The Gates of Sleep (23 page)

After that, it was a matter of verifying titles with
Burke’s,
and virtually copying out the correspondence from the etiquette
books—with creative additions, as her whimsy took her. Not too creative
though; she mostly adopted “personalities” from the books she had
read for the various people she was supposed to be writing to.

When she was done, after a good four hours of work, she had
an aching hand, but a feeling of triumph, only tempered by the fact that
sitting for four straight hours in a tightly laced corset left her feeling
half-strangled and longing for release.

She glanced over to her keeper, and saw that Mary Anne was
still immersed in her novel. Her lips thinned.

I don’t believe I’m going to reveal the
secret of my success,
she decided, and picking up her books, went back to
the rear of the library.

But instead of putting the books back in the cupboard in
which she’d found them—because it occurred to her that she might
need them again—she concealed them among a shelf of geography books. Then
she returned to the cupboard and sought out further books of instruction in
manners, and did the same with them. In particular, she found a little book
with pictures designed to lead a child through the maze of cutlery at a formal
dinner that she actually hid inside another book, for retrieval later. She
suspected that she would still have to learn these arcane rituals by doing
them, but at least this way she would make fewer mistakes.

Only then did she select a novel herself from the shelves
and retire demurely to her desk. And just at sunset, Arachne appeared.

When she saw that Marina was reading, her lips hinted at a
smile. At least, Marina
thought
they did. But when she saw the neatly
stacked and addressed envelopes in the tray, she definitely frowned.

One at a time, she picked them up, studied the address,
opened the envelope and read what was contained inside, then discarded envelope
and missive in the wastepaper basket beside the desk, saying nothing. Finally,
she finished the last, dropped it on the top of the pile of discards, and
turned a frosty smile on Marina.

“Well done,” she said, in a tone that
suggested—nothing. Neither approval, nor disapproval. “But I
thought you were not aware of the rules of polite address? When I questioned
you earlier, you gave me the impression that you had been raised—quite
rustically.”

Marina licked her lips. “I have—read a good
many novels of society, Aunt,” she said carefully. “And the books
that you left with
me
guided me in the exercise that you set me.”

Carefully chosen truth—provided that “the books
left” included the entire library.

“Novels.” Arachne gave her a penetrating look,
tempered with veiled disbelief. “A clever use of fiction, niece, but you
should be aware that the authors of these books are not always careful in their
research. And most, if not all of them, are not or never were members of polite
society.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Marina replied, bowing her head so
that Arachne would not see her eyes.

“And now you must dress for dinner. Mary Anne?”
Arachne swept out of the room, the train of her black silk skirt trailing on
the floor behind her with a soft hiss. She was gone before the maid even
responded to her peremptory summons.

Dress
for dinner.
Well, Marina had an idea what
that meant. Novels were full of it. Apparently her aunt expected that even when
there were only the two of them, dinner would be completely formal.

She followed the maid back to her room—through the
oppressive sitting room, through the stifling bedroom, but the woman beckoned
her onward, through a door on the opposite side of the room that she had not
noticed.

Past that door was a dressing room and a bathroom. A
surprising bathroom, the like of which, frankly, Marina had never seen before.
It had been done up in the style of a Roman bath, as designed by a modern
artist. And it was the first room in the house in which she could draw a free
breath.

The bathroom was plumbed in the most modern fashion. There
was a huge bathtub, a flushing water closet, and even a shower-bath in one
corner. Mary Anne went to the bathtub and immediately began drawing a hot bath.
Hot water came out of the bronze, fish-shaped spigot, which meant there was a
boiler somewhere nearby.

The bathroom itself was decorated in Marina’s colors,
greens and aquas! Green muslin curtains hung at the windows, green mosaics of
shells and seaweed decorated the walls and floor, even the tub was painted
green, and the fixtures were green-patinaed bronze. Mary Anne stripped her of
her clothing as she stared wide-eyed around her; the moment the corset came off
and she could take a deep breath, she did so, feeling free for the first time
that day.

When Mary Anne left, she quickly adjusted the temperature
of the bath—the maid had run it too hot for comfort—and got into it
before her keeper could return. The tub was enormous, far bigger than the baths
they used in winter in Blackbird Cottage. She wanted to lay back at her ease in
her own element, but if she did, the odious maid would probably insist on
bathing her, or washing her hair for her.

So she began her own scrub, so that Mary Anne would not be
tempted to lend a hand. And to avoid the rough-handed maid’s “caresses”
to her head, she let down her hair and washed it first, pinning it up atop her
head, wet, when she was finished. Mary Anne hurried in when she heard the
splashing, too late to interfere with the hair-washing; she frowned, perhaps
because she’d been thwarted, but possibly because her mistress had given
her no orders about what to do if Marina managed to act on her own.

“I wouldn’t have washed my hair, miss,”
she said with unconcealed disapproval. “It being so near dinnertime and
all.”

But it wasn’t—it wasn’t even six o’clock,
and formal dinner was never until eight. “I’ll dry it in front of
the fire,” Marina said. “It dries very fast.” And with that,
she arose from the tub, donned the loose—thankfully loose!—dressing
gown that Mary Anne hastily held out, took a brush from the dressing table and
sat on a stool in front of the fire in the bedroom.

This is an Earth bedroom. Could it have been Mother’s?
She thought not; but—the sitting room was reds… Fire? Could it have
been Thomas’? There was another room on the other side of the sitting
room—if that one was a Fire room, it would make sense that the uncles
would have been near to each other when they lived here.
And Uncle Thomas
wouldn’t have minded a sitting room in Fire colors.

There was no trace of Thomas now, but just thinking that
the room might have been his made it seem less stifling. She brushed out her
hair herself, carefully working through the knots and tangles, and used a tiny
touch of magic to drive the water out of it. She had no desire to incur Arachne’s
further disapproval by appearing at dinner with damp hair.

With a full hour remaining before dinner, somewhat to Mary
Anne’s astonishment, her hair was dry and ready to be dressed, and so was
she.

Her hour of freedom was over. It was time to be laced back
into her imprisoning corsets.

Black again, of course; this time a satin skirt with a
train, a black silk blouse with the same high neck as before, but this time a
quantity of black jet bead trimming. Mary Anne pinned her hair up in a more
formal style, with a set of black jet combs ornamenting it.
Pinned
was
the word; once again, Marina wondered that there wasn’t blood trickling down
her scalp.

But Mary Anne did not conduct her to dinner when the gong
rang; instead, she excused herself, leaving Marina to find her own way down.
Which she did; it wasn’t
that
difficult. Georgian houses like
Oakhurst weren’t the kind of insane mazes that houses that had been built
up over hundreds of years turned into.

Dinner was not quite as difficult as luncheon, although it
was just as uncomfortable. Arachne was already there, although she hadn’t
been waiting long. The footman seated Marina; Arachne was served first, Marina
second. Arachne sat at the head of the table, Marina down the side, some
distance away from her aunt. At least Mary Anne with her disapproving coughs
was not in attendance.

When the footman served the first course, before she reached
for a utensil, she heard a discreet sound from him, more of a clearing of his
throat, hardly loud enough to hear. And before the footman took the tureen
away, she noticed that he was pointing at one of the spoons with his little
finger.

She took it up, glanced at him; he smiled, only for a
second and very faintly. Then his face resumed its proper mask, and he
retreated to the sideboard.

She had an ally!

She watched his hands through the rest of the meal, aware
that her aunt was waiting until
she
picked up an implement before
reaching for the appropriate bit of silverware herself. And as they moved
through the courses, and her aunt began to develop a tiny crease between her
brows, it suddenly occurred to her that if she didn’t want Arachne to
guess that she was being coached and had a friend here, she’d better make
a mistake.

So she did—the next course was fish, and even though
she actually
knew
what the fish-knife and fish-fork looked like, she
reached for the ones she’d used for the salad.

“Marina,” Arachne said dryly, “If you don’t
want to be thought a bumpkin, you had better use
these
tools for the
fish course in future.” She held up the proper implements.

“Yes, Aunt,” Marina said subserviently,
reaching for the right silverware, with a sidelong glance at the footman and a
very quick wink when Arachne’s eyes dropped to her plate. The footman
winked back.

The food was still pallid stuff. And there was still an
appalling waste of it. But at least at this meal, Marina got hot food warm, and
cold food cool. And despite a general lack of appetite, enough of it to serve.

And the fruit and cheese at the end were actually rather
good. Arachne regarded her over the rim of her wineglass.

“After dinner, when there is company, in general the
company gathers in the sitting room or the card room for conversation or games.
Perhaps music—I believe you brought instruments?” This time she
only raised her brows a trifle, and not as if she found this fact an evidence
of her rustication.

“Yes, Aunt,” she said. “I play Elizabethan
music, mostly.”

“Pity; that’s not anything considered
entertaining for one’s guests these days,” Arachne said,
dismissively. “I don’t suppose you have much in the way of
conversation, either.”

Marina kept her thoughts to herself; in any case, Arachne
didn’t wait for an answer. “I will be teaching you polite
conversation, later, when I have your affairs in hand. I don’t suppose
you can ride.”

“Actually, I had use of one of the local hunt master’s
jumpers, Aunt.” It gave her a little feeling of triumph to see the
surprise on Arachne’s face. “I didn’t hunt often, and mostly
only when he needed someone to keep an eye on an unsteady lady guest, but he
kept his favorite old cob retired on our land.”

“Well.” Arachne coughed, to cover her surprise.
“In that case… my modiste is coming with more garments for you
tomorrow. I’ll order proper riding attire for you; your father’s
stable isn’t stunning, but it’s adequate. I’m sure you’ll
find something there you can mount.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Actually,
riding and hunting are two elements of proper conversation you can make use of
at nearly any time; keep that in mind. And books, but they mustn’t be
controversial or too modern or too old-fashioned—unless, of course, you
are speaking to an older lady or gentleman, in which case they will be pleased
that you are reading the books of their youth. Tomorrow you will meet my son,
Reginald. I have instructed him to see that you are not left at loose ends.”

I would like very much to be left at loose ends, thank
you,
she thought, but she answered with an appreciative murmur.

“I’m pleased to see that you are no longer
hysterical; I hope you realize how childish your reaction was to being removed
from what you must see was an unsuitable situation,” Arachne concluded,
putting her glass down.

“Yes, Aunt.”

“And I hope you are properly grateful.”

“Yes, Aunt.”
I’m grateful that I
haven’t lost my temper with you yet.

“Excellent. I believe that we have reached a good
understanding.” Arachne rose; the slight tug on her chair by the footman
warned Marina that she should do the same. “As I said, I have tasks to
complete; I suggest that you improve your mind with a book in your sitting room
before bed. I will see you at breakfast, Marina.”

“Yes, Aunt,” she replied obediently, and
Arachne flowed off in the direction of the office in which Marina had first
found her, leaving Marina to her own devices.

WITHIN an hour, Marina learned that she had more than one
ally among the staff.

The second one appeared once the formidable Mary Anne had
undressed her with the same ruthless efficiency she showed when getting her
dressed, and left her, dressing-gowned and night-gowned for the night, with her
hair in a comfortable braid, and instructions to ring for one of the downstairs
maids “if you need anything.” The tone implied that there was
nothing she should need, and her attitude was quite intimidating, except for
one thing. Apparently, Mary Anne was above being summoned once her mistress was
put to bed for the night, and on the whole, at this point Marina was inclined
to take her chances with anyone that Mary Anne considered an inferior.

Once Mary Anne was gone, Marina moved into the sitting
room, with a single book of poetry she had found on a table there for company,
until the corridor beyond the door was very quiet indeed. Then, barefoot
(because the slippers that had been supplied to her had very hard leather soles
that would have clattered on the parquet floor) she tiptoed down to the library,
ascertained that there was no one there, and retrieved those books of etiquette
that she had hidden there. And as an afterthought, collected some real reading
material, as well as some duller books that she could use to hide her studies
in. Somewhere in her rooms were the books she had brought with her; when she’d
arranged these on the shelves, she’d look for her own things, and with
any luck, there’d be enough books there to make looking through them too
tedious for the very superior Mary Anne.