The Gates of Sleep em-3

by Mercedes Lackey

  Her keeper took her to the Oakhurst library; the house itself was Georgian, and this was a typical Georgian library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on all the walls, and extra bookshelves placed at intervals within the room. There were three small desks and many comfortable-looking Windsor chairs and two sofas arrayed about the room, and a fine carpet on the floor. There were not one, but two fireplaces, both going, which kept an otherwise chilly room remarkably warm and comfortable. Someone cleaned in here regularly; there was no musty smell, just the scent of leather with a hint of wood smoke. Placed at a library window for the best light was one of the desks; this was the one Mary Anne brought her to. On a stand beside it were several books that included Burke’s Peerage and another on Graceful Correspondence; on the desk itself were a pen, ink, and several sorts of stationery. And list. She supposed that it was in Arachne’s hand.

  She sat down at the desk; the maid—definitely keeper—sat on one of the library sofas. Evidently Mary Anne was not deemed knowledgeable enough to pass judgment on the documents that Marina was expected to produce. She picked up the list.

  Invitations to various sorts of soirees to a variety of people. Responses to invitations issued (in theory) to her. Thank you notes for gifts, for invitations, after an event; polite little notes about nothing. Notes of congratulation or condolence, of farewell or welcome. Longer letters—subjects included—to specific persons of consequence. Nothing, she noticed, to anyone who was actually supposed to be a friend… but perhaps people like Arachne didn’t have friends.

  As soon as she picked up the slim volumes on correspondence, she realized that there literally was not enough information here to perform this particular task correctly. And that was when she began to get angry. Like luncheon, Arachne had arranged for defeat and failure. And she’d done it on purpose, because she already knew that Marina didn’t have training in the nuances of society, no more than any simple, middle-class working girl.

  But—but—Marina knew what that simple, middle-class working girl didn’t. She knew how to find the information she needed. For this was a library, and a very big one which might very well contain other books on etiquette. Marina knew that her father’s library had been cataloged, and recently, because Alanna had written about some of the old books uncovered during the process, and how they’d had to be moved under lock and key. So instead of sitting there in despair, or looking frantically for somewhere to start, leafing through stationery or Burke’s, she got up.

  Mary Anne looked up from her own reading, startled, but evidently had no direct orders this time about what Marina was supposed to do in here, other than remain in the room. When Marina moved to the great book on the center table—the catalog—she went back to her own reading, with a little sneer on her face.

  Huh! So you don’t know everything, do you? Marina thought with satisfaction.

  Just as she had thought, because the person who had cataloged the library was very thorough, he had cataloged every book in the house and moved them here. This included an entire set of books, described and cataloged as “juvenalia, foxed, defaced, poor condition” filed away in a book cupboard among other similar items. No true book lover would ever throw a book out without express orders. Besides, every true book lover knows that in three hundred years, what was “defaced” becomes “historical.”

  Presumably young Elizabeth Tudor’s governess had boxed her ear for defacing that window at Hatfield House with her diamond ring. Now no amount of money could replace it.

  So, from the catalog, Marina went to the book cupboard where less-than-desirable volumes were hidden away from critical eyes in the farthest corner of the library. The cupboard was crammed full, floor-to-ceiling, with worn-out books, from baby picturebooks to some quite impressive student volumes of Latin and Greek and literature in several languages.

  She stared at the books for a moment; and in that moment, she realized that she was so surrounded by familiar auras that she almost wept.

  These were the books that Aunt Margherita, Uncle Thomas, and Uncle Sebastian had been taught from! And her parents, of course. If she closed her eyes and opened her mind and widened her shields enough to include the books, she could see them, younger, oh much younger than they were now, bent over desks, puzzled or triumphant or merely enjoying themselves, listening, learning.

  A tear oozed from beneath her closed eyelid, and almost, almost, she pulled her shields in—

  But no! These ghosts of the past could help her in the present. She opened her eyes. Show me what I need, she told the wisps of memory, silently, and began brushing her hand slowly along the spines of books on the shelves, the worn, cracked spines, thin leather peeling away, fabric worn to illegibility. She didn’t even bother to read the titles, as she concentrated on the task she had before her, and the feel of the books under her fingertips.

  Which suddenly stuck to a book, as if they’d encountered glue.

  There!

  She pulled the book off the shelf and set it at her feet, then went back to her perusal. She didn’t neglect even the sections that seemed to have only picturebooks, for you never knew what might have been shoved in where there was room.

  When she’d finished with the entire cupboard, she had a pile at her feet of perhaps a dozen books, none of them very large, that she picked up and carried back to her desk. Mary Anne looked up, clearly puzzled, but remained where she was sitting.

  Good. Because these, the long-forgotten, slim volumes of instruction designed to guide very young ladies through the intricacies of society at its most baroque, were precisely what she needed.

  That, and a fertile imagination coupled with a good memory of Jane Austen’s novels, and other works of fiction. Perhaps her replies would seem formal, even stilted, and certainly old-fashioned, but that was far better than being wrong.

  Her handwriting was as good, if not better, than Arachne’s; there would be nothing to fault in her copperplate. And she decided to cheat, just a little. Instead of actually leafing through the books to look up what she needed to know, she followed the same “divination” that had directed her to these books in the first place. She ran her hand along the book spines until her fingers “stuck,” then took up that volume and turned pages until they “stuck” again.

  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.

&nbs
p; 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 gam
es. 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.