The Serpent's Shadow (13 page)

Alderscroft was already there but, from the presence of the waiter beside him, had not yet ordered. “Pork cutlet and new peas, Jerry,” Peter said as he slid into the unoccupied seat. “Have to get back to the shop before that replacement Almsley conjured up for me frightens off all my customers.”

Alderscroft chuckled, recognizing the joke for what it was, and said only, “Wellington and the rest, Jerry,” before turning his attention to Peter. The waiter vanished with the discretion of all of the Club servants, leaving behind only a decanter and a pair of glasses. It was too early by Peter's standards for a whiskey, and Alderscroft never touched the stuff so far as Peter knew, but toying with quarter-filled glasses made their conversation look casual and ordinary, should anyone unexpected come past them. Alderscroft poured, and they both toyed, neither raising the glass to his lips.

“Your source ... isn't what any of us expected,” Peter said, in a quiet voice that only Alderscroft's ears would be able to pick up. “I'm not sure what to make of her.”

“Her?”
Alderscroft's mustache twitched.

“Her. Doctor Maya Witherspoon. Eurasian, and a physician and surgeon.” Quickly, he passed over every scrap of information that he'd managed to glean, both openly and arcanely, from the moment he'd passed through the surgery's front door. Alderscroft didn't interrupt him a second time; he sat back in his chair, with his eyes fixed on Peter, until the narrative, what little there was of it, was over.

At that point, with the Club's usual impeccable timing, Jerry appeared with their luncheons. Neither of them said anything until after Jerry had finished arranging the plates to his satisfaction, and whisked the decanter and covers away.

“A pretty little puzzle,” Alderscroft said at last. “One wonders what brought her here, when her—race—as well as her profession would have been more acceptable in her own homeland, or on the Continent.”

“She's a British citizen; her father was an Army surgeon. She has every right to be here,” Peter countered, covering his annoyance.

“As you say. Still. Why here? She'd go unremarked in France, or even in America.” Alderscroft paused for a few deliberate bites of his luncheon, as Peter wolfed down his own food in a matter of moments. “And why now? And why, in the name of heaven, is she so
abominably
trained, as you claim she is?”

“I can't answer any of that, my lord,” Peter replied, but did note with sharp irony the annoyance that Alderscroft had expressed over Maya's training—or lack thereof. Alderscroft might not
like
the idea of female mages, Adepts, or Elemental Masters, but he liked the idea of potential going to waste even less. “Perhaps her mother's people refused to train a half-breed, even a powerful one. There's no doubt that she knows something of what she is, but I very much doubt she knows the extent of her potential.”

“I'd like to learn the trick of that hiding business she's worked out,” Alderscroft grumbled under his breath. “Damnation! If she just wasn't a woman—”

“She's an Earth Master, or
will
be, and I suspect she's going to be one whether or not she gets formal training. You yourself were the one to tell me that the magic makes a Master or a madman, and given that she's forced her own way through medical training, I rather doubt she's so weak-willed as to go mad,” Peter retorted, his tone acrid enough to cause Alderscroft to give him a sharpish glance. And since Alderscroft was treating him as an equal—for once—Peter decided to push the issue. “For God's sake, my lord,
bring her in.
Let one of us train her, she's the only Earth Master, or potential Earth Master, in the whole of London! Fire or Water could give her the basic grounding; it would be easy enough to pass her on to someone of her own Element when she's ready for full initiation—we could
use
her here—”

“She's
not our kind,
Scott,” Lord Alderscroft interrupted. “Her magic isn't ours; the magic of East and West don't mix, never can, and never will! The Eastern mind can't understand the Western; live as long as I have, and you'll never doubt that for a moment!”

“But—” Peter started to object further, but saw from the stubborn expression on Lord Alderscroft's face that he would make no dent in the old boy's prejudices. “Well, she's doing no harm, and isn't likely to, magically, at least. As for her medical practice, I didn't bother to inquire, but since she's donating time to the Fleet Clinic, she apparently is fully enough acquainted with
Christian charity
to hold with the rest of the
Christian
virtues.”

The heavy irony of his last sentence was—possibly—lost on Alderscroft. When the old man got that ponderously ruminative look on his face, one never knew how much he was taking in and thinking about.

“I will grant you all of that, Scott,” he finally answered, as Peter chased a pea around his plate impatiently with his fork, with no intention whatsoever of eating it. “All right, then. We'll leave this lady doctor of yours to her charities and her patients. She won't be causing us any trouble, at least.” Alderscroft finally put his focus back on Peter, and chuckled. “And you are impatient to get back to your business, I know. Well, thank you, Scott. Well done, as usual.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Peter replied, even though it had been nothing of the sort, and took his leave of the Head of the Lodge and Council before he could make any more remarks that would not—at the very least—be polite, nor politic.

But he as he waited for Cedric to hail a cab, then climbed into the conveyance, he found that he had fallen prey to a mood of resentment, and for once, it wasn't on his own behalf, but on a stranger's. Had she been fully white, had she been a man, Alderscroft would have had her brought into the fold and properly taught
immediately.
Had she even been of other than mixed blood, he'd have sent word to one of the Earth Masters who lived outside London—probably one of the ladies he
wouldn't
let into the Lodge, the Council, or the Club, but had no trouble in calling on for help. But no. No, with the double damnation of mixed blood and the incorrect sex, Maya Witherspoon must languish untaught, or struggle along on her own. And if, as Peter suspected, she was hiding from something....

How long can someone self-taught hold out against
any
enemy? It must have been someone in her homeland; why else flee all the way to Britain, and why choose the most populous city in Britain in which to hide? Here she can make alliances, obviously is making alliances, among the only people who have eyes and ears everywhere, and weapons to help protect her.
He thought about that thrown-away comment concerning “her patients' friends.” There was no doubt that she'd earned a bodyguard of sorts among the half-honest and the fully criminal, and given Alderscroft's attitude, indeed, the attitude of nearly every “British gentleman” toward “her kind,” well—he could only grant her mental congratulations.

But Alderscroft didn't say anything about me helping her, if I
can, he suddenly realized, as the cab came to an abrupt halt in traffic.
I've no doubt he would have, if it had occurred to him that I'd dare, but he didn't. By God, he didn‘t, and I'll be damned if I let him have a hint that I'm going to!

The sudden resolution erased his sour temper, and he almost laughed out loud, which would have probably puzzled the cabby.
Oh, Peter, you dog, you were looking for an excuse to see more of the lady anyway, and you know it—

Oh, yes, he knew himself too well to deny that. He'd walk half across London in a screaming storm just to take tea with her again.

Well, now he had a reason to see her, a good one, a solid one, a reason that any
real
gentleman would applaud, if said
real
gentleman could be persuaded to see past his own pigheaded prejudices.

Now all I have to do is find a way to broach the subject. All!
Now he did laugh, at his own foolishness.
“Pardon me, Doctor, but I can't help noticing that you've been using a bit of magic, and I thought I'd offer—offer—”

Well, deciding how to put his “offer” to her ought to keep his brain spinning for the rest of the afternoon, at least. And perhaps by the time he'd managed that, he would also be able to figure out how to make it clear—in the most polite of fashions—that teaching her magic wasn't the only thing he had in mind in seeking her company.

Oh, what fools we mortals be!
he thought, alighting at his own shop.
What fools, indeed.

Nevertheless—he happened to have a new stock of incense just in, and a handsome statue of Ganesh, the elephant-headed Indian god reputed to be the remover of all obstacles. So—and only because the customers liked the hint of sandalwood in the air when they came to examine his wares—and only because there was a fine receptacle for such offerings at the foot of the statue—Lord Ganesh's serpentine trunk breathed in the airs of sacrifice that afternoon, while Peter helped ladies with more money than taste select “exotica” for their parlors.

After all ... sometimes even unfamiliar magic worked, East and West
could
meet in harmony, and there was never any harm in asking someone for a bit of a favor.

6

M
AYA paused for a moment beside the statue of elephant-headed Ganesh that stood beside the waterfall in her conservatory pool. The statue had been there from the time the pond and waterfall had been built, and blended into the rocks surrounding it so well that she hardly noticed the handsome little idol was there most of the time. There was a box of incense sticks and another of lucifer matches on a ledge nearby, out of reach of the damp—Gupta was particularly attached to Ganesh, and he often lit incense as an offering here. But this afternoon it was Maya who felt an unaccountable urge to make an offering.

With a chuckle at her own mendacity, she lit a lucifer and set flame to the tips of several incense sticks, placing them in the holder beside Gupta's previous offering. Just what obstacles she wanted removed from her path at the moment, she couldn't have stated clearly—just that she would very much like to see more of that charming Peter Scott....

Just then, the parrot flew down to her shoulder, nibbled her ear, and murmured a clear, “I love you.” It was in Hindu, of course, but she was reminded of the custom of the young men of India to teach their parrots seductive phrases before giving the birds to the maidens they were courting. That, in fact, was probably why her mother Surya, always fond of a clever joke, had sometimes called him “Kama”—a word and a god that encompassed every aspect of love.

“You may love me, my sweet, but it's cupboard love,” she told him fondly. Nevertheless, she found one of the little sunflower seeds he craved in the recesses of her skirt pocket, and gave it to him. He took it, and flew off with a chortle.

Dusting off her hands, she squared her shoulders, and sternly told herself to forget daydreaming about sailors for the rest of the day. She had work to do; this was her afternoon at the Fleet, and, as always, the place would be a bedlam.

With an eye to more than the weather, she took her umbrella, a stout article that served double duty as a weapon, with its sharpened ferrule and sturdy ribs, twice as strong as any other she'd ever seen. Then, umbrella in her right hand and medical bag in her left, she began the walk to the Fleet Charity Clinic—for there were very few cabs that could ever be persuaded to go where the clinic lay.

At least, not during the daytime. Neither she nor Amelia had to pass through the hell that was their neighborhood at night, for they had a guardian angel in the form of Tom Larkin. Like so many of the working class, he had little to spare in the form of ready money to cope with an emergency—and like so many, he rightfully distrusted the doctors and the care he'd get at a hospital. Too often, those who entered the charity wards became the subject of either careless mishandling, callous disregard, or reckless experimentation. Sometimes, even all three.

So after fourteen agonizing hours of labor, when his wife was spent and exhausted and
still
no closer to giving birth than when labor had begun, he'd had to seek other help. At the urging of the Fleet-trained midwife and frantic with fear, he'd brought his wife to the Fleet, in his own cab. He'd all but killed his poor horse, getting her there.

Well that he had. By sheerest good luck, both Maya and Amelia were on duty. They'd had no choice but to perform the dangerous Caesarian operation.

Though why the Caesarian should be considered so dangerous, when ovectomies to “calm hysteria” were considered no great hazard, was beyond Maya's understanding. The death rate was nearly equal for either operation—well over half the patients died. Infection was the greatest killer, with blood loss running a close second.

But that was without Amelia's carbolic spray, or Maya's own—unique—talents.

Mother
and
child lived—and cab driver Tom Larkin had vowed that while he or his new son lived, breathed, and drove a cab, neither Amelia nor Maya would ever have to brave the dark to walk home at the end of a day at the Fleet. He turned up, every night at closing time, to see if either woman was there that day, taking them safely through every possible hazard and escorting them right to their own doorways.