant tone of voice.

For an instant, St. John's face showed both surprise and alarm. Then he inclined his head toward her—the movement slightly rough, as befitted a man a little out of practice with Polite Society, but not bad at all—and smiled. “It was highly educational and extremely surprising. I couldn't have asked for more.”

He was quick. Part of Olivia wanted to kick him for it, but part felt the same thrill she'd gotten stepping out on stage for the first time.

“I'm glad to hear it,” she said. She paused momentarily, tilted her head to look up at him, and added, “I hadn't expected to give a lecture to such an important guest. Some women might have found it extremely intimidating, you know.”

Another hit. Olivia could see his eyes narrow at
some
women
, the
some
slightly emphasized. A rather interesting shade of green, those eyes. Darker than Charlotte's, not quite hazel. More…moss? She was no artist. Besides, she didn't care.

“I'd hate to cause any distress,” St. John said, almost curt. He stopped there for a second. Olivia fought the urge to smile in triumph and wondered why that triumph should be faintly disappointing as well. Then St. John shrugged and went on. “But I'm sure a woman of your experience is more than capable of disregarding any opinion that fails to please her.”

Experience
carried just enough weight to make the meaning clear. Anger swept up Olivia's body, and she knew it showed on her face. Not for the first time, she wished she'd managed to acquire a suntan, no matter how unfashionable it was.

Never
mind. Carry on.

Olivia smiled. She bared her teeth, at any rate. “I assure you, sir, I am quite capable of doing so. But the respect of a colleague is a very different thing, wouldn't you agree?”

“Certainly,” said St. John. He took a step forward and looked down at her, raising his dark eyebrows. “In fact, given the mission of this place, I would say we have even more responsibility than usual for the character of its students…and so more responsibility toward each other.”

In other words, yes, he had been watching to make sure she didn't somehow corrupt the students, and no, he wasn't going to stop.

If Olivia had been ten years younger, she might have slapped him. She didn't like to think it. She preferred to believe her self-control had been very good, even at seventeen. Still, the temptation was very strong, even at twenty-seven.

“Your dedication does you credit, sir,” she said and managed not to grit her teeth. “It gives me great comfort to know you'll be as attentive to your role as I will be to mine.”

St. John waved one hand, a gesture of concession. Olivia didn't believe it for a second. “I'll do what I can,” he said. “Of course, my experience with…occult matters…”—there might have been distaste in his voice—“is slight. I'm no judge of such things.”

“I'd imagine,” Olivia replied, “a man such as you could consider himself qualified to judge any number of significant matters.”

“Some situations are considerably easier to judge than others.” St. John turned abruptly away from her and toward the front of the room, where Waite was looking into the blue flame. The boy's face had lost the amused look Olivia had already come to expect. He was biting his lip, and his brows were furrowed. “Could I see a face in that?”

Olivia blinked. “I…er…yes, if you looked.”

“Even if I'm not trying to?”

“I would imagine so, yes,” Olivia said crisply, recovering herself. “You're not trying to see the fire itself, after all, and yet it persists in being there.”

St. John looked from her to the flame and back, then made a noncommittal noise in his throat. “I take it,” he said, “you've seen everything you'd care to of your future?”

“Certainly as far as faces are concerned,” said Olivia and turned away.

All buildings started out ugly. There was probably some moral lesson in that. Gareth hadn't seen the plans for the dormitory, but he thought it would end up handsome enough. Simon's taste wasn't bad, and he could afford competent builders. At the moment, there were only jagged, unfinished brick walls rising out of a muddy scar in the earth.

The dingy sky overhead didn't help either, nor did the raw wind put Gareth in a more appreciative mood. Nonetheless, after three days of rain, and another when the ground was too wet for his leg to support him, he was just glad to be outdoors.

“Ten people are far too many for one house,” he said half to himself.

Simon lifted his gaze anyway, turned from inspecting the brickwork, and shook his head. “More than ten, old man. You forgot the servants.”

“So I did.” Gareth shook his head, abashed in the face of his friend's good humor. “And it's not as though I've ever precisely lived alone. I'm sorry. You've been quite hospitable.”

“Oh, the students count for two or three people apiece,” Simon replied easily. “Particularly to those who aren't that young anymore. I confess I don't know how we stood our crowd, and we had only four in our rooms.”

“Wine, as I remember. And the occasional brawl.” Gareth touched his left eye as a particularly vivid memory crossed his mind.

“Mm, yes. Particularly where you and Edward were concerned.”

“Yes, but I never started it. Hardly ever,” Gareth admitted. “And Alex was—” He stopped as he realized what he'd said, but couldn't find any other way out of the sentence. Simon was inspecting the wall again, a bit more carefully than anyone needed to. “Was no stranger to temper either,” he finished. “Sorry.”

He wasn't exactly sure what had happened to Alex Reynell, only that it had involved Simon, the woman who was now Simon's wife…and blood. There'd been the official story: plucky widow menaced by deranged man of fortune, saved by equally wealthy but hopefully saner gentleman, pistol shots, and mysterious escapes. Gareth didn't believe it, particularly not once he'd met Mrs. Grenville.

Gareth also hadn't asked. He'd been sad when he'd heard, and surprised, but he'd never been close to Alex. Simon had, and so Gareth hadn't asked.

He didn't now. If Simon wanted to talk, he would, but Gareth doubted it. The man had another confidant these days.

Something silver-blue glimmered on the wall. Gareth took a few steps forward, peering at the bricks. He could just make out an outline, although he couldn't tell what it was. The shape was almost runic, yet curved: a long, graceful loop. “Very pretty,” he said dryly. “Won't the builders ask questions or gossip?”

Simon shook his head. “At this rate, the physical sign will be gone by morning. It's already fading fast. It was much brighter when I made it.”

“Oh,” said Gareth. No paint he knew of was that shade or would fade so quickly.

“Do you want me to tell you?” Simon asked, glancing sideways at Gareth.

“I doubt I'd understand it if you did. I'll leave those details to you and your…apprentice?”

“Kindly refrain,” Simon said cheerfully, “from giving me a beard and a pointed cap in your imagination. And if you mean Mrs. Brightmore, she knows as much as I do—her expertise is simply in different areas. As I hear, you have reason to know. And no,” he added, lifting a hand, “she didn't tell me you were there.”

Of course not. She wouldn't have needed to. “Is it a problem?”

“It doesn't seem to be, yet.”

Gareth lifted his eyebrows. “What do you think I intend to do, Simon? I promise I've no wish to put a mouse in Mrs. Brightmore's desk—not that she has one at the moment—or pour ink down anyone's back.”

“That's a tremendous weight off my mind,” said Simon dryly, “but it's possible your presence could distract the lady.”

The
lady
was used to performing for twenty or thirty people at once. Gareth very carefully didn't point that out, just as he didn't mention his real reason for attending the class. He'd already gone around once with Simon over Mrs. Brightmore's past. He would rather not point out the need for someone to keep an eye on her.

Even if he wasn't precisely sure what he was keeping an eye out
for
.

“It doesn't,” he replied instead. “She assured me of as much herself.”

Simon smiled a little. “Likewise,” he said, “when I asked her about it.”

There was no reason why that should feel like a betrayal. Simon had a school to run, and it was best to be straightforward. Gareth had always thought so. All the same, the knowledge that Simon had consulted Mrs. Brightmore about his behavior stung. He took a few steps, rounding the corner of the half-built wall. “She teaches well,” he said. “That's not a surprise, I suppose. Certainly wasn't as surprising as your wife teaching…boxing?”

“Fighting. There's
honor
in boxing.” Simon made a wry face. “Marksmanship as well, eventually.”

Gareth lifted his eyebrows and whistled. “One doesn't often meet an Amazon in Britain these days,” he said. “I take it the parents don't know all that you're teaching their children.”

“I'd assume not. Colonel Woodwell might, but he, from all reports, is eccentric enough not to care, and Miss Woodwell has attained her majority, in any case.” Simon absently ticked off students on his fingers as he spoke. “Fitzpatrick's mother, pardon both the language and the slight, probably doesn't give a damn as long as he's out from underfoot and not disrupting her performances, and there's no father in the picture there. The Donnells and the Fairleys were at their wits' end, so I can't imagine we'll have much trouble from them.”

“Waite?”

“Could be trouble, if he writes home too tellingly and too soon. His parents are both radicals, by Society's standards, but I'm not certain they're radical enough to accept some of what happens here.”

“A pity you don't just accept orphans.”

“I've thought so myself, at times,” Simon said, “but we do need some fees coming in. I can't impose myself entirely on friends and family, you know. They start fleeing to the Continent before too long.”

Gareth laughed. “Only those of us who can travel in style,” he said. “Have you heard from Eleanor?”

“A letter came this morning. She should've reached Rome by now. She was in Paris when she wrote.” Simon chuckled. “If Ellie ever tires of helping me with this madhouse, by the way, she'd have an excellent future writing for Baedeker or Murray. I'm surprised France has any stationary left.”

That sounded like Simon's younger sister, whom Gareth remembered as an intense, bookish sort of schoolgirl. She'd been somehow connected with Alex too, which meant her trip abroad might not have been entirely for pleasure. Something else he didn't ask.

“Does she forget you've been there?”

“I think she rather assumes I didn't appreciate it properly.” Simon glanced over at Gareth. “How about your family? Have you seen them since you've been back?”

It wasn't a tentative question, but Simon asked it with a diffident tone that was almost worse than boorishness. Still, he meant well.

“Went up to Kent a month before I came here. They're well.” That was true. There'd been no tragic homecoming, no stormy scenes. His mother had embraced him, and his father had been proud of him. Gareth knew he really shouldn't ask for more.

Particularly because he didn't know what more he could have asked.

“They all send their best,” he added and turned the conversation to lighter things, as he might have steered a balky horse. “Jenny, my niece, wasn't exactly heartbroken when she heard you were married. Sorry to hurt your pride.”

“Been replaced, have I?”

Gareth nodded. “By the grocer's lad, if I hear correctly. I think Helen had more peace of mind when it was you. Especially as this one might actually return Jenny's affection—she can actually speak complete sentences around him. Clearly he doesn't have your overwhelming charm.”

“Yes,” Simon said, “I'm sure it's that, and not the difference between twelve and sixteen.”

Both of them fell silent. Gareth watched a flock of birds, starlings, he thought, cross the gray sky, heading south.

Four years had passed since Simon had come home with him, that week when they'd roamed the countryside, talked late over wine, and shared gentle laughter at Jenny's moon-eyed infatuation when they were sure she wasn't around. Simon had left for town shortly after that. Gareth had gone to Egypt. He'd climbed rocks easily back then, and the buzz of a fly hadn't made him go rigid with anticipated horror.

Not even the light parts of his past quite worked any longer. Everything ran into what came after, just as the gentle slope on which they stood rolled inescapably downhill and into the dark fringes of the forest.

“They all seem quite healthy,” he said. “The students, I mean.”

“Ah,” said Simon, briefly disoriented. Then he seemed to find his place in the conversation. “Good.”

Gareth clasped his hands behind his back and forged onward. He'd gotten used to carrying conversation over gaps. That skill had been one of the things he'd learned on his visit home. “Do you expect many more?”

Simon laughed, and the constraint eased a little. “I dearly wish I could say. It's a tricky business, you know.”

“I suppose one can't simply post advertisements in the
Times
,” Gareth agreed.

“Hardly.” Simon gave the brickwork one last moment of scrutiny and then turned back toward the house. “I've a few connections here and there,” he went on as Gareth fell in beside him, “but I'd as soon not be too public. The servants are sworn to secrecy. That's one of the reasons we don't have as many as we should. Even the village thinks this is just an odd sort of bohemian establishment, like something Morris or Ruskin might have founded. Better that way, for a number of reasons.”

Gareth thought of the symbols on the bricks. “Sensible,” he said and tried to keep his voice neutral.

Something must have shown through, because Simon looked over and shook his head. “Poor St. John. From one war to another?”

“I'd imagine that's how most people feel,” said Gareth. “This one's—” He stopped for a second. If the general subject of his past brought up too much darkness to speak of, his time in the army was worse: like the bottom of a well rather than the forest's shadows. “At least it lets me be more comfortable in the off hours.”

He looked away from Simon's gaze. There were a hundred unasked questions in it. He braced himself for one of them.

Instead, Simon looked back toward the house. “We do strive to please,” he said lightly. “Speaking of which, it's just about time for dinner.”

Thank
you
, thought Gareth, and said nothing.