A Certain Magic

by Betina Krahn

  "This is most… accommodating… of you." Hamilton scowled.

  "Make no mistake, sir." Caroline drew herself up regally, reading his suspicion and responding with disarming candor. "Our purpose is to change your mind about us. When you come to know us better, you'll see that our Mimi's welfare is always uppermost in our hearts and minds."

  He shifted back on one long, sinewy leg, scrutinizing the three old women. They were up to something. He could just feel it.

  Caroline nodded, dismissing him as if she were the veriest of doyens. "The room at the end of the hall, Mimi, dear."

  Miranda stiffened her spine, lifted her skirts, and sailed from the chamber, leaving Hamilton to stride after her in his stocking feet. She stomped up the center hall steps, and when she reached the first landing, well out of her old aunts' hearing, she turned on the solicitor with her chest heaving and her eyes flashing angrily.

  "My aunts are lovable, distractible old ladies, whose hearts are often bigger than their heads, sir. And I give you fair warning: if you do anything—anything—to hurt them, I'll… I'll…"

  "If they've done nothing wrong, then they've nothing to fear from me, Miss Edgethorn," he said crossly, struggling to keep his gaze from fastening on her lips in the inviting darkness of the stairs. For some reason he felt he had to add: "I'm no beast."

  By the time he trailed the very grown-up Miss Edgethorn down the hallway to the guest room, he was thinking that he was no gentleman, either. He watched her light the tapers on the table in the center of the large, paneled chamber, then check the freshness of the linen of the large tester bed— all while keeping a wary, accusing eye on him. And why shouldn't she resent and mistrust him, he groaned silently; he was behaving like a surly, rampaging Hun! Not at all like his eminently reasonable and logical self. What in heaven's name was the matter with him?

  He felt all out of kilter somehow, out of control. Whatever had possessed him to leave his orderly office with its dutiful clerks and obedient clients, its neat stacks of clipped papers and tidy sheaves of documents, all with their binding ribbons tied just so? That was where he belonged, in that comprehensible world of law and precedent, making sense of other people's muddles and bringing order to the chaos that afflicted his clients' affairs. That was his role, his calling in life; he was an ordained order bringer. Always had been… always would be.

  He sank down on the side of the bed, scowling into the faded carpeting, scarcely aware of the huge manservant's arrival with steaming buckets of water and tinder to lay a fire. His thoughts went back to that day when his clerk brought him old Benchley's files on the Edgethorn estate and to the frustration that had gripped him as he plowed through the mess. He had come across one of little Miranda's notes to old Benchley… a child's hand, a child's earnest assurances that she was studying her geography and progressing at her watercolors, which the old fellow had apparently sent her.

  Then he had found the note in which she wrote of some newborn kittens that inhabited a box by the kitchen hearth and included, somewhat apologetically, a small poem that she had written about them. He read that little verse with stinging eyes and an unexplainably tight throat, and flew into a veritable fury at the thought of the child's mismanaged inheritance and diminished prospects for a future.

  When his two strongly worded letters to her old guardians went unanswered, he had thundered out from London, determined to rescue little Miranda from their calculating clutches. Only she wasn't "little Miranda," and she didn't seem to want rescuing of any sort. And he was sitting on a bed in the old ladies' gloomy old house, feeling as if he'd been tilting at windmills and his armor was showing signs of rust.

  Rousing from thought, he took a fortifying breath and forcefully dismissed Miss Edgethorn's prickly and ungrateful attitude. She was regrettably loyal to her wily old aunts and obviously didn't understand the full implications of her reduced circumstances. Well, he had come to help her, and he was going to do so, he vowed hotly, whether she wanted his help or not!

  Out in the hallway, Miranda stood staring at the paneled door to their little-used guest room. She couldn't recall having yelled at anyone like that in her life. But honestly— if there was anyone on earth who deserved to be yelled at, it was that insulting… arrogant… interfering… lawyer! Imagine, accusing her old aunts of something as low and unscrupulous as overspending—stealing—her inheritance. Why, the old dears scarcely even knew what currency was in circulation! She was the one who paid their accounts and kept the ledgers and—

  Her eyes widened. That meant she would have to be the one to explain where their funds had gone. The prospect sent a heated shiver through her, and she backed another giant step from the guest room door. She thought of that huge, intimidating frame, those penetrating gray eyes, and that voice like rumbling thunder, and imagined confronting that intense and overwhelmingly masculine presence at close range. Her knees began to feel weak again, and her cheeks began to heat.

  A moment later, she blushed at the shockingly personal tone of her dread. Whatever was the matter with her? She should be concentrating on finding a way to convince him that her aunts were good-hearted, if somewhat impractical, old ladies—and that if something had happened to her inheritance, it was no fault of theirs. Her mind flew down the stairs to the small study where the ledgers and records were kept, and she frowned, thinking of all the sorting and organizing she'd put off doing in the last few weeks. She had a good bit of work to do tonight, before facing his arrogant suspicions across the books tomorrow morning.

  Downstairs, in the drawing room, Caroline and Flora had broken into cackles of glee and now whirled around and around in a tottering dance of unrestrained joy.

  "Did you see them?" Caroline's face glowed with ex-citement as she stumbled to a breathless halt. "Couldn't you just feel that electricity?" She shuddered with pure ecstasy. "Magnificent. The most astonishing example of interactive magnetism I've ever witnessed!"

  "Magnetism?" Flora wheezed, clutching her chest and scowling. "He caught her scent—that's what happened. He positively breathed her in—I saw him! What olfactory acuity he must have," she marveled, spiraling off into private realms of awe, "to be able to detect and savor her delicate virgin essence so…"

  Phoebe pulled in her double chins and stared at the pair of them in horror. "Minerva's knickers—you've both gone mad as hatters."

  "Not a bit of it." Caroline straightened with a canny glint in her ageless eyes. "We've just found our little Mimi a husband!"

  "A husband?" Phoebe's face puckered, and she folded her arms over her ample chest. She sputtered, glowered, and fidgeted first one way, then the other. Faced with their united opinion, she began to reconsider, then to relent. "Well, he did seem to be rather well developed in the region of 'perceptives,' " she admitted, fingering her own eyebrow as she recalled the shape of his. "And his faculty of 'comparison' was clearly superior…" Her voice faded as she ran her fingers up the middle of her forehead and tried to remember more of his cranial anatomy.

  Caroline snagged both Flora and Phoebe by the sleeves and dragged them closer to the fire. "I'm afraid they won't have much time to work it out," she mused in hushed tones which the others had to huddle closer to hear. The wrinkles above her eyes drew into a web of concentration. "Perhaps we should give them… a little nudge."

  "A nudge…" Flora considered it for a moment, then a demure hint of mischief stole over her face. "Oh, by all means… let's do." Together, she and Caroline turned on Phoebe, who knotted into a skeptical ball of resistance.

  "I'm telling you right now, I won't agree to any of this until I've had a good, thorough feel of his head"—she shook a pudgy finger at them—"and that's my final word!"

  Late that night, as Graham Hamilton lay in the great tester bed in the guest chamber of Asher House, something brushed his sleep-shrouded mind. Pale and moving, it drew him toward the edge of consciousness, and he stirred, rolling onto his side with a heavy sigh. But before he could return completely to the land o
f Nod, it came again, touching his cheek, moving up his temple. He fastened on it as it moved over his forehead, creeping, pausing, then rubbing back and forth. When he moved his head groggily, it ceased. He rolled onto his back, and his arm brushed something as it flopped at his side.

  He struggled toward wakefulness, dimly aware that it required a great deal of effort for some reason. There was a light blur, something pale near the bed, when his eyes fluttered open, then slammed shut. Hearing took less energy than seeing; he caught a shoosh on the rug nearby and the distinctive creak of a floorboard underfoot, from near the door. He managed to push up onto his arms and focus his gaze just as a hint of light disappeared from around the door, and he heard the latch click softly.

  The perceptions fitted together slowly: someone had been in his room. Like a warm, fragrant mist, Miranda Edgethorn rose in his mind, and he threw back the covers. His legs seemed weighted with lead, and his head felt as if it were encased in spongy cotton. As he slid from the bed, he banged into the night table, and set the cup and saucer he'd used earlier skittering and clattering.

  Lumbering to the door, he leaned heavily against the frame and rolled around it into the inky hallway, just in time to catch a brief glint of light from far down the passage. Compelled by a sixth sense, he followed it. Walking was a bit awkward at first, but the process seemed to smooth out after a few steps. He shook his head repeatedly, trying to clear the persistent fuzziness from his senses.

  When he came to a place where the wall became railing on one side, he deduced that he'd come to the center stairs. The light had come from farther down the hall, in the other wing of the house. And suddenly he understood why he was following it: somebody could be up to something. The memory of sweet, curvy little Miranda teased his thoughts, replaced quickly by a vision of three wizened faces with canny, knowing expressions. What if the old crows were plotting against him, or destroying evidence, or doctoring the books?

  A scrap of moonlight from a window at the far end of the hall provided enough light for him to make his way down the far hall, where he came to a great, iron-bound door set in rough stone. He ran his fingers over it, judging that it was about where the light had disappeared and wishing he could be rid of the strange mushiness at the edges of his perceptions.

  The massive door swung open with only the tiniest scrape of a hinge. Beyond, he could make out a set of worn stone steps, spiraling gradually upward. As he mounted the steps, feeling his way along the stone wall, a dim shaft of light from above pierced the gloom, and he could make out a strange buzzing sound and the low rumble of what might have been voices. As he neared an ancient door left ajar at the top of the steps, he instinctively flattened against the wall.

  Edging to the sizable crack in the hinge side of the door, he put his eye to it. Inside the large, shadowy chamber, framed in blood-red firelight, stood three, hoary, age-bent figures clad in stark black robes. They muttered and bobbed as they stood beside a long table, their heads huddled together over something in a small copper pot, under which a fire set in a stone lamp burned. Propped and mounted around them were coils of copper piping, all manner of vials and jars, stacks of books, and bizarre-looking metal wheels attached to wires and cables.

  He blinked and swallowed hard, feeling his gut tighten and his mouth go dry. As he watched, transfixed, a shimmering vapor began to rise from the caldron and hang over the frizzled white heads; iridescent gold, turning to shimmering blue, then to a pulsing ruby-magenta. There were cackles of approval and mutters and ahs.

  Suddenly an upright metal wheel nearby began to spin, whir, and hum. Tiny blue-white veins, like miniature lightning, wriggled and danced from one wheel to another nearby. There were odd clicking sounds, and the wheel began to rise as the figures jiggled and gyrated in frantic delight. Then—wham!—there was a loud bang, a wild explosion of blue-white sparks filled the chamber, and the old crows threw their bony arms around one another and began to dance in a circle, chanting in low, droning tones. He strained frantically to make out part of what they were saying.

  "…perfect to furnish her delight," the tallest of the three crooned.

  "… sweet and curvy," the short, wide one added.

  "… senses topsy-turvy!" the third finished with a shrieking flourish.

  He shook his head, trying desperately to clear it of this fantastical vision. His heart pounded wildly, and he grew icy with dread as they continued to dance and laugh in eerie, cackling tones. They gradually turned into his line of sight, and he froze.

  It was the old Asher sisters! But—dearest Lord!—their faces! Withered and sunken, noses drooping, chins protruding, mouths puckered, and all but toothless! Their hair, now shock-white, hung in frowsy strings, their eyes burned with strange bright fires, and their hands were gnarled and enlarged. The horror of it fixed him to the spot while his mind reeled from one chilling detail to the next.

  Crones… black-clad and hideous… chanting and dancing… stirring and mumbling… raising vapors and summoning the elemental powers of lightning… The old Asher sisters practiced black arts. He felt the strength drain from his legs as the inescapable conclusion burst on his beleaguered brain. They were witches!

  "Aggh—" He strangled the cry that filled his throat, so that only a whisper escaped. One of the old crones shushed the others, and they all stopped to listen. He ripped his eyes from the crack, closed them, and held his breath until he heard them speak.

  "Probably just mice."

  "I thought Shaddar got rid of them," came a response.

  "Oh, I'm sure he did," said a third voice. "Must be a new batch. I'll have to remember to mention it to him."

  The sound of ordinary human speech poured over him like warm water, thawing his frozen joints. With his heart pounding wildly, he stumbled down one step and then another, feeling his way down the stairs to the hall below.

  Witches. It rolled about in his head, refusing to lodge in one place so he could examine and cross-examine it, subject it to the test of logic and rational scrutiny. Witches. The possibility went against everything he believed, every standard he held—against the very foundation of science, reason, and inquiry. But in the dark, with his wits oddly soft and permeable, the word had a powerful, haunting impact. Witches.

  Suffocating alarm sent him banging through the iron-bound door at the bottom of the tower and running down the darkened hallway toward his room. He had to get out of here! Then his jerky stride slowed and faltered as his eyes flew wide. Miranda—he had to find Miranda!

  Chapter Three

  Miranda paused on the stair landing, shifted the single candlestick to her left hand, and rubbed the back of her aching neck. She had just spent half the night in the study, preparing evidence and organizing the case she would present the next morning. And with each receipt she filed and every entry she made into the estate books, her spirits had sunk a bit lower. Asher House was a rather unusual household. Some of their expenses would probably seem odd, even to the most open-minded of individuals. She could just imagine what straitlaced, skeptical, penny-pinching Mr. Hamilton would have to say about them.

  She lifted her skirts and climbed the steps, thinking longingly of her soft bed and trying not to think about the coming confrontation with the executor of her father's estate. As she neared the top of the stairs, a series of muffled thuds from the upstairs hall stopped her in her tracks. Definitely not mice, she judged. Then came the distinctive creak of a door being opened, and she heard her name being called in hoarse and urgent tones.

  "Miranda… wh-where are you?"

  It wasn't Aunt Flora, Aunt Phoebe, or Aunt Caroline, she thought, hurrying up the last three steps. And Shaddar never spoke. That left only… Her fatigued senses came to attention as the realization and the sight of him struck her in the same instant. The imperious solicitor was bent over, lurking along the hallway, calling her name in a frantic whisper as he opened first one bedroom door, then another.

  "Mister Hamilton?" she exclaimed softly, her eyes wid
ening as he started and whirled to face her in a defensive crouch. His face bore a shock-blanked expression, his hair was rumpled, and he was clad only in his borrowed nightshirt. The sight of her seemed to jar him back toward reality, and he snapped upright with a wilting look of relief.

  "Miranda! Thank God—"

  "Mister Hamilton, whatever are you doing?" she asked, trying not to look at his bare feet and the long, muscular legs his nightshirt didn't quite cover.

  "Looking for you!" he declared in a hoarse whisper as he hurried toward her. "I have to… Wait—" He froze and visually scoured the hallway around them, as if afraid they might be overheard. Spotting the window nook at the far end of the passage, he seized her wrist and headed for it, pulling her along. "Down here, where they can't see us!"

  She was dragged halfway down the hall before she recovered from the surprise and balked at his ungentlemanly treatment of her. "Really, Mister Hamilton, this is most improper!"

  "Miranda—Mizz Edgethorn—please, come with me—"

  "Have you taken leave of your senses?" She braced and huddled back, but her slippers slid over the worn hall runner, betraying her straight into his hands. He snagged her other wrist, and in the ensuing tussle, she dropped the candlestick, and they were plunged into darkness. The shock of losing the light created just enough of a pause in her resistance for him to clamp an arm about her waist and haul her against his side, lifting her toes off the floor. He carried her, wriggling and gasping, down the hall and into the curtained window well.

  Once in the secluded darkness, behind the heavy drapes, he set her on her feet and clasped both of his arms around her waist to pull her tight against him. As they faced each other, the air around them filled with the intimate sound of heavy, uneven breathing, both his and hers. They would have been button to button… if he'd been wearing any buttons.