Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (43 page)

“So long ago,” Dr. Livingston said, shaking his head. “We
children looked up to them, the heroes of the revolution.”

“Ambition can eat a man up from inside,” Li Sung said, his
voice quiet.

“Is it what you needed?” I finally asked.

Dr. Livingston was carefully checking each page and then
handing them to Li Sung. “Nothing about the general,” he finally said.

Cousin Esme gestured in dismissal. “His incompetence will
eventually trip him.”

“But he has partisans, and at least one follower is a
magician,” Dr. Livingston responded. “I think of how many soldiers could die
under his command.”

“We need proof or we can do nothing.” Cousin Esme turned
back to me. “It is definitely what we needed, Miss Sorensson,” she said softly.
“We had hoped for even more, but our enemies are very careful with evidence of
their deeds. I am amazed that our friend was able to acquire these letters. We
have provided our country with a great gift. At least one former patriot with
conflicting loyalties will not be working against us from within our
government.”

“We had no idea that Henry Lee had stooped to summoning
demons, for any reason,” Dr. Livingston said, gesturing to Margaret to pour
from the chocolate pot. “If we had known, we would have sought another means of
securing the documents.” A tilt of his head, a swift glance under lowered
eyelids, and he added: “Li Sung and I will make sure of the defenses, and
scatter the magical energies of our fellow conspirators.” Nodding to us all, he
quickly left the room, my Chinese gentleman (who definitely was some sort of
practitioner, too) leading the way.

“You think very quickly on your feet,” Cousin Esme said to
me, “but I do not want you ever to be so vulnerable again. I think re-arranging
your classes will be in order. You will need to move faster with ritual magic.”

“Perhaps Sinjin and I could work with her, ma’am?” Margaret
said, passing me a cup of chocolate. I was ready to pass it on to Cousin Esme,
but she shook her head. So I turned to offer it to Shaw.

He walked into the light, cloaked in that stillness that
defined him, and I perceived the continent of America looming behind him, a
primeval forest. Shaw was actually wearing clothing such as Professor Tonneman
wore, a close-fitting dark woolen coat with thigh-length tails over a red vest
and white necktie, and new dark close-fitting buckskins with his boots. If I
had not felt the forest I might not have recognized him.

He looked like he belonged in Cousin Esme’s parlour.

If I asked him how he did that, would he tell me?

Why was he here?

Carefully he took the cup and saucer from me, his eyes
downcast. Our fingers touched.

The sudden heat rushing through me was nothing like Cousin
Esme’s spell.

“Your tutoring Miss Sorensson is a possibility, Miss
Rutledge,” Cousin Esme said, calling me back to the room. “I will be discussing
it with Professor Tonneman tomorrow. You, Miss Sorensson,” she went on, “are to
sleep in, as late as your body will allow. You have had a busy two days, and I
would not have you injure your health!”

“Sleep and hot water will set me right,” I assured her.
Margaret smothered a sound and Cousin Esme smiled broadly, so I guessed that I’d
said the wrong thing.

“Mrs. Gardener has dinner waiting for us,” Margaret said,
her voice unsteady with suppressed laughter.

I was so hungry that I had gone beyond hunger.

Her smile softening, my cousin said: “I look forward to your
joining me for tea tomorrow afternoon, so I may hear the full tale of your
adventures. You have done us a great service, Miss Sorensson. From this point
on you do not owe any payment for your instruction. It may be that we will be
paying you!”

My mind was a jumble of images. What would I tell her
tomorrow? Were there things I should not mention, or did she know all my
secrets by now?

Cousin Esme knew about the White Wanderer. Right now I was
so tired I couldn’t remember if she knew about the unicorn. This was where
keeping secrets was hard. You had to remember each story that you told, and who
got which story. Eventually you would trip over your own tales.

If I wrote to Marta, would she come see me? Marta kept
secrets about me. I really needed to know what she wanted me to share about the
wild magic and when to tell it.

Shaw knew about the unicorns, although I did not know if he
knew that was why Marta had sent me here. If he was leaving that night, perhaps
I could walk him to the maze . . . .

o0o

As it happened, Shaw
was
leaving. By the time Margaret and I finished the cocoa, Shaw had vanished and
reappeared, now dressed in his old walnut-stained buckskin jacket and trousers,
a package under his arm that I suspected was the fancy clothing he’d been
wearing.

“You did not need your coin, Miss Sorensson, did you?”
Cousin Esme asked.

“Oh, the coin!” I pulled it from my apron and clutched it
between my fingers.

It was just a coin. My words had dissolved the spell within
it.

“I used Sin-Sinjin’s spell, and the coin lost its power,
too,” I replied, holding up the coin to Shaw. “The biscuits worked, but I
needed power in a hurry, so I used the spell first, and then grabbed the sky.”

Shaw’s face changed, as if he was about to smile but then
didn’t, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. I knew that expression. He was
trying not to laugh.

My cousin focused intently on me. “What spell did you learn
from Sinjin?”

“
Can
—”

I did not finish the word. Who knew what spells might be
working in this room? “The spell to finish all magic?”

Cousin Esme straightened, glancing at Margaret. “I look
forward to this story,” was all my cousin said aloud. “You are excused from your
classes tomorrow, and Miss Rutledge will answer questions for your herb class.
I will see you in my parlor for tea tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Go walk Mr. Kristinsson to the maze, and then to the
kitchen for dinner, ladies.” She flicked her fingers in dismissal. “You are
certain you do not need sustenance, Mr. Kristinsson?”

“No, professor, thank you,” Shaw said, taking the coin from
my fingertips and backing away from the settee.

This time the warmth from his touch was comforting.

We made our way into the front hall, Shaw walking close by
my side, where Elizabeth, of all people, waited with my sheepskin coat.

“You shouldn’t be up this late,” I told her as I reached for
my coat.

“You were helping Mrs. Livingston,” was her reply. “This is
my job!” She took my navy shawl, nodded cheerfully to Margaret, and shyly
smiled at Shaw before disappearing to the staircase.

“You don’t have to go back out in the cold,” Shaw said. “I
can find the maze.”

“Would you deny us our thanks and pleasure?” Margaret
responded.

Shaw straightened; he looked a bit startled.

I needed to pin Margaret down about when I had to pay
attention to this chaperone business.

We walked out the kitchen doorway and found that the wind
had died down, the snowfall a fine, thick veil obscuring the grounds.

“Must you also walk the labyrinth?” Margaret asked as we strolled
down the cobblestone walkway.

“No, I charged the labyrinth before I left,” Shaw replied.

“We are grateful that you lent your strength to our need,”
Margaret told him.

“Why did you come?” I asked.

“You know that I can feel you out there—on the magical
plane, Cory thinks,” he replied softly. “All night you were getting tense and
wary. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and went through the maze. By then
Professor Livingston was sending you energy and told the coachman to take Miss
Rutledge and me to find you.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I
figured I could find you. And then when you pulled down wind, well . . . ”

So I’d had not only the Livingstons and Margaret with me, I
had Shaw and a unicorn watching out, too. And a tiny creature I had not even
read about in my book yet. The powers that be were with me.

If there ever was a next time, I wanted Shaw in on the
planning. I knew he could come up with some great distractions.

He probably had a pocket full of exploding halfpennies.

“I didn’t have time yesterday to find out, what with cooking
and cleanup,” I started slowly. “What is the difference between a practitioner
and a magician?”

Margaret stopped on the walkway before we reached the first
labyrinth. “A practitioner learns all the schools of magic,” she said. “A
magician does not learn any of the healing arts.”

“Hope they have a few friends who are practitioners, then,”
I murmured.

“Say your good nights,” Margaret went on, tucking her scarf
closer and looking out over the labyrinth. “I will be here.”

So chaperones could give you a little privacy. That was good
to know.

Shaw and I walked on to the maze. As soon as we stood before
the entrance, I asked Shaw, “I don’t think my cousin or Miss Rutledge saw the
unicorn. Should I tell them? What do you think?”

Shaw did not speak at first. “I think,” he said finally, “that
your cousin does not envy you anything except your ability to use wild magic.
Telling her about the unicorn won’t change that.” His silver gaze met mine. “That
unicorn interest could be dangerous.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “That’s what Marta fears.”

“So far it’s been handy.”

I felt a smile pull at my lips. It had all happened so fast
that I had scarcely had time to enjoy my ride. “A unicorn . . . it’s like harnessing
all the speed of your stallion, and all the strength of a draft horse.”

He nodded. “I bet there will be another time.”

I hoped so. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry you didn’t get
to blow anything up.”

Shaw burst out laughing. It was a strong laugh, lower in
pitch than it used to be, but still laughter that I knew.

“That’s all right,” he finally said. “I expect I’ll get to
blow something up another time.”

Another time.

I had friends I could count on. That was better than gold.

Impulsively I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

I could have sworn I saw him blush.

“I’ll be there, unless the sky is falling,” he said, his
voice low. “It might take me a bit longer, then.”

“I’ll try to wait for you,” I replied.

This time it wasn’t hard for him to meet my gaze.

CHIRP!

We both startled, looking down. The Cat was sitting at our
feet, looking at us.

“You weren’t very much help,” I told the cat.

“Did you invite him?” Shaw asked.

It was my turn to laugh. “Since when does a cat need an
invitation?”

“Well, it
was
a
carriage ride away.”

Truth.

I picked up The Cat, who purred and snuggled close to me.

“Write us so we know the whole story,” Shaw said. Then he raised
his hand in farewell to Margaret and walked into the maze. The packed snow
began to glow as he moved deeper into the tall shrubs. Finally he turned a
corner, disappearing to my sight, but I watched until the glow from the maze
vanished.

I walked back to Margaret, carrying The Cat and wondering if
she saw me kiss Shaw.

We walked side by side, back toward the kitchen door.

“I like him,” Margaret said, her consonants as always
precise.

So do I.

~ Finis ~

Sometimes a long story starts with “Once upon a time . . .”

Sometimes it starts with a grand plan.

In the case of Alfreda’s tale, it started with
(appropriately) a snip of folklore.

The seeds of
Night
Calls
were planted at World Fantasy Con Providence. Jane Yolen was telling
a group of us about a series of anthologies she and Martin H. Greenberg were
doing for Harper & Row Junior Books. The first one would be about
werewolves. We were bouncing questions off her, and I remember that Mike Ford
was starting a silly thing about “Billy was a wer-giraffe” that sadly I don’t
think he ever finished. Although I was enjoying the conversation, I didn’t
write much short stuff and I hadn’t found a toehold in the stream of ideas.
Then I asked Jane, “Does the werewolf have to be seen?” She replied that “The
werewolf does not have to be seen, but its presence has to be felt.”

At that moment, I had two intense visual flashes. One was of
a young girl in long skirts, rustic clothing, bundled against cold, bending
down and discovering new, withered garlic growing under a windowsill. The other
was of that same young girl, now inside, standing on a chair and hanging a
braid of garlic over an inside door. At that moment, I knew I had to know more
about it. It was so intense I checked with a couple of friends to make sure I
hadn’t borrowed the images from anywhere else. But Allie sprang from my mind in
that instant.

I wrote the short story as post apocalyptic science fiction
and sold it to Jane. Eventually a reprint of it, now fantasy, appeared in
Amazing Stories Magazine
. Kim Moran
insisted that it was fantasy, wasn’t it? I decided that he was right.

Finally a novel was born, after I experimented over at
F & SF
with vampires, too!

The
Night Calls
world is an alternative history fantasy. This means that I have made some
things easier for my modern audience. Felled trees are called stumps, not butts
as many pioneers referred to them. Recipes are not called receipts. On the
other hand, there were elderly people who did refer to George Washington as King
Washington, even though he refused a crown both in real history and in Allie’s
world. Those elders came from a time when all rulers were kings. It takes time
to change speech patterns.

I hope you have fun figuring out what is history, what is
fantasy, and what is folklore.