Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (4 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, holding up the tucker I was
folding. I had several, all linen, as they extended how long you could wear a
dress by many days. They also filled in any gaps that were not modest for
someone my age. We’d designed the necklines for the bosom I would eventually
have, not the one I had at the moment.

“
Everything
that we’ve finished,” I added. “Not the ones laid out that we haven’t cut.”

“
I
added the uncut material and a few other things while you were gone. Now, let
me check your height,” she said, and I stood so she could take my measure. By
her sudden smile, I knew that we had guessed right. Every scrap of clothing,
new or old, had been cut or trimmed longer in case I was still growing. Marta
had even left the chemises fuller than usual. “Good. You’ll need to make up
some new things when you get there. People pay more attention to fashion back
east, although New York is not as style conscious as Philadelphia or London.
Still, Esme may send you to Pennsylvania, so you need material to make
clothing. Your parents will send more as you need it—or money.”

The idea that my parents would give me silver coin for
anything
was humbling.

“
You
may need your Momma’s old skirt for cleaning day, so press it now, and we’ll
pack things tightly. Tomorrow, we go to New York.” With a nod, she went back to
heat us the stew and corn bread we’d brought from Sun-Return.

I was so addled I barely had the sense to go make sure the
horses were cool enough to be given more water and food. If we were hitting the
road at dawn, we weren’t even stopping to pick up Marta’s favorite horse! When
I passed through the stillroom to the main room, I asked if I could help her
with dinner.

“
Yes,
stir it, and when it’s hot through, and the cornbread is shining, serve it up.
I’ll just go check your trunk.”

Definitely leaving at dawn. Believe my words—life with a
practitioner can be nervy.

Dinner was hot and tasted wonderful, and we drank the last
of the cider from Hudson-on-the-Bend. My cousin would not let me fuss further
with the trunk or any food sacks, and insisted I get some sleep. The rooms had
warmed enough that we banked the fires and both slept in Marta’s room, instead
of preparing the guest bed.

Tomorrow, the journey would begin.

I fell asleep to the whisper of wind about the eaves of the
cabin. My first dream was only a flash, a shining unicorn looming above me,
much taller than the ones I saw earlier that night. Then I was back on the dark,
meandering trail from the southern Indiana Territory, reaching a place for our
group to spend the night.

It was still late winter. I shook from the bone-chilling temperature
as I helped break off dry branches from oak trees. Marta used precious magic to
start a roaring fire, and Cory brought in a huge armful of wood. Shaw set up a
small cauldron for cooking dinner, while the Hudsons tended the horses and rolled
out our blankets.

In a blink it was later, our bellies full; most of us drowsed
by the fire before seeking our beds. I walked away from the light to see the
stars above us, the Milky Way spilled across the sparkling sky.

“The Magyars call it the Skyway of Warriors,” came Shaw’s
voice behind me. “The stars are sparks from the hooves of the horses as Csaba’s
army returns to save their people.”

“In some legends, Coyote tosses the stars into the heavens,
creating the Milky Way,” I said automatically as I turned around to face him.
The fire was only a few strides away, and we were dark shapes outlined by
intense flame.

We were the same height now—or was Shaw taller? In the
darkness I couldn’t tell. He was older, but girls grew up faster. We stood so
close together I could smell the wood smoke clinging to his hair and deerskin
jacket, and a hint of the rosemary I knew his family put in their soap.

It was a dream. I couldn’t really smell those things. But I
remembered smelling them.

Paper
rustled and crinkled as Shaw pulled a pale scroll from his jacket.
“Here,” he said quietly, handing it to me.

“What is it?” I asked, taking the rolled paper from his
gloved hand.

“It’s a letter,” he replied, his voice still hushed.

Shaw actually looked at me, something he barely did that
night on the trail. Sometimes his eyes were like mist, and sometimes they shone
like sunlight on water. In my dream they glinted like silver reflecting
candlelight.

“What did you write that you could not say?” I said,
matching his gaze with my own.

His breath caught—then he relaxed and exhaled.

“Things,” was the hoarse answer. “My grandfather called the
Milky Way the Pathway of the Birds. He said his grandfather told him that was
how birds found their way south for the winter.”

My mind scampered after the turn in the conversation. “I
wonder if they really do use the Milky Way as a sign post?”

“Someday we’ll know.”

I smiled at him, although I could not see his expression.
“Of course we will.”

Marta’s voice came out of the darkness. “Allie, time to get
some sleep.”

“You always want to know why and how,” Shaw said, and
touched my hand holding the letter. “Here’s how.”

It was my turn to hold my breath.

Then the fire hit a pocket of sap and popped, embers dancing
into the sky, and Shaw moved back into the circle of light.

I could not read the letter until the next day. It began,
“You did just fine, Allie,”
and told me
how Shaw and the others found where I was taken and followed, riding the wind
to reach me.

I would keep that letter always.

He understood that
knowing
mattered.

Next I dreamt of walking through the forest with only Marta.
We had my trunk dragging behind us on a small sledge and moved well down the
snowy forest path. I was surprised we had no horses or a bag for Marta, but
accepted the dream as it presented itself.

We’d walked for quite a while when we reached a small
clearing, and Marta smiled and raised an arm in greeting. The air shimmered before
us, the way heat rises from a freshly plowed field on a summer’s day. We walked
through sparkling air that tingled against my bare hands and face. Beyond the
clearing was a snowy path with high green walls, and as I fell deeper into
sleep, I heard the call of my Good Friend the White Wanderer, as if he followed
in my wake.

It was a night of vivid dreams, and many of them
frightened me. I saw Elizabeth’s vision again. This time I knew it for a
volcano, because I was seeing it from the astral plane. I was also able to see
more of the people living in its shadow. They were a darker people, their
clothing sparse; their villages were built of wood and dried grass. There was a
beautiful harbor beyond their shore, and I was surprised to see within it ships
flying many different flags. Two flags I recognized from books Marta had me
read—the red sun on white of the Shogunate, and the red, white and blue
horizontal stripes of the Dutch flag. So . . . the West knew
these people and traded with them.

This time I did not feel the heat. I did not fall out of my
bed in terror. But the vision was not a good one.

I had snippets of dreams, like etchings in a book. There was
one flash of a large, reddish cat, with gold and dark markings in his fur. He
looked at me as if he understood what I said, but he was gone before I could
blink. Another moment captured was of ladies and gentlemen in fine clothing,
glimmering by candlelight as they moved in the patterns of a country-dance. A
third vision was of a group of men quarreling inside some sort of tavern, fists
flying everywhere, strong spirits only fueling the fight.

Next, I saw a village of Indians, a great gathering of men.
I saw not only warriors, but also their families, and there were white traders
present as well. Finally, I saw a group of young warriors moving past the
long-house dwellings to the council fire. They wore loincloths, their faces
painted black. Eagle feathers decorated their hair, and buffalo tails dragged
on the ground behind them. It was very ceremonial, and I think it amused some
of the traders.

But at night, after the traders had gone, the tall, handsome
leader of that group began to speak. I did not know his language, but I knew he
was a riveting speaker, because when he paused, you could have dropped the
proverbial pin and actually heard it land.

The warrior gestured above their heads, and then I saw a
sight I had yet to see in life, a splash of light across the night sky: what my
grandmother’s book called a comet. The old men he addressed nodded at the
sight, and held their own counsel. Younger men murmured among themselves, but
they kept listening.

My last dream was only a feeling. I was weary; weary to the
point I could barely walk. I knew that I could not keep going . . .
that no one person could solve this problem so dear to my heart. But I had no
idea why I grieved.

If there were other dreams, they did not mark me.

o0o

When I finally opened my eyes I found myself in the dark.
Marta had already risen. She was often up before sunrise, but that wasn’t hard
at the end of winter. I could smell fresh bread, that lovely scent of baked
flour, sweet and toasty, but I did not remember her putting dough out to rise.

It was when I stretched that the strangeness began.

My left hand touched heavy hanging fabric. I yanked my arms
back and under the covers. What in Heaven? After a moment, I slowly reached out
into the darkness. Again, my fingers touched draped material . . .
wool, at a guess, and a nice, fine weave. I pinched and rubbed the cloth . . . no
slubs in the fabric.

Sitting up in the bed, I strained for some light to see by,
but no—either it was still dark, or this mystery place had no windows.

Lord and Lady, will I
ever stop waking up in strange places?

Surely this happened to other practitioners.

At that moment, I heard footsteps on wood. Freezing like a
hare, I waited for the sounds to fade away.

The footsteps came closer. A door swung open . . .
its hinges creaked slightly. I heard a thud and some clinking of metal against
metal, and then the scraping of metal against stone.

All right . . . I admit I am worse than a cat
at curiosity. Carefully I ran a finger across the drapes until I found an
opening and moved one fold to the left. Cold slid slowly and steadily into my
dark cocoon. I reached back for some blanket to use as a stole, and looked out
at what I could see.

So—not Marta’s guest room. It wasn’t the Kristinssons’ boarding
house, either, the only place I had ever seen hanging draperies around a bed. I
could see a cold, pale light from an area to the left and a form, maybe a tall
dresser, by the wall opposite the foot of the bed. A hand—a woman’s, I
thought—brushed the top of a candlestick sitting on the high dresser, and the
wick suddenly lit, as if a poltergeist were in residence. There was the sound
of creaking metal, the scrape of metal across wood, and then the “whoomp” of a
large fire igniting.

Well, whatever had happened, I wasn’t supposed to freeze. I
waited until the person carefully placed a metal fire screen before the chimney
opening. Female, fairly tall although not a tree like me . . . .
 
As she shook wrinkles out of her
long skirts and turned away from the growing blaze, I asked: “What is the day,
and the time?”

The girl let out a squeak and shrank back. I pushed the fold
to one side so she could see me. Only then did she relax.

“
Gracious,
miss, you startled me! I thought you would sleep for hours yet, after so long a
trip.”

“
The
time?” I repeated.

The girl walked out of sight, and I heard fabric sweeping
across the floor. Weak morning light gave definition to the furniture in the
small room. As she returned to the bed’s foot, this new daylight showed me a
bird-boned, pale girl not much older than myself. Her hair was what you noticed
about her—dark, thick and coiled in a braid about her head.

“
It’s
after eight o’clock, but on Saturday the students are allowed to sleep in,” she
finally said. “There is a brunch, but . . . . ” She paused,
as if thinking over her answer.
“I
f
you’d like cocoa, and something while still a-bed, I’m sure it would be all
right.”

“
Has
Mrs. Donaltsson had breakfast yet?” I heard myself saying.

Might as well act like I knew what was going on.

“
I
don’t know, miss, but she was with Professor Livingston, and Mary took them
both scones and tea, so they have had the chance to break their fast. I could
see if any scones were left, or you can go . . . to the buffet.”
The young servant (or so I thought she must be) had on a full white apron to
protect her clothing, but her high-necked dress was a medium gray, so she wasn’t
in danger of ashes marring the wool.

“
I
think I need to find Mrs. Donaltsson,” I replied. So Marta
was
here. And this young woman seemed to have reservations about
the morning meal.

I was pretty sure we were already at mysterious Cousin Esme’s
house.

“
Then
I’ll—Do you have any more questions? I will either answer them, or find someone
who can.”

Well, there was probably a chest with my clothes in it
somewhere in this room, so that answered my first question. How we got here was
another question entirely. My other needs were simple. This was New York, not
Sun-Return, so . . . .
 
“How do people dress for brunch?”

“
A
simple afternoon carriage gown is recommended for winter classes,” she replied.

That wasn’t a lot of help, but I had too much pride to ask
what she meant.