Lessons After Dark (7 page)

Despite the presence of an annoyingly beautiful confidence trickster, Gareth was beginning to like Englefield. He'd managed to get his office set up and the necessary paperwork dealt with, Simon was as amusing over port and cards as he had been in university days, and there were far worse things than spending a crisp autumn evening in the countryside with a bit of time on his hands.

Balcony doors that suddenly opened were one of them. The sudden noise yanked Gareth away from contemplating the view. He didn't flinch—he'd stopped doing that after a few weeks back in England—but he turned to regard the newcomer with no great joy.

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” said Mrs. Brightmore. She spoke politely enough, but her set chin and narrowed eyes conveyed a different message: she had as much right to be on the balcony as he did, and what was he doing glaring at innocent passersby anyhow?

Gareth considered adding her to his growing list of less fortunate things. Her past, her tone, and her presence on the balcony all argued for it. Her general competence argued against. Her figure, her eyes, and the intriguing curve of her lower lip could count for either side.

“Have you seen Arthur?” she asked, pulling Gareth out of his internal debate.

“Waite? No, not in the last hour or two.”

Mrs. Brightmore frowned. “He didn't show up for practice, Mrs. Grenville said. You're the last person we've asked.”

Gareth abruptly stopped thinking about the view—either one. “Who saw him last?”

“William. It was after my class, a few hours ago. They were in their rooms. William left to see if he could get some bread and butter from the kitchen, and Arthur was gone when he got back. He didn't think anything of it until practice.”

Although Gareth hadn't been to any of Mrs. Grenville's practice sessions, he couldn't imagine any of the students casually deciding to miss one. Still, he spoke lightly as he got to his feet. “He's probably just gone down to the village and lost track of time.”

“That's what we're hoping. All the same…” She glanced over toward the forest waiting beyond the gardens and buildings of Englefield. To Gareth, it looked damned uncomfortable. To a teenage boy, it might suggest adventure, or an afternoon of fishing. “We should take a look before dark. Accidents, you know.”

“I know,” said Gareth.

He followed Mrs. Brightmore back through the door and downstairs, noticing how stiffly she held herself. Worried, almost panicked, and trying not to show it. Doing a fairly good job too, Gareth thought, and dismissed the urge to reach out in some reassuring gesture or other. He was not in a position to offer comfort to this woman. He didn't want to be. That was important to remember.

Simon met them in the hall. “The servants are checking the house, and Joan's gone down to the village,” he said, “since I know the forest best. St. John, sorry about the leg, but I think you'll have to come with me in case the young idiot's fallen down and hit his head. Mrs. Brightmore—”

“I'll keep an eye on the students,” she said, very calm. “Unless you think another magician would be helpful out there.”

“I wish I knew,” said Simon. “‘I'm not as familiar with the forest as I'd like to be. But one of us should stay behind.”

***

“At times like this,” Simon said as he and Gareth made their way down the path to the forest's edge, “I rather agree with those people who say the youth of England travel too much.”

“I don't think you could say Waite's
travelling
,” said Gareth.

“Not Waite. Me. Until a few months ago, I was at Englefield only for school holidays, and not always then. I don't know a great deal about the forest myself. And”—an odd half smile crossed his face—“it's a strange place, really. There are a bunch of standing stones in it, somewhere, nothing big enough to excite much comment, but I suppose we did have druids here in the old days. It's…” He sought for a word, then spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

“Strange?” Gareth suggested dryly.

Simon laughed shortly. “Rather. How are you holding up?”

“I'll be fine,” Gareth said. He'd found a walking stick, which helped a bit. His leg would probably pain him that night, particularly if he had to use his power on Waite, but that happened. He'd had worse. “Don't worry about me.”

The forest didn't seem particularly unusual when they entered it. The trees were the usual mix, red and gold leaves standing out against the darker evergreens. The grass was the usual faded gray-brown of autumn. The dirt was, well, dirt. None of the shadows moved.

On the other hand, the place was large. A number of paths led away from theirs, and if Waite had come this way, he'd left no signs of his passing. “I'd rather not split up,” Simon said and sighed.

“We need a bloodhound,” said Gareth.

“Miss Woodwell could find something, but we don't have much time before dark.” Simon frowned. “I hate to try divination without the right implements, but it looks as though I might have to. Do you—?”

A branch cracked on the right-hand path. It sounded too loud to be wildlife, or to be the sort of wildlife one encountered on an English estate. “Hello?” Gareth raised his voice. “Is someone there?”

A figure came around the bend. Tall and slim, with dark hair currently hosting several leaves. “Dr. St. John?” Waite asked. As he drew closer, Gareth saw his face was whitish green, and he seemed to have trouble focusing. “Mr. Grenville? I'm afraid I've gone a bit astray.”

***

Alarming as Waite's initial appearance was, when Gareth took a look at him, he seemed to be suffering nothing more than a sick headache. A little of his power took care of that quickly enough, and tea helped considerably as well.

“You're lucky we met when we did,” he said, looking sternly across the drawing-room table at the boy, “and that you didn't break your neck beforehand, wandering around the forest in the state you were in.”

“I didn't, sir,” Waite said. “Or not much. Oh, I got lost, that's for certain, but I didn't get the headache until I tried scrying for the way out. The way you taught us, ma'am, in our third lesson.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Brightmore, her voice carefully controlled. She didn't look at either Simon or Gareth. “And what happened then?”

“As far as I can tell, someone stuffed a map of all England into my head for a few minutes,” said Waite, grimacing. “Looking back on it, ma'am, I think I pronounced one of the words wrong. I did get out, though. I probably could have got to Avalon itself, if I'd wanted to.”

Simon's lips twitched. “That's a rather
dramatic
version of a beginner's mistake,” he said. “I only turned my fingernails purple for two weeks the first time I tried a spell.”

“You were lucky,” said Mrs. Brightmore, relaxing.

“Not so lucky. I was at school just then, not a school that taught magic, mind, and one of the masters had some words with me about fooling around with dangerous chemicals. I couldn't contradict him, really.” Simon made a face. “Took my meals standing for two days, as I recall.”

“Must have been jolly hard for both of you,” said Waite looking from Simon to Mrs. Brightmore when everyone had finished laughing, “learning on your own, I mean.”

“Not entirely, or not in my case,” said Simon. “I had teachers. Only sometimes, and they were…various degrees of reputable…but they did help.”

Mrs. Brightmore smiled. “The disreputable ones as much as the others, I'd imagine, otherwise you wouldn't know what to avoid.” She leaned back in her chair, reaching for a biscuit. “That's been my experience.”

“And how did
you
learn?” Gareth asked. “I'd think it'd be even more difficult for a woman.”

Even before Simon lifted his eyebrows, Gareth knew he'd spoken out of malice. The question had come from anger at Mrs. Brightmore's obvious ease, envy of the shared experiences Gareth had never really wanted before now, and the simple desire to make Mrs. Brightmore pay attention to him. Unworthy impulses, all of them, especially the last, but the words were out, and Waite was listening with obvious and eager curiosity.

It was a shade too late for regret.

Besides, he told himself, someone would have asked sooner or later.

Mrs. Brightmore smiled thinly back at him and answered without hesitation. “I bought a book,” she said, “because it looked interesting. I tried a spell, which worked. After that, I thought I should find someone who knew more.”

Her eyes glittered at Gareth, daring him to press her on any point of the story. Given that, the flush in her cheeks was probably anger, but it was quite attractive all the same. She was a passionate woman, for all her outward calm.

He wished he hadn't thought of that.

“How did you do that, ma'am?” Waite asked.

“I started with the man who'd sold me the book,” she said, “and went from there. It took me a little while.”

“I think we've wandered a bit from our point,” Simon said. “Waite, scrying aside, why
were
you in the forest?”

Waite flushed. “I went in as a bit of a lark at first, sir, just to see what was there. I didn't mean to leave the path, but I saw this stag. Pure white, big as anything. I didn't have a gun, and it didn't seem the sort of thing you shoot, but I thought I'd follow it.”

“And?” Simon asked.

“It vanished, sir. Went around a corner and just disappeared.” Waite shook his head. “Should have expected that, I suppose.”

“I don't see why,” Simon said. “I didn't.”

“It's happened before,” Mrs. Brightmore said thoughtfully. “One of the old women in the village mentioned hearing stories when she was young. Strange animals. Strange lights. She didn't give them much credit.”

“And now it seems we have to,” said Gareth. “Wonderful. What do you intend to do about this?”

“I don't see the need for anything dramatic just yet,” said Simon. “A few apparitions are common enough, I hear. I'll tell the staff and the rest of the students not to go in,
again
, and I'd certainly like to take a look when I can. In the meantime, though”—he sighed—“I'm afraid I have more mundane concerns to deal with.”

“A dinner party?” Olivia set her spoon down in the remains of her breakfast porridge. “Here?”

Across the breakfast table, by now mostly empty of food and guests, Mrs. Grenville produced a sardonic grin and lifted eyebrow. “It's not such a bad place.”

A few weeks' acquaintance had left Olivia familiar enough with Mrs. Grenville to take the comment lightly. Nevertheless, she shook her head and replied, “No, not at all. I apologize. I meant no slight on Englefield. It's a lovely house…” before going on, “It's just that…it
is
a school now, and while the students are coming along quite well, I haven't been making any of them ready for Society.”

“Of course not. Why would…Although all that can be useful.” Mrs. Grenville laughed briefly, though Olivia wasn't sure what amused her. “Wouldn't be a bad idea if you have the time. We'll get someone else in eventually, when we have money for another teacher. Or when Eleanor gets back.”

“I know a little,” said Olivia. She looked down at the linen tablecloths, remembering other breakfasts in other houses. Gray as the sunlight was on the fall morning, the tall windows still let in plenty, and the china was brightly painted and uncracked. She realized she was smiling for no reason, and spoke again. “But it's rather out of date, I think, where the best people are concerned.”

Mrs. Grenville shrugged. “A start's something. As for the immediate problem, I don't see it. Woodwell probably stands up to company better than I do, even when I'm trying, and the others, except Waite, are kids.”

“The youngest three certainly wouldn't be old enough for company,” Olivia agreed, “though Arthur would do well enough.”

Only
a second, though, and then she waved a hand, accepting and dismissive at once. “Yeah, it'll look good to have a couple of the students around. The others can eat earlier in the kitchen or their rooms.”

That would've been the case if they'd been at home. Fitzpatrick was perhaps getting a little old for such isolation, but Olivia thought he'd endure one more time well enough. She picked up her mostly empty cup of tea and took a sip. “Who will the other guests be?”

“Depends,” said Mrs. Grenville. “Assuming nobody gets sick at the last minute or has other plans or just throws the invitation on the fire, it'll be the vicar and his daughters, the village doctor, a friend of Simon's, and us. Lots of locals, but I wouldn't ask about the forest. I don't want to give anyone reason to go looking until we've had a chance to explore it, and I don't want to bring rumors back to life. This dinner's only to show we're not running around naked and sacrificing goats up here.”

“I assure you,” Olivia said, pretending to be sober as she set down her tea, “I hadn't thought of it.”

“Of course not. I don't know where you'd even
find
a goat.” Mrs. Grenville looked thoughtful for a moment. “Can't say I've actually ever seen one.”

“Nor have I,” Olivia said after a moment of thought. “Or not up close.” There'd probably been a few on the tenants' farms when she'd been growing up and she'd taken baskets around from time to time, but she could dig up no particular memory connected with the word. “What will we be…? You cannot mean to openly—?”

“No,” said Mrs. Grenville dryly, “and neither does Simon. Each of us for different reasons. We'll be a spiritualist institution. Try to look vague and idealistic. Talk about Great Destiny and High Callings, if you can. One of us should. I don't think Woodwell will manage it, and I know I can't.”

Indeed, the thought of Charlotte pretending to be dreamy and spiritual made Olivia smile. Mrs. Grenville would be an even less likely candidate. “I'll do my best.” She picked up her spoon again, stirred it through the porridge, and then let it fall. Mrs. Grenville—”

“Oh, for the love of…everything, call me Joan,” the other woman said. “
You're
not a servant or a student or a man, so it shouldn't make anyone faint.”

“Thank you, and you must call me Olivia.” The words dropped automatically from her lips. Not that she regretted them, but it was strange how such phrases came back. It had been years since she'd used the first name of anyone who might have cared. Not that she was sure Joan did. “When are you planning to have the party? I don't know for certain if Charlotte or Arthur have brought the right kind of clothes.”

“In a week or so. Take them to the village if you need to, but don't worry about it too much. Woodwell came with two trunks, and Waite's the sort who looks good in evening dress and knows it, so I'd bet he has something.”

Olivia giggled, then took a bite of her porridge. There was something about the way Joan looked at a half-full bowl, she'd discovered, that made one reluctant to waste food. In some respects, she'd have made a marvelous governess.

As she ate, Olivia was conscious of Joan's eyes on her, and of an unexpectedly awkward look on the other woman's face.

“Er—” Joan finally began, “how about you? Sorry. Simon really should be the one handling this, but he can't talk about women's clothing, idiotically enough. Just…you
didn't
come with two trunks.”

“No,” said Olivia, thankful she'd thought to make the trip to Mrs. Simmons, “but I should have something in time.”

“Good,” said Joan and drummed her fingers against the table. “That's all of us but St. John. He's about Simon's size, with a little taking in. I'm going to let him be Simon's problem.”

“That generally does seem the wisest course of action,” said Olivia.

Joan lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, he's not so bad. Not when he forgets you're a woman. Simon's a better choice for trying to drag him out of his cave, though, and someone will have to. I don't think the good doctor's gone anywhere but his office and his room for the last three days.”

“Not entirely,” said Olivia after swallowing the last bite of her porridge. “He does watch my classes.”

***

In time, it might stop seeming odd to have a class in the middle of sofas, stuffed chairs, and end tables, just as it might become normal to see symbols chalked on floors that had once held flawless lacquer and Oriental rugs, or to smell incense and scented candles mingling with tea and bread. Theoretically, it was quite probable.

Gareth suspected such an adjustment wouldn't happen for quite a while, if ever it did. Not for him. The students were younger and therefore more malleable. Even Simon and his wife were younger, if only by a year or two. He thought he'd used up his allotment of broad-mindedness some time ago.

All the same, he was sitting on one of the chairs.

It made sense for him to be there. That was what he'd told himself a few days ago when he'd first taken a seat, and it was still true now. His leg ached, there was plenty of space, and he was starting to feel damned strange standing in the back of the room like a government inspector. Gareth felt obligated to be there. Therefore, there was nothing wrong with being comfortable.

Not that Mrs. Brightmore had given him any additional reason to feel obligated. In all the time he'd been watching her with the students, she'd never been less than honest.

Then again, perhaps that had been because he was watching her.

“Mrs. Besant would call it an ‘aetheric body,'” she was saying now, “and I think there are some Oriental sources who'd talk about
chi
or
chakras
, though I'm not at all sure it's the same thing. I'd dearly love to have a proper translation some day.”

Here she gave Miss Woodwell a smile, and that young woman grinned back but held up a hand. “It works only if I hear it said, I'm afraid. I'm merely mortal where writing's concerned, and I've never studied any Chinese. Seemed a tricky sort of a language. Get a monk in here for tea and mysticism, though, and I'll jump to it.”

“I'll see what I can do,” said Mrs. Brightmore. She waited long enough for the general chuckle to die down and then went on to talk about the energy within each person, how people with natural talents could use it and how magicians could affect those people. “The energy, you might say, is closer to the surface in them,” she said with a graceful gesture of her hands. “There's less of a shell there. But normal people and animals and nonliving things aren't as easy to reach.”

“Not impossible, though, is it?” Waite asked from under half-lidded eyes. He was leaning back, doing his utmost to occupy a whole sofa, but his voice betrayed more interest than his posture.

Mrs. Brightmore shook her head, smiling again in that almost lopsided way. “Not at all impossible, only more complicated. You have to make a connection in the physical world to what you're trying to affect. William, give me an example, please.”

“One of those dolls,” he said promptly, “the kind witch doctors and people stick pins in.”

“Correct. That's the first of the two laws of magic: a connection between a person or an object, and something that looks like it. The other is a connection between a thing and a part of that thing.

“Another example, please. Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth lowered her hand. “Blood,” she said. She didn't look at her classmates, but she sounded certain of herself, which was more than she'd done at first. “And hair, maybe?”

“Yes and yes. That's the second law. Any part can influence the whole. In a way, working with energy is using that law too. That's part of someone.” She looked around the room, her face becoming solemn though without the sense of purpose it had held on the first day. “There are ways to protect yourself from such things, there are remedies once they happen, and nobody can guard against everything a magician might use to harm them. As far as you can, it's best to be very careful.”

“Make sure you trust your servants, I assume,” said Waite.

“That's a good idea no matter who you are. You can read Shakespeare if you doubt it.” The students laughed. Mrs. Brightmore didn't. “But all of you risk a great deal more than minor blackmail or missing spoons. Those of you who end up working for the school to help fight these dark forces will put yourselves in danger. If you don't, danger may find you in any case, just because of what you know. If you remember anything of these lessons, remember that.”

Gareth watched Mrs. Brightmore. She still looked like a respectable young widow, not the sort who'd know anything about danger, let alone hostile magic. The impression lasted until he met her eyes.

She was good at deceit. Gareth knew that. He knew there could be multiple layers to trickery, and Mrs. Brightmore could be pretending to worry about her students and pretending to not quite hide it. He knew those things, and yet he couldn't bring himself to think that the fear he saw was anything but real. It was a species he knew too well not to recognize.

Part of him had been surprised the blood ever did come off his hands.

“What about words?” he asked, remembering her half-whispered voice the first time she'd gotten Elizabeth down from the ceiling, and how she'd spoken in a language he hadn't recognized.

For a second Mrs. Brightmore stopped, blinking. “Words?” she repeated and cleared her throat. “Words are both, in a way. A word describes a thing, ‘chair'”—another motion with a slim hand—“or ‘apple' or ‘boy,' but it also becomes part of it, in a way that's a bit hard to explain. Words have considerable power, and more so the older the language, or if people don't use that language for daily life.”

Having found her rhythm, she continued, gesturing and smiling and drawing metaphors to a trail with many scents being harder to follow. She'd been startled at first, off guard, and Gareth smiled a little at that, but he found his satisfaction didn't last as long as he would have thought.

Instead, he found himself leaning forward, listening. Interested.