No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  Repeating any of the incidents would be damn embarrassing, after all. Even if no history tutor was around to catch him this time.

  Instead, Simon focused on the paper as he spread it out on the floor before him and pictured the symbols in his head. This ritual would be one of protection, invoking Mars and Apollo. He took a deep breath, dipped his first quill into the vial of vermilion ink, and began.

  Practice let him draw the outer circle in one smooth motion timed with his exhaled breath and the ensuing rush of power. The ink bled onto the parchment, looking startlingly bright. He’d prepared it years ago as part of his initiation, but Mars had been an infrequent influence on his life, and Simon had never felt the need to use the ink until now. It looked remarkably like blood. The civilized man in him wanted to turn away, but the magician relished the sight. Found it exciting.

  This was going to be unlike anything he’d done before. He should have had the good sense to be afraid. Had he been outside the room and dressed as an ordinary gentleman, he might have been. Here and now, fear was only heightened anticipation.

  Simon began the second, inner circle with golden ink, invoking the sun. This power was more familiar, less preferentially violent but no less capable of destruction. Like that force that had roared out of the stone circle and over Simon’s head, it was too large for mercy.

  As he drew the innermost shapes in red and gold, he felt his breathing, his movement, even his heartbeat take on a slow, steady rhythm. The power flowed around him, rising and falling with every breath but always increasing a little. The tide was coming in. He felt it in the warmth at his temples and around his hands, below his feet and at his groin.

  Calm. Center. Control.

  Simon’s name came first with the request itself: protection against the Powers of Darkness and all their servants. Then there was his name again and the characters that extended the protection to all of his blood or under his guardianship.

  Then the other names. Michael and Gabriel, the warriors of the angelic host. Minerva and Apollo, for wisdom and protection. Bes, a relatively obscure Egyptian god who supposedly fought demons bare-handed, and Sekhmet, before whom evil trembles. Phaleg and Och, Tyr and Freya—a whole circle of names in red and gold with Gevurah, for justice, crowning it.

  A space at the bottom provided room for one more entity. With his hand almost shaking with power and dread—even now, there were a few things he feared—Simon drew a final few characters invoking Kali.

  The power in the room was almost tangible. Simon could feel its heat as he breathed. It no longer brushed lightly against him but pressed itself close. The power was not as purely sexual as it had been, though his cock was as hard as ever. Rather, it was overwhelming in all ways to all senses, hot and shining and rosewood scented.

  Taking the parchment in his hands, Simon knelt and began the invocation:

  “O Powers who sit at the foundations of the world,

  Hear my plea.

  I come in an hour of darkness, and I ask for light.

  I come in a time of siege, and I ask for aid.

  I come a stranger, and I ask for mercy.

  Shut not your eyes to my countenance.

  Deafen not your ears to my voice.

  O Powers, I kneel before you as a supplicant.

  O Powers, I ask for aid.”

  On the last line, his voice dropped, and he felt the resonance in his chest. He stood in one smooth motion, the graceful ascent of a bowing courtier. The power he’d built rose with him. Simon felt it travel up from the center of his body through his chest and his head and then out, taking wing in one radiant burst of energy. It left him standing breathless in the middle of the room, every muscle in his body tense.

  He wanted at once to shout for joy and to snarl defiance, to sing hymns and swear the worst oaths he could think of. He wanted to run like a schoolboy on the first day of summer holidays, to make love to a woman until neither of them could stand, to laugh long and hard and to weep just as intensely.

  Life, he thought dimly. I do think it worked then.

  That made him laugh in a way that he hadn’t since perhaps before he’d seen Alex at the gaming tables and the spirit looking over his shoulder. Now laughter rose through his chest like the power had, and it felt astoundingly good.

  Everything did. Simon ran a hand down the bulge in his tunic and wrapped his fingers around the swollen shaft beneath the silk. Almost of their own accord, his hips thrust forward, rubbing his cock against the tight grip of his fingers.

  If he’d been elsewhere, Simon might have tossed off there and then. He knew it wouldn’t have taken long. But this was not the place for any sort of casual release, partnered or not, and there was no time to sneak off to his rooms.

  With a considerable effort of will, he opened his hand and turned his mind to old geometry lessons. By the time he finished lacing his boots, Simon was physically presentable, but the euphoria remained. He chose to think of it as a good sign. Calling on the solar powers always had left him somewhat giddy, so it was only logical that such a large working would be even more intoxicating.

  Certainly, he thought, he must have been a little drunk to have invoked Kali. Simon hoped that had been wise, but now that he was out of the chamber and back in his normal clothing, he wasn’t at all certain. All the other Powers he’d invoked had been relatively minor: servants of something greater, like Michael and Gabriel, or the sort of god who was really just a larger person, like Apollo and even Sekhmet. Kali was a Greater Power herself. And even the most benign of the Great Ones were very dangerous.

  She is, however, one very necessary side of a coin. And she is Chamunda, slayer of demons. Hard to find someone more appropriate.

  Abruptly, he thought of Joan.

  Perhaps she’d been in his mind all long. Quite possibly, she’d inspired his choice at the end. Certainly neither her presence nor the world from which she came could be absent from Simon’s thoughts for very long. They were too unusual, too significant, and too disturbing, Joan herself nearly as much so as her world. Her utter ruthlessness was appalling, her swift determination unsettling, and her whole person so unlike any feminine ideal Simon had ever encountered, even in his progressive circles, as to be utterly alien.

  Yet perhaps that disturbing strength and focus was what the situation demanded. The spell Simon had just cast would turn aside demons and curses, but magic wasn’t the only threat in the world. Reynell could use men, controlling them by a spell or a fistful of banknotes. The idea had seemed ludicrous earlier—Alex Reynell sending out assassins like some shadowy mastermind in a penny novel—but earlier Simon hadn’t had hellhounds trying to rip out his throat.

  He hoped he could defend himself. He knew very well that Eleanor could not.

  Any men Reynell hired would be men of this world, unused as Simon was to fighting women and likely to underestimate Joan. She could accompany Ellie too in places where Simon couldn’t go.

  If the gods had sent him a problem, they’d also sent him a tool. He’d be damned indeed if he wouldn’t use it.

  ***

  Eleanor almost crept through the library door, stopping as soon as she was far enough inside for it to close and clasping her hands behind her back. She looked up at Simon uncertainly, the same way she seemed to do everything these days. “You wanted to see me, Simon?”

  “I did,” he said, and put a hand gently on her shoulder, guiding her to a chair. “Sit down first. I’ve rung for tea already.”

  She sat obediently. Never a big girl to begin with, she looked childlike now. Her eyes were huge, bright blue above bruised-looking half circles. The mass of her braided and coiled hair overwhelmed her face, and her pallor was downright ghastly against her black dress. The chair itself seemed to devour her.

  Joan was thinner, Simon thought. But nobody would ever mistake her for a child or think her fragile. Even drenched and near starving, she’d had more life about her. And if she can give Eleanor some of that, he thought suddenly
, I don’t care how if Ellie learns to throw knives and skin deer into the bargain.

  “I heard that there were bandits,” Eleanor said, surprising him. She almost never spoke on her own initiative these days. “Are you all right? I’d worried.”

  “In excellent health. Thank you.”

  She managed a weak smile.

  They’d never really talked, growing up. Simon had gone off to school just as Ellie had started to walk. Now his memories of her were like a gallery of portraits, each one only a moment in time: the laughing child with flyaway curls, the awkward and anxiously mannered twelve-year-old in black school dress and pinafore, the shy young lady with an armful of books. From the time he’d taken over her guardianship, they’d been amiable strangers, but they’d done all right together until April.

  Now Simon felt as if he was groping in the dark, breaking fragile heirlooms in a clumsy search for a light that might not even exist.

  “You must’ve heard, then,” he said, “that we have a guest.”

  “Miss MacArthur, they said. She’s amnesiac?”

  “That’s the story I want to give out.”

  “What do you mean?” Eleanor sat forward a little, an encouraging sign.

  “You’ve heard of other worlds?”

  Eleanor blinked. “She’s from one?”

  Simon nodded. “Human and all that,” he added hastily, lest Ellie think of the spirit that Reynell had stuffed into her. “Just foreign, you know. Very foreign.”

  “How strange.” She tilted her head birdlike. The familiar pose gave Simon hope. Ellie had always been a curious girl. Perhaps Joan would be novel enough to draw her out.

  “Very,” he said, “and she needs our help. Yours most particularly.”

  “Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth. “I’d be glad to be helpful, of course, but what can I do?”

  “You’re an accomplished young lady, Ellie. If I needed to learn manners, I’d apply to you. Perhaps I should, in fact.” He winked, hoping for a laugh, and contented himself when he got another faint smile.

  “Oh. I-I see.”

  “Would you be willing to help her along? I think she’ll learn quickly enough if she has someone to help and to conceal mistakes when she makes them.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Ellie said. And then, in a quick, nervous rush, “It’ll be nice to have another girl around.”

  The word was startling in context. He pictured a girl as a curly-headed tot or a slim young lady in pastels with flowers in her hair, not the bloodstained figure in the stone circle. “She’s somewhat older than you,” Simon said, “my age or close, and she’s quite…rugged.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find her very agreeable,” Ellie said politely.

  “She will be.” He’d make sure of it. Simon cleared his throat. “I’d like you to remain very close to her. Particularly when you leave the house.”

  He wished he hadn’t had to say that. The excitement vanished from Eleanor’s face, replaced by the blank, frightened look that was usual these days. She was silent for a moment, and when she did speak, her voice was almost a whisper. “Forgive me, but this isn’t just a matter of teaching her, is it?”

  If he’d lied to her, she’d have believed him, as she wouldn’t have a month ago. So he told the truth. “No. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

  “Not at all. I…I mean, thank you.” The relief on her face was almost physically painful to see.

  That night in April, after she’d come out of her trance, Eleanor had cried on Simon’s shoulder for what had seemed like hours, during which he’d patted her hair awkwardly while she shed helpless, hysterical tears. The doctor had come afterward and given her laudanum, which had lasted most of a week. Since then, Simon had seen no strong emotion cross her face. Not until today.

  Ah, God, he thought. I’ve botched this almost from start to finish. I’d like, for once, to make it right.

  Chapter 6

  Joan slept for fourteen hours, waking every four, as was her habit in strange territory, to check for threats and remember that nobody needed her to take watch. She could have stayed in bed longer, but her stomach started growling and she remembered that the food here was damn good. Still, she didn’t head for the kitchen right away, and not only because she didn’t know where it was.

  This wasn’t a vacation. First things first. That meant training: stretching, jumping jacks, forty push-ups balanced on her knuckles, fifty kicks on each leg, and then a regimen of punching techniques. By the time she was done, Joan could have eaten the next thing she saw.

  Nobody had knocked on the door, though. Either Simon had told them not to disturb her or they expected her to go and find her own food. She glanced around, didn’t see her dress—they’d probably burned it—and decided that the clothes in the desk drawer were a bad idea too. She’d wear the nightgown, then, even though it looked damn silly with her bony wrists and ankles sticking out and with more ruffles than any grown woman should ever wear. With luck, she could grab some bread and coffee without seeing anyone.

  Of course she ran into Simon before she reached the end of the hallway.

  “Good Lord,” he said, shaking his head as he looked at her. “Nobody’s told you anything, have they?”

  “You sure haven’t.” Joan drew herself up. “I was looking for breakfast. Your servants probably thought I knew what to do.”

  “Right,” he said. “Pull on the rope by your bed. Rose will bring you a tray.”

  “I can get it myself. I don’t want to be a hassle.”

  “You’re no trouble. Besides, you can’t leave your rooms like that.”

  “I’ll be in this for a while, then,” Joan said, “unless you keep a bunch of women’s clothes around.”

  “Hardly,” Simon said, laughter and shock mixing in his voice. “I’ve sent for the village dressmaker. She should arrive sometime after you’ve had breakfast.”

  Great news in theory: it’d be good if her clothes made her look less freakish. In practice…

  “I’ll need something to wear while she measures me,” Joan said. “There are marks on my back. I can’t explain them.”

  Simon frowned. His eyes went over her body, quick and carefully impersonal. “You’ll probably fit in some of Ellie’s things for the moment, though they’ll be short. I’ll ask if she minds.”

  “Right. I’ll pay you back,” Joan said abruptly. She didn’t know how. She’d figure some way out. “For the room and food too.”

  Simon’s frown didn’t go away. Instead, it just got deeper and more surprised. “Do you honestly think I’d ask a lady for payment? Particularly one who saved my life not a day ago? The worst cad in the world would feel some obligation under the circumstances, and I hope I’m not that.”

  He’d stepped closer to her as he talked. Joan could feel the heat of his body now and catch a pleasantly spicy smell that was maybe his soap, maybe just him. “That wasn’t a favor,” she said, snapping her mind back to the conversation. “I wasn’t going to stand there and watch you get killed, that’s all. And they would’ve killed me too, afterward.”

  “Nonetheless, the point stands,” said Simon. “Think of it as outfitting the troops, if that’s easier for you. We’re in this together, after all.”

  Hearing it that way did help. She wondered how well Simon had known that, and she smiled up at him without thinking about it. “Thanks,” she said, not just meaning the clothes.

  “Quite welcome,” he said, and flashed an unexpected smile of his own. “Now please go back to your room. This isn’t the time for me to lurk in hallways with half-dressed women.”

  ***

  Joan had thought that the rope was decoration, but when she pulled it, she did hear a bell somewhere in the wall. Satisfied and a little bored, she wandered over to the drapes and pulled them back.

  Outside were blue and green and gold.

  Sometime during the night, the rain had stopped and the clouds had rolled back. Now sunlight flooded down onto a mile of green grass.
From the window, it looked almost as soft as the carpet. Darker trees bordered the lawn, and off to the west, Joan saw the edge of the forest that she and Simon had come from. To the east were a dozen slate roofs, smoke spiraling up from the chimney on each one. Joan watched the smoke rise into the sky.

  After a minute, she thought what she always did, that she was wasting time. She had better things to do. This wasn’t a pleasure trip. Good, sound thoughts, these; they’d kept her alive and gotten her here.

  For the first time in ten years, Joan rose up against them.

  For the first time in ten years, she had time to waste.

  After years of preparation, days of ceremony, and those few frenzied hours before the passage, Joan was where she needed to be. Now she had no need to hurry. She’d never been a visionary, but she had the calm knowledge of a warrior and a hunter, and it said wait.

  This was a beginning. If she watched and waited, this place would give her an opening. If her hands were steady and her feet sure, she would take it. Hurrying wouldn’t help.

  And there was something else too, something she’d never thought before: I deserve this.

  Back home, Joan would’ve squashed the thought. But she wasn’t back home. She was miles and years from everything she knew, and she would die in this strange world. The only difference would be whether that death came fast or slow. And even if it was slow, even if she was lucky, the world would probably look less beautiful and be less kind to her before the end. At least now she could enjoy what pleasure there was.

  Joan sat on her bed in the morning sunshine, looked out the window, and smiled.

  ***

  When Rose came in carrying a large tray, she had something white and frothy draped over one arm. It looked like a dress to Joan but not like either of the dresses she’d seen Rose or Mrs. Edgar wearing. It was too thin and sleeveless. “Your chemise, miss,” Rose said, putting it down on the bed. “Mrs. Simmons will be here in under an hour.”