Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (20 page)

Oberon had been compelled to look at the results of his “punishment”
of Titania for a very long time. Rumor has it that Titania’s son still lives.

Cousin Esme gave me an hour to work on it. She had one more
thing she wanted to talk about before she let me go to dinner.

“Tell me, Alfreda. If I wished to stuff eggs, also called
deviling them, what kind of eggs would be best for this? What would create the
most pleasing feast for the stomach and the eyes?”

I blinked.
What
?

I had this horrible, sinking feeling that I’d come to a
finishing school for young ladies, but I replied: “Older eggs. The fresher they
are, the harder they are to peel after you boil them thoroughly. Mother adds
vinegar to the water if she has to boil young eggs. You have to plunge them
into cold water after they sit for a quarter hour or so in the boiling water.
If you do all that, and then let them cool completely, you can get the shells
to crack and roll off cleanly. My mother also pokes a hole in the eggs’ bottoms
with a pin before boiling them.”

“
Excellent.
You may go to dinner now, and return when you have finished eating. We will
discuss some of the rules of magic and herbal medicine then, and also dealing
with children.”

Oh, bother. Was I going to be watching littles again? I’d spent
a lot of time raising my two youngest brothers. Then I remembered that I might
get to teach, and I was both excited and scared. Did Cousin Esme plan to let me
teach some herb lore?

“
Dinner,
Alfreda,” came my cousin’s voice, and I jumped up and dropped a curtsy before
rushing from the room.

Once I was inside the dining hall, I felt underdressed for
the spread of food before me: tureens of soup, bowls of mashed potatoes and
other vegetables, several sauces and pickles, roast chicken, salty southern
ham, and a large cooked fish, its head staring at me. After we’d all filled our
bowls and plates, the meal was cleared away and another took its place! The
second round had cheeses, a savory and a sweet bread, custards, jellies both
savory and sweet, and fruit tarts.

Well, I thought that this was pretty special, and asked
Margaret if today was a holiday of sorts. She just smiled and said no, that the
wealthier students came from homes where they were served
à la française
—
the
first food on the table when the diners arrived, served in three courses—and
that this was a fairly simple meal. I remembered then that New York was on an
island, so fish was possible in winter. It seemed like a party to me.

Had she said
three
courses?

Sure enough, when I thought that I could not stuff another
bite in, well-dressed young men cleared off the serving tables and set out
bowls of dried fruit, fresh apples (slightly wrinkled but still firm) and nuts.
I was grateful for the pockets I put in my clothes, so I could slip a few nuts
and an apple away for later.

“
If
it was a party, we would have ice cream or frozen ices with dessert,” Catherin
said, cracking an English walnut. “Mrs. Gardener is a wonderful cook.”

“
She
certainly is,” I said, surveying the remains of the meal. I felt a bit gloomy
about what was before us, because there was no way we could set a meal like
this on Saturday, but I took heart. No one expected this from us. Maybe we
could learn eventually.

I hoped a few more students were going to join us on
Saturday. Margaret and I would be serving cold meat and soup if we were the
only ones cooking!

Margaret and Catherin were full of questions about what
Professor Livingston had tested me against. Since she hadn’t said I should be
silent, I told them briefly about my morning.

“
Oh,
I hate calligraphy class,” Catherin said, cracking another nut. “My handwriting
is serviceable, but no more. I will be in that class until my last day at
Windward.”

“
That
was clever, knowing the German duchies,” Margaret told me. “Many students are
laid low by those questions.”

“”
Back
home, whenever I asked too many questions, our teacher made me study the globe,”
I replied. “I am just lucky that my teacher had brought a recent globe with him
when he came to our town.”

“
You
are lucky that you learned something instead of daydreaming,” Margaret said,
smiling. “Globe work was so boring! I always had old globes to use, so we were
making new names to glue over countries.”

“
Well,
I like learning things,” was all I could think of to say.

Then we were sent back to classes, or in my case, Cousin
Esme’s sitting room.

I managed to beat her back to the room.

“
Are
you ready for magic?” my cousin asked as she sat down.

“
I’m
not sure I am ever ready for magic,” I replied. “But I’m ready to try.”

“
Very
well. Your cousin Mrs. Donaltsson and your mother taught you the second rule of
magic first. How did you phrase it?”

“
You
may not realize how much you don’t know,” I said quickly.

“
That
is an appropriately terse manner of phrasing it. Did they tell you the first
rule of magic?” Esme’s smile was amused, but it didn’t seem mean.

I thought before saying, “I don’t think so. One time we were
doing something, and Aunt Marta told me that one of the rules of magic was ‘Pray
for potatoes, and grab a hoe.’ We had prayed for the goddess’s help in
something, but then we had the work to finish.”

When I looked back at my cousin, I could see that she was
fighting laughter. “That . . . that sounds just like Marta
Donaltsson. She likes to cut to the heart of a matter. The more formal way to
phrase that rule is: ‘Ask for divine guidance before beginning works great and
small.’ But that’s not the first rule.”

“
I
suppose some people think you can just pray for something, and then not do the
work,” I went on, not sure if my cousin would talk about things the way Marta
and I did.

“
A
common failing of some magicians,” Esme agreed. “The truths hidden in the Bible
apply in many paths. Faith
and
works
are needed.”

“
So
you think Martin Luther was right about how Catholics do too much praying and
not enough working?” I asked.

“
I
think he had some valid points. The See of Rome was very corrupt when he nailed
his list to the door of the church. Protestants are doing some good things in
their pursuit of truth, but I feel that they are also making mistakes. But that
is for a religion and ethics class. Now, we discuss magic. The first rule of
magic is this: ‘The magic is in the practitioner.’”

I stared at her. “Of course it is. Where else would it be?”

Esme’s smile bloomed. “Many people waste years . . . a
lifetime . . . making or seeking artifacts of power. But if you have no power to
share with the items, their value is limited. Placing power in an object can be
very dangerous, because it separates you from the power, and it also might give
an enemy a focus to use against you. This is one reason powerful dark users are
so dangerous. They will not share their power with an artifact, but they might
try to steal your power for it. You know you must keep your ritual names
secret?”

“
Yes,
ma’am.”

“
Good.
In truth, Alfreda, the number attached to a rule of magic changes during your
lifetime. Different rules will speak to you at different times. One of them is
always valuable: ‘Expect the Unexpected.’”

Yes. That sounded like a good one. In fact, I would name it
the most important one, depending on how much you used magic.

“
Now,
I wish you to follow me to my solar, where you shall do a few things for me to
demonstrate your comprehension of the herbal arts.”

Cousin Esme rose and led me to the kitchen wing. There was a
flurry of curtsying from the staff, but my cousin flicked her fingers and told
them to please continue with their work. She did pause to speak to Mrs.
Gardener, but then we went through the kitchen and down a narrow hallway. Ahead
I could see a rectangle of light, with a few bars of darkness laid across it.

It was a door of glass, framed by thick wooden pieces. This
was very much like the wall of windows on either side of the front door, only
it had a handle of its own. My cousin leaned on the wide, finished piece of
wrought iron and pushed the door open. The smell of green herbs swept over us
like a wave of fragrance.

Inside it was spring; there was no other word for it. The
small room had two walls of windows facing East and South, nestled up against
two stone outer walls. The roof peaked above us, slanting down to the windowed
wall. The ceiling sparkled—every step or so protruded small glass cones,
descending maybe a hand’s length from the wooden framework above. The cones
threw wide, soft circles of light.

Numerous shelves lined both walls of windows, with many pots
of green upon them. The shelves rose above us and dropped down nearly to the
floor. A strong table anchored the room, with several chairs drawn up to it. One
small fireplace filled the narrower of the stone walls, a cheery blaze burning
within.

“
Welcome
to my solar,” my cousin said. “This is where I do what herb work I prefer to
handle myself. There is also a larger solar where the students work.” She
closed the door and gestured to the chairs. “I want to remind you that when you
speak of your aunt in front of the staff or other students, remember to call
her Mrs. Donaltsson. A certain formality is expected of us when speaking of our
teachers. When we are alone, it is fine to call her Aunt Marta, as she has
given you that privilege.”

Actually, my aunt (who was really Papa’s cousin, and also
mine) allowed me to address her by her Christian name, but I simply said: “Yes,
ma’am.”

No need for Cousin Esme to know that. No need for anyone to
know that.

“
We’ll
start with propagation of herbs. Have you ever potted up starts of peppermint?”
she asked me.

“
Yes,
ma’am,” I answered.

“
Good.
I want you to trim back these peppermint plants, and use these small pots for
the new plants,” she said, sitting down by the fire.

I lifted the falling limbs of the closest plant, noting the
flowers on it. “Do you want to save the seed for spearmint later?” I asked. “Do
you start seed spearmint this early?”

Esme gave me one of her “sorting me like a cupboard” looks,
as if she could see my bones. “So you know that peppermint seed usually
produces the milder spearmint.”

“
Mints
cross with each other all the time,” I replied, studying the sealed dye pots
set on shelves against the stone wall. Strips of color dangled beneath the
containers, and small, stiff cards labeled jars. One set of strips caught my
eye. “You can use lily-of-the-valley to get a buff color? How?”

“
By
using chrome as the mordant instead of alum to set the color,” Cousin Esme
answered. “We’ll get to dyes later. Have you made any preparations yet from
herbs?”

“
I’ve
made vinaigrettes, cough drops, infused oils, cosmetics, teas, tonics, soaps—”
I started.

“
Good,
good. I have the materials for making many common aids. You may use the
containers here, and there’s a hook for that pot.” She gestured to the artesian
arm folded up inside the fireplace. “Make some cough drops, and we could use
some more gargle.”

“
Do
you prefer traditional horehound drops, or the family recipe?” I asked. “Butter
is nice to grease the pan if you have any to spare. Do you want a soothing
gargle or an astringent one?”

“
There
is oil of orange here if you would like to make some of the family cough drops,
but do not teach that recipe to your classmates,” my cousin told me. “That has
been our recipe for a long time. As for gargles, one batch of both would do
nicely. There’s a keg of spring water in the corner over there behind you. The
butter bell is on the right side of the table. I also would like to ask you
some questions while you work.”

Of course she was going to watch. And here I was, in her
workroom using her equipment. I searched around for the thymes. “Have you
already infused the thyme, or shall I start some for tomorrow?”

“
Go
ahead and start from scratch,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Now,
Alfreda, who was Eris and what was her most famous action?”

I blinked and tried to keep my face still. My mother always
jumped straight to the Trojan War. She didn’t like me knowing what people said
caused it.

Of course I found out.

“Ah . . . she was the Greek goddess of discord, and the thing most
people remember about her is that she tossed a golden apple into a circle of
goddesses after writing ‘For the fairest’ on a strip of linen tied to the stem.”

o0o

What followed was a
very
long afternoon.

I poured cold water over fresh thyme cuttings, clamped on a
tight lid and brought it all to a boil in the scrupulously clean pot sitting on
fat legs near the fire. Next I moved the container further from the flames to
simmer for a few minutes, and then set it on the firebrick to steep overnight.

While I was starting the cough drops, I told Cousin Esme all
I could remember about the Trojan War, which began because a young warrior
named Paris was asked to judge which goddess was the fairest of those gathered.
They, being Greek goddesses, tried to bribe him with offers of becoming the
most powerful man in the world, the wisest man—or the man in possession of the
most beautiful woman alive.