Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (12 page)

“
No,
I did the needlework on this dress,” I said, hooking the sewing basket on my
left arm and gathering up the dress so it would not drag.

The response was all I could have hoped for. “Miss
Sorensson, you are a master at embroidery! I hope you can teach this to me.”
Margaret let excitement slip into her voice, so I knew this was a good starting
point.

“
I
will try, and I hope you will share patterns with me.” This was a very hard
pattern to do well, but someone had had to teach it to my grandmother, who
taught my mother, who taught me. “I’m ready. Lead on!”

“This will be great fun!”

And why not? Not everyone would be like the sorcerous Hudson
clan. And even the Hudsons had had people of worth among them.

I nodded to Margaret to lead the way.

o0o

It turned out that many young women were waiting in cousin
Esme’s sitting room. The fire was cheerful, and the room seemed to hold heat
well. “In winter, the smaller rooms usually are kept warm with magic,” Margaret
whispered as we entered the room. “Guests generally don’t wander into them.”

“
We
take turns doing the reading,” Margaret continued as we wove through the room. “My
dear friend Catherin Williams just finished a table runner for her parents, so
she will take a break from sewing and read to us this night.”

I wondered if these students were invited to Esme’s formal
evening gatherings. Most looked Margaret’s age, sixteen or seventeen, as
opposed to my thirteen and a half years.

A lovely, dark-haired young woman with laughing eyes and a
genuine smile approached us. “I hoped you could come tonight! And this is our
new fellow student?”

“
May
I introduce you to Miss Alfreda Sorensson?” Margaret turned toward me, her face
bright with pleasure. “This is Miss Williams, my valued friend and also the
best reader among us.”

I gave Catherin my best, “I don’t know you, but I’d like to”
smile, and nodded my greeting. “I am pleased to meet you. Are you related to
the young man named Daniel?”

“
He
is my younger brother,” was Catherin’s reply. “He told me of your kindness at
breakfast. He was so embarrassed.” Her lively eyes were as dark as Daniel’s. “The
kitchen group did not have an obvious leader, and the result was not
unexpected.” She gestured over to an unoccupied area, near her own seat. “I
have a large branch of candles over here, if you’d like to share my corner.”

And so we joined her. We ended up as ten young women, at
least two closer in age to me than to Margaret. As Catherin sat down with the
large book balanced on the curious adjustable lid of an end table, I finished
threading a needle and chose the seam where I would begin to hem. First I
hazarded a quick peek. Yes—two long pockets in the side seams, one on each
side, one shorter than the other.

I caught myself wondering if anyone here could be as good a
friend to me as Idelia had been throughout my childhood.

I also wondered if any of these young women might be my
enemy.

Did other people my age think as I did?

They probably did not . . . unless they were
practitioners.

Catherin cleared her throat, and said: “You have noticed, of
course, that we have a new student among our numbers. Miss Sorensson arrived
last night, and I hope you will make her feel welcome.”

I smiled at the faces of way too many strangers. I recognized
the pretty but pudgy flaxen-haired girl, Miss Wolfsson, and noticed that one
petite young woman had a ghost standing by her side. I blinked, my focus
sharpening, but the ghost merely nodded at me and turned back to the needlework
being set up. The young woman raised a hand in greeting to me. Oh, it was Miss
Smith, the honey bearer, still misty in the soft light. I glanced back at
Margaret, and found her flushing as if discomforted in some fashion.

Had I done something wrong?

I followed her line of sight to Miss Smith . . .
and her ghost.

Interesting. Was it the young woman or her ghost that
disturbed Margaret? Somehow I didn’t think my asking would make Margaret any
more comfortable.

“
And
now, what we have waited for—
The Life and
Adventures of Robinson Crusoe
. ‘I was born in the year 1632, in the city of
York, of good family, tho’ not of that country, my father being a foreigner of
Bremen . . . . ’”

I let my gaze flick up. Everyone seemed to be focused on their
needlework. I realized I felt . . . contented, I think was the
right word. I could find myself a place to stand in the swirling waves of
students, and learn much. I hoped I could also give gifts to this place. I
glanced back down, keeping my head upright as my mother had taught me, discreetly
pinched the dress between my knees to keep the material smooth, and started
working.

o0o

Sunday morning dawned brightly, the sun climbing into a
cloudless blue sky. I heard some bustling in the hallway as several students
prepared to attend religious services in New York, but I wasn’t required to go.
It turned out that although
a Bishop
of New York had been appointed by the Holy Father,
he was trapped in
Naples in the mess of Napoleon Bonaparte’s ship embargo. The bishop had yet to
visit his See.

I know you are thinking
Why
not take him through a maze
? Well, it happened that there was this
nightmare called The Inquisition connected to the Church of Rome. Our leaders
who created the Constitution for America did not allow anyone to persecute
people for their religion.
Though the
Salem
Accords guaranteed the rights of practitioners even before we had the
Constitution and Bill of Rights
,
no
practitioner would offer the Bishop of New York a walk through a maze. Not from
Europe. And priests don’t practice magic . . . not officially.

Yes, it is odd that my mother embraced the Church of Rome
and raised us as Catholics. I think she did not have faith in the gods of her
ancestors, and was looking for powerful protection for us.

I don’t think that the powers that be are there just to
guard us. I think that they are there to encourage us to be more than we ever
imagined.

I do not wish to give up my god. But I do not think that I
will remain a member of my mother’s church.

o0o

After breakfast I found myself back in my room, contemplating
the rest of the day. Margaret had told me she would meet me at dinner in
mid-afternoon. After the meal she would introduce me to other students,
including some of the young men.
There is
no difference in our teaching
, Margaret had said.
We will be practitioners
,
and
we will need identical skills
,
no
matter what branch of magic we finally choose for our specialty
.
The only difference in our study is that as
we age we are taught separately
,
so
that we keep our minds on magic and not on society
.

She blushed when she said the last.

Margaret was going to have few secrets from me.

I had a good six hours to myself, no assignments, and as yet
no books in my room. Hemming dresses didn’t interest me; it could wait until
Robinson Crusoe
after supper. And I didn’t
really want to try to find the library again. I needed fresh air.

I could spend at least three hours poking around the
grounds, as long as I didn’t enter the maze or either labyrinth. If I hurried,
I might be able to follow Mr. Gardener, since he’d come back to the big house
to have breakfast with his wife and other servants of high standing.

I dug out my brother Josh’s old wool trousers and a heavy
wool shirt, adding on top an ancient sweater, so worn the color would be in
debate. Buried in the bottom drawer I found a hat my mother had made for me out
of mink fur. The soft, warm pelt was inside, and thin leather outside. It was
pretty ugly, but great while walking a trap line on a snowy day. I had but to
wind my braid up on top of my head and pull the hat down snug. The paths behind
the great house were shoveled, so I wore my deep warm sheepskin boots and left
the snowshoes in the wardrobe. Finally I found and pulled on my heavy wool
gloves. Ready for almost anything, I strapped my practitioner bag to my waist,
underneath my sweater. After my run-in with the Hudson clan, I didn’t want that
pack out of my reach. This way, I could have fire in a hurry if I needed it for
anything.

Eyeballing the candle, I said: “You can go out now.”

The candlewick faded into smoke. My only lighting was from
the window, sunlight reflecting off snow, bouncing off the ceiling and
brightening my room.

I caught myself wondering if it was more than a spell . . .
perhaps a small, magical salamander controlled each candlestick? It sounded as
if it should be simple for a practitioner to do. Yet Marta had always lit
candles from a spill touched to the burning logs in the fireplace. Marta tried
never to waste energy in careless magic.
You
never know when you might suddenly need all your strength
, she had told me.

I had already seen enough strange things in my life to know
the truth of those words.

As for today, there was an entire farm out there, with glass
houses of plants, and thoroughbred horses, the ones used as fine saddle horses
and racers. Pulling the bedroom door shut behind me, I tiptoed down the family
and servant staircase and outside.

Once I pulled closed the north door, I paused to inhale
deeply, letting my nose learn the unique scent of Cousin Esme’s homestead. There
were pines and other evergreens here, as well as smoke lingering . . .
apple wood, I thought. I could not smell dung, so in winter, at least, the
odors of the barns were kept at bay. I’d have to look for pigs and find out if
they used spells or just good husbandry.

Speaking of husbandry—I saw a man who looked like Mr.
Gardener heading toward the barns and low, gleaming greenhouses. I stopped
myself from hollering at him (that might be seen as some form of pestering him)
and moved quickly over the packed snow path. My energy was high and my wind
good—I made up a lot of the distance before he took a path off to the right,
behind what appeared to be the coach house.

I was tempted to stop right there and visit the carriages I
could see, but they were closest to the house, just beyond the east wing, and
that meant I could easily see them another time. So I waved to someone working
on a lapful of leather harness, who gave me a sharp look and an uncertain wave,
as if unsure who I might be. Then I hurried around the building to see if I
could catch Mr. Gardener.

There was a covered drive between the coach house and what
appeared to be a stable. Here was another possible pleasure. I wondered if
students were allowed to ride the horses? Or were they too valuable to trust to
students? That covered drive would be nice in bad weather. Maybe they led the
horses from the carriages to their stalls that way.

I thought I saw Mr. Gardener heading into that covered
drive, so I put on speed to catch him.

I took maybe twelve long strides in darkness before I came
out the other side of the covered drive. For a moment I saw Mr. Gardener—and
then he simply wasn’t there. I slowed, and then ran the last three steps. I’d
thought his coat was dark brown, but this coat flashed a dark green in a burst
of sunlight. Were there stairs, or a driveway that canted southeast? Or—

The first thing that hit me was the smell.

You think of the country as having all kinds of odors, a lot
of them overpowering. But in truth, when you got past smoke, fresh-turned
earth, manure in all its forms and the garden compost, everything else came to
you on a sweet breeze. A well-tended farm smelled clean and welcoming.

This—this
attack
was a nightmare. I smelled rotting fish, beer and wine gone bad, fresh horse
and pig manure—and more unwashed bodies than I cared to stand among. The smell
of fresh vomit and sweat sewed the scene together, and as I passed the stable
gate on the other side, I found myself among a crowd of people, mostly men, and
a couple of women my mother would blanch to know I’d seen. The smell of
roasting beef and bread baking was almost lost in the faint breeze of sea air.
Yes, sea air—I could smell salt.

I knew that ocean water burned in a wound, because of salt.

I took two steps backward and bumped painfully against a
brick wall, holding my ears to muffle the sound.
How can they stand the noise
?

Then I panicked.

I wasn’t near the maze! I wasn’t in the labyrinths! Leaning
back, I tried to keep the streaming crowd from sweeping me along in their wake.

Where in God’s green earth was I?

I didn’t know what to think, I didn’t know what to do—I
didn’t know how far away from the Livingston estate I was, I couldn’t remember
what the estate was named—
What is its name?
What?
Westward
—
no,
Windward.
I tried to draw air into my lungs through my mouth. My nose had
no interest in breathing. I didn’t blame it, but I needed air so I could think.

Why hadn’t Margaret told me that there were other portals on
the estate? Why hadn’t Cousin Esme mentioned them? Were these smaller ones so
well-guarded they couldn’t imagine I would run into them? Was this someone’s
idea of a joke to test the newest student?

Mr. Gardener’s work clothing was dark brown. I saw a flash
of deep green, before that fellow slipped away.
Who was I following
?

I thought of the larks my oldest brother and his friends had
gotten into, and it occurred to me that I might have found the way the oldest
boys could escape to town.

That thought steadied me a bit, and I stopped shaking. This
was probably the port of New York.