Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (27 page)

Miss Smith looked taken aback. “If you are not a descendant,
they won’t talk to you.”

I know my eyes grew wider, because I felt my eyebrows
twitch. “I hope I don’t have to do a class project with them, then. It would be
very awkward.”

Just a hint of a smile lurked on Miss Smith’s lips. She
looked bemused.

“I have no idea if I am a descendant. I have family from New
England, so I suppose it’s possible,” I went on. “Are you a descendant?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I have no one left.”

“But they watch over you,” I told her.

“I hope so.”

I smiled at her. “They do. So,” I went on. “If they don’t
talk to us, how is this a problem?”

“They are rich and their clothing is the envy of the
school,” Miss Smith said.

Ah. That game I knew about.

I was not sure what to say in response. My life was framed
by people who feared me, who thought I was odd, who wanted to be my friend
because I had magic, and the very few who simply liked to talk with me and
share things together.

I had never feared other children. I had just avoided them.

“It helps give them influence,” Miss Smith murmured, turning
back to her bowl. “I thought you should be warned.”

“Thank you,” I told her, buttering my bread.

Forewarned is forearmed.

“A new fledgling in tow, Miss Rutledge? Surely you have
served your time?” came a murmuring voice behind me.

Margaret stiffened, her face smoothing into her porcelain
“hello, stranger” expression she’d worn when I first met her. “I have always
enjoyed mentoring, Miss Bradford,” she replied, her voice drained of
inflection.

Margaret did
not
like Miss Bradford.

If I craned my neck to see who was behind me I would
embarrass Margaret. I reached for my tea and waited to be introduced.

“Miss Sorensson, this is Miss Bradford and Miss Alden,”
Catherin said, nodding in turn.

Now I could twist slightly.

The girls did not move forward. I could see a white dress of
multi-layered gauze out of the corner of my eye. Of the other girl I could see
nothing.

“I heard that your new fledgling has already put you on the
Saturday staff.” There was a smothered giggle from somewhere beyond the table.

I considered whether to speak, and what to say.

Margaret responded with a faint smile, barely twitching her
lips. “New experiences. I’ll be comfortable with the next house party and spare
my mother the effort.”

“Don’t let all the sharing go in one direction,” Miss
Bradford said, her voice as restful as a river sliding over stones. “I trust
that you will give her a few hints as to appropriate meal attire. Good
evening.”

There was a whisper of material, and the rise and fall of
conversation around us resumed.

I flicked a glance Margaret’s way. “You were right. Magical
testing is hard on students.”

A gasp, quickly smothered, came from Catherin’s direction.
Miss Smith looked puzzled, while Margaret tightly pressed her lips together.

It could have gone worse. I looked over my shoulder and saw
two young women moving into the back room. Both were dressed in gauzy white
with fine wool shawls, one dark-haired, one a flaming redhead.

I wondered if I could take meals in my room.

o0o

My bedroom was warm, and our tea was just right.

“
Miss
Sorensson, you are intrepid!” Catherin Williams exclaimed. “First Tonneman’s
games, and
then
there was Miss Mayflower
Compact, the queen bee herself!” Catherin raised her chin and tossed her head
as she spoke, reaching to touch an imaginary hat.

Thanks to Catherin, I suspected I might recognize Miss
Bradford when I finally saw her face. I didn’t feel like that last had gone
well, though. I just hadn’t wanted Margaret to feel badly.

I hoped Miss Mayflower Compact wasn’t going to be a problem.
All I wanted was to learn ritual magic and get out of Windward as quickly as
possible.

It was long past supper and into our last tea of the night.

I had planned to ask Margaret and Catherin about whether I
should confront Professor Sonneault, but I didn’t want to mention it in front
of strangers. Then the two of them had homework, and I returned to French
vocabulary and studied the list of classes I was expected to attend each day.
It was complicated, for the order changed daily.

“
The
reward for success is more work,” was Margaret’s comment after looking at my
list.

Huh. Maybe I should not have been in such a hurry back home to
finish my lessons. I was going to be submerged in languages. But now was
teatime, with a small plate of macaroons to share among the three of us, and I
needed to say something to Catherin, even though I was not positive what “intrepid”
meant.

“
Well,
I don’t know about that,” I started, shifting on my perch, which was the foot
of my high bed. Catherin and Margaret had the chairs, and had brought a tiny
folding table to set the sturdy teapot and cups upon.

“
She
means fearless,” Margaret interrupted. Margaret was becoming skilled at reading
my face.

“
Not
at all,” I assured Catherin. “I was very frightened. It’s just that fear wasn’t
going to solve anything. I save being scared for later!”

Catherin burst out laughing, but it was happy laughter, so I
smiled in turn. I saw deep creases at the corners of Margaret’s mouth as her
serene smile crossed her lips.

“
And
I thought
my
first ritual was a trial! I had but a solitary brownie to
face, who was trying hard to be helpful. Fortunately it was one that has helped
out at the school for years, and it just thought I was touched in the head,”
Catherin confided, pouring out a tiny amount of hot tea for us all.

“
You
acted quickly, Miss Sorensson,” Margaret went on, offering me the cookie plate.
“I do not know if I could have evaded the hag, much less the Grindylows. You
should be well-satisfied with your efforts.”

“
I
got the circle up, and Death came at my request, so I am satisfied,” I
admitted, taking a cookie and passing the plate to Catherin. “I would be
happier if I knew what Death was talking about, when he spoke to us. But life
is full of mysteries.”

“
So
many possibilities for so few words,” Catherin said, adding cream to her tea.

I preferred black tea and an extra cookie, and suited
actions to thought. “Well, I will keep an eye out when in that class,” I
murmured. “I don’t know if Death ever gives more than one hint.”

“
I
have met that angel but once, and do not expect to see him again, until my last
day,” Margaret said, her gaze dropping to her hands. Her voice had that
measured dignity people reserved for talking about Death.

“
You
don’t ever expect to need to ask him a question for a patient?” I asked.

“
Who
would trust me with a patient that ill?” was her response.

I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. In my
experience, ill people happened everywhere, and the more you knew about caring
for them, the better you could manage your own homestead. All during my youth
my parents had had no doctor to call upon. It was only that last year before
the werewolf came that a doctor was in our region. Before that, my mother had
handled everything as best she could.

This wasn’t the time to argue that point with Margaret.

We had our tea and cookies, and then I walked them back to
their room, Catherin with the folding table and Margaret with her English tea
set tucked in its box. After stopping off at the indoor Tree, I returned to my
own nest, and put the two chairs from the table back where they belonged. It
was time to think about sleep, for the day had been long, and the senior
student who made sure we all went to bed by lights out would be along soon. I
had yet to meet her, but I’d been told she had little sense of humor.

Just as well if I kept going to sleep before she did her
rounds.

I reached to the top of the dresser, re-arranging the skirt
on Ruth, the doll that my good friend Idelia had given me. Tonight I had
finally pulled her from my trunk and set her up in solitary splendor. To Ruth,
if only silently, I could admit that I was nervous.

The business with the nursery boggies had left me restless
and wondering if I would have nightmares. That had happened, in the past. I
could handle emergencies, but sometimes the hours afterwards left me jumpy as a
long-tailed cat in a market street crowd.

Still, I had to try to sleep. Tomorrow I had real classes.

As I took hold of the heavy curtains to draw them over the
window, I glanced down at the garden . . . and stared.

The maze was glowing.

Not the thick walls woven of yew, but the path of the
pattern. It was more than snow reflecting moonlight. This was much closer to
the pale fire Marta’s labyrinth had put forth.

I pressed my nose against the cold, bubble-flecked glass and
squinted, my breath fogging the lower panes. There was no movement, not a human
to be seen, but at the entrance of the maze was a dark lump. It looked like a
sack except for a snaky curl that led beyond the pile itself.

As the glow of the pathway increased, I realized that I
knew
that lump.

It was The Cat.

I went tearing to the wardrobe for my coat.

o0o

I kept enough self-possession to know that tossing on my
outer clothes was a clear invitation to be stopped by an adult. So I folded my
coat over like a bundle for the laundry, and then realized I would need to try
strapping my snowshoes to my slippers.

I hauled open the door to the wardrobe . . . and
there were my boots, cleaned, as if nothing had happened to them.
Wonder what this will cost me, in time or
work
?
I touched the boots,
but they seemed perfectly normal.

Boots on, coat tucked under my arm, pouch strapped to my
waist, knife and wand still in their slits . . . I grabbed my
hunting knife and tightened the strap around my waist. Then I rushed for the
back staircase.

You are not leaving
the property
,
I reminded myself.
You are not going into the maze. Even if The
Cat goes into the maze, you are staying OUT of the maze
.

Well, I knew I wasn’t going to fool anyone who might still
be working in the kitchen, cleaning up for the baker in the morning. Once in
the service area I shook out my coat, nodded to a rosy-cheeked blonde girl who
was carrying a stack of plates toward the butler’s pantry, and then said: “I
must fetch The Cat.” Without pause I marched to the kitchen door.

To call the night air brisk would trigger laughter. It was
so cold that my first breath hurt. I fumbled out my gloves and scarf, and the
inside-out hat I wore doing chores around our farm.

The moon gleamed in a pale sickle of light through thick,
bare tree branches. In the distance I heard a dog barking, his voice deep and
self-important, and closer, a snort that sounded like a horse. Tracks dappled
the firm snow—horses, mice, cats, one dog, and a couple of hares. It took me a
few crunching steps to get from the kitchen wing to where the labyrinths and
maze were placed.

I practically levitated when a great horned owl shrieked.
Good thing I wasn’t a mouse, or I’d be running. No nerve tonight. Those boggies
had gotten to me.

Neither light nor sound disturbed the serene black and white
curves of the labyrinth on this side of the maze. I could not remember whether
it was the male or female labyrinth to the right, but I sensed energy about it,
coiled up like a rattlesnake.

The maze was not silent. I could hear the steady chiming of
hoof beats against cobblestones, as if the maze path was paved. Tracks marred
the snow visible from the entrance . . . large ones. Cougar prints, it looked like,
from some sort of big cat.

And wind blew. The branches above me were still, etched
against the waning moon. But from the tall formal garden I could hear the rush
that promised wind or water.

I
stopped, considering the scene. No wind where I was . . . could
I use the stirring air or water within the maze? Here I was, outside in a
strange place, with no more protection than a hunting knife that was useful
only so long as no one knew I had it. Not a cloud in the sky . . .
how far to reach for wind as a weapon?

It
was time to grab The Cat and get inside.

The
Cat crouched before the entrance, his long, fluffy tail wrapped around himself.
His colorful coat looked like a series of black, white and gray swirls. I approached
him. A gust of wind scoured the side of my face, stirring my scarf and a few
wisps of hair that had escaped from my braid.

It
took effort not to reach for that wind, to capture a piece of it for myself.

As if
I had spoken, The Cat turned his head toward me, his furry face peering up
toward mine. He chirped a friendly greeting.

“
Been
getting the lie of the land?” I asked him, and then winced. I was once again
talking to the animal.

The Cat trilled at me.

“
I
know you can’t answer me, but I can’t help but think . . . ”
that
you understand most of what I say
sounded just foolish.

Maybe it sounded foolish, and maybe not. Maybe he wasn’t
just a cat, either.

The glow from the maze had increased, illuminating branches
and leaves a good third of the way up the sides of the yew walls. The rush of
wind had also increased, but none of the leaves within the maze stirred.

Are you waiting for
something . . . or someone
?
I wanted to ask.