The window was closed and latched, and although she did recall closing and latching it when she went to bed, she didn’t remember doing so after summoning the Sylph. She thought she’d left it open; she’d been in such a state of confusion and anxiety that she’d gone straight to her bed from the window.
Had she summoned a Sylph? Or had it all been a particularly vivid dream? Other than the window being shut, and that was problematical, there was nothing to prove her fears of last night had been real or imagined.
Except that last night there were clouds crossing the moon and a steady wind—and today there’s barely a breath of breeze and not a cloud in the sky. Could the weather have changed that drastically in a few hours? She didn’t think so, particularly not here, where winter was basically rain interrupted by clouds.
She opened the window, and closed it again quickly—it was also cold out there! It couldn’t be much above freezing, and she didn’t recall it being that cold last night. Surely it would have been colder last night than it was now!
That seemed to settle it—she must have dreamed the whole thing.
There was an easy way to check on it, though. Despite her misgivings of last night—which now seemed very misplaced—her guardian’s shields surely were not strong enough to keep them from sensing trouble.
She turned away from the window, and hurried over to the fire to build it up again, then quickly chose underthings and a gown and dressed for the day. Perhaps her thick woolen stockings were unfashionable, but at the moment, she would choose warm feet over fashion! Then she made for the kitchen, pausing only long enough in the little bathroom to wash her hands and face in the warm water that Jenny had brought up and left there, clean her teeth, and give her hair a quick brushing. I almost wish snoods were fashionable again, as they were ages ago, she thought, pulling the brush through the thick locks, with impatient tugs. Then I could bundle my hair up into the net and be done with it for the day. Sometimes I think I ought to just cut it all off.
But if she did that, Uncle Sebastian would never forgive her.
Or he’d make me wear horrid, itchy wigs. He already did that now and again, and the things made her skin crawl. Bad enough to be wearing someone else’s hair, but she could never quite rid herself of the thought that insects would find the wigs a very cozy home. It was horrible, sitting there posing, sure that any moment something would creep out of the wig and onto her face!
She ran down the stairs to the kitchen, wanting to be there when everyone else came down. If anyone else had awakened with a fright or even an uneasy stirring in the night, they’d be sure to talk about it. In a household full of magicians, night-frights were no laughing matter.
The problem was, of course, that she didn’t have enough experience to tell a simple nightmare from a real warning. And with all the praises being heaped on her for her current progress with Elizabeth, she was rather loath to appear to be frightened by a silly dream.
And it wasn’t as if there had actually been anything menacing her, either! Just a vague feeling that there was something out there, some sinister hunter, and she was its prey. Now how could she ever explain an hysterical reaction to something as minor as that?
“Good morning, Sarah!” she called as she flew in at the kitchen door, relieved to see that she was the first down. She wouldn’t have missed anything, then.
“Morning to you, miss,” the cook replied, after a surprised glance. “Early, ain’t you?”
“Cocky-locky was crowing right outside my window,” Marina replied, taking the seat nearest the stove, the perquisite of the first down. Even in high summer, that was the favored seat, for whoever sat there got the first of everything from Sarah’s skillets. “I know he’s Aunt’s favorite rooster, but there are limits!”
“I’ll tell Jenny not to let them out until you’ve all come down of a morning,” Sarah replied with a chuckle. “She won’t mind, and it don’t take but a minute to take down the door. She can do ‘t when she’s done with fetchin’ water upstairs.”
She handed Marina a blue-rimmed pottery bowl full of hot oat porridge, which Marina regarded with resignation, then garnished with sugar and cream and dug into so as to get rid of it as soon as possible. Sarah had fed her a bowl of oat porridge every cold morning of her life, standing over her and not serving her anything else until she finished it, and there was no point in arguing with her that she never made the uncles eat oat porridge first. She would only respond that Aunt Margherita ate it, and what was good enough for her lovely aunt was good enough for her. Never mind that Aunt Margherita actually liked oat porridge.
For that matter, so did the uncles. They just never were made to finish a huge bowlful before getting served Sarah’s delectable eggs fried in the bacon fat, her fried kidneys, sliced potatoes, her home-cured bacon, country ham, and home-made sausages. Not to mention her lovely thick toast, cut from yesterday’s loaf, which somehow was always golden, warm enough to melt the butter, and never burned—
—though Marina had long suspected the touch of one of Uncle Sebastian’s Salamanders for that particular boon.
Or scones, left over from tea or made fresh that morning, with jam and butter or clotted cream. Or cake, or pie. That oat porridge left very little internal room for all the good things that bedecked the breakfast table.
No, the uncles got a much smaller bowl, and unless Sarah was running behind, they got it along with the rest of their breakfast. Sarah never scolded them if they left some of it in the bottom of the bowl.
Such were the trials of having the same person serve as cook and nursery-maid, she supposed, trying not to think about the porridge she was eating. It wasn’t so much the flavor, which reminded her strongly of the taste of iron but could be disguised with cream and sugar. It was the texture.
By the time she had only half finished her bowl, she heard a clatter of footsteps on the stair, and the rest of the household came down in a clump, trailed by Jenny carrying the last of the hot water cans. Properly dressed for the day, too—a cold morning didn’t encourage lounging about in one’s dressing gown!
“Well, finally, a sunny morning!” Elizabeth was saying as they came into the kitchen. “Good morning, Sarah.”
“Morning, ma’am. ‘Twon’t last,” Sarah predicted.
“Oh, try not to burst my illusions too quickly, will you?” Elizabeth laughed. “After all, I’ll be leaving in a week or so, can’t I at least hope that I won’t have to depart in a downpour?”
Sarah turned from the stove, spatula in hand. “Oh, ma’am, are you going that soon?” she asked, looking stricken. “But you haven’t heard half the things the village folk have dug up—and—you! haven’t even had a taste of one of my mince pies—and—”
“Sarah, I’m only going away over the holidays! I’ll be back just after Twelfth Night!” Elizabeth exclaimed, though she looked pleased at Sarah’s reaction. “I had no idea that I was anything but an additional burden to your duties.”
“Burden? Oh, ma’am, what’s one more at table? ‘tis been like having another in the family here.” Sarah tenderly forked bacon and sausage onto Elizabeth’s plate, giving her so much that Elizabeth transferred half of it to Marina when Sarah’s back was turned. Marina ate it quickly before Sarah could notice that she hadn’t finished her porridge.
“Well, Sarah’s right about that,” Sebastian said, with a wink for his wife. “Though I must say it’s ruined every one of the arguments we’ve had since she’s been here.”
“Oh? In what way has my presence interfered, pray?” Elizabeth responded, with a toss of her head. “Other than that the sheer weight of my intellect overpowers you light-minded painterly types?”
“Well, when it comes to a division between the sexes, it used to come out a draw, and Margherita and Marina had to compromise,” Sebastian pointed out, sounding for all the world as if it was the two females of the household who were unreasonable when it came to sitting down for negotiations. “Now there’s the three of you, and you r
un right over the top of us poor befuddled males.”
“If you’d learn to listen to reason, you wouldn’t be befuddled or find yourself in need of making compromises,” Elizabeth retorted. “Seeing as we are the ones who generally propose compromise in the first place, which you gentlemen seem to regard with the same attitude as a bull with a red rag.”
Somehow, within three sentences of that challenge, the conversation managed to come round to a spirited discussion of votes, university degrees, and equal responsibilities for women.
Marina listened, slowly munching her way through her breakfast, and began to see an interesting and quite logical explanation for the dream of last night.
It had to be a dream; none of the others had mentioned any unease at all, and they surely would. Even if they were cautious about speaking of magic in front of Sarah and Jenny, there were ways of saying things without actually saying them that amounted to a second language among the five of them.
No, it must have been a dream, and now Marina had a good idea of where it had come from.
She hadn’t thought about it much, but she had known for the last several days that Elizabeth’s return to her family was coming up shortly. How could she not be anxious about that, even though she knew that Elizabeth was going to come back? Her teacher was going to be gone, and not only was she not going to be getting new lessons in Water Magic, but if anything somehow went seriously wrong in her practicing, there would be no one in the household technically capable of putting it right again. The best they could do would be for Sebastian, the antagonistic Element, to put the whole mess down with sheer, brute force.
That could be very bad over the long run. The Elementals might take offense, and she’d be weeks in placating them.
So, that would explain all the unease, the tension, even the fear. And the feeling of something bad out there watching for her—well, dreams often showed you the opposite of what you were really feeling, and the fear came from the fact that no one would be watching for her with Elizabeth gone.
The anxiety as well—well, that was simply a straight reflection of the fact that with Elizabeth gone, she would be feeling rather lonely. For the first time she could remember, winter had not been a round of day after day, the same, with barely a visit or two to the village to break the monotony. Everyone had tasks that kept them involved except her. Posing might be hard work, but it wasn’t intellectually stimulating. But with Elizabeth here, she’d had a friend and entirely new things to do.
It was all as simple and straightforward as that!
Relieved now that she had found a logical explanation for what must have been a simple bout of night-fears, she joined in the discussion—which, despite Uncle Sebastian claiming it was an argument, never got to the point of raised voices, much less to acrimony. Elizabeth even appealed to Sarah a time or two, though Sarah only replied with “I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am,” or “I couldn’t rightly say, ma’am.” And, essentially, all of the women knew deep down that Sebastian was firmly on their side in the case of the Cause. He was only arguing because one of his greatest joys was in playing devil’s advocate. And another was to get Elizabeth sufficiently annoyed to exercise a talent for rather caustic wit that she rarely displayed.
At least, so long as it didn’t interfere with his meals. The only reason that Elizabeth got in some fairly long speeches without being interrupted was because Uncle Sebastian was enjoying his broiled kidneys. Twice Sarah purloined her plate to rewarm what had gotten cold and unappetizing.
Finally, he cleaned his plate with a bit of toast, popped it in his mouth, and stood up. “You win, Elizabeth, as usual. You’re right, I’m outnumbered, and besides, I am not going to waste this gorgeous light. You’ll have to do without Marina this morning, Elizabeth—I’ve got a buyer for Werther and I mean to have the money in time to finance a really good Christmas. Come along, poppet—”
He gestured at Marina, who quickly rose from the table and followed him. She saw that determined, yet slightly absent look in his eyes and knew it of old. Werther would be finished—in very few days, if the weather held.
And Marina was going to be spending a great deal of time sprawled half on, half off that pallet, nearly upside down.
Oh well, she thought, suppressing a yawn as she fitted her upper torso within the chalk marks on the floor. Uncle Sebastian’s doing my legs this morning, since that’s where the light is falling. So at least I’II get to make up my lost sleep today.
By the time Elizabeth left, Marina had all but forgotten about her disturbed night. The few times she thought about it, she was glad she hadn’t mentioned it; it would have been too, too embarrassing to be comforted and reassured over a nightmare. And in front of Elizabeth too—appalling thought!
She hadn’t seen a sign of a single Sylph or any other Air Elemental since then, but they didn’t much care for the cold, and she was too busy to summon one. The clear weather didn’t hold, either, and they liked rain even less than cold. With Uncle Sebastian claiming her time during the day, feverishly painting his Young Werther, Elizabeth claimed the hours between sunset and bedtime. Which was only right, of course—after all, that was why Elizabeth was here in the first place!
The result was that when the day of departure arrived, Marina was able to build a shield two layers thick, with the outer layer looking just like the sort of aura that any ordinary person might have. What was more, she could shield a workspace, or even a smallish room, and within the room, she could make the shield permanent.
She still hadn’t begun the next phase of her tutelage, which Elizabeth said would be the offensive and defensive uses of her power. That would have to wait; Elizabeth didn’t want her to even think about such a thing until there was another Water Master physically present while she practiced.
The day of departure was gray, but not raining, so they all went to see her off, using both carts, and combining the trip with a Christmas shopping expedition to the village and perhaps beyond. When Elizabeth’s train was safely gone, and the last glimpse of her hand waving a handkerchief out of the window was a memory, Marina and her aunt took one of the carts, and the uncles took the other. Uncle Thomas and Uncle Sebastian were in charge of arranging the Christmas feast.
“Make sure you get a gray goose, and not a white one!” Marina called after them as they set off on a round of the little village shop, the pub, and some of the farms. “The white ones are too fat!”
Uncle Sebastian waved absently; Uncle Thomas ignored them. Margherita sighed. “It’s the same thing every year, isn’t it?” she said to the pony’s back-pointing ears. “Every year, I tell them, ‘get a gray goose.’ And what do they do every year? They get a white one.
“Maybe if you told them to get a turkey?” Marina suggested delicately.
“Then they’d bring back a pheasant, I swear.” Margherita sighed again.
“Where first?” Marina asked, as Margherita took up the reins and glanced down the road after the uncles. Her aunt gave her a measuring look.
“Would you really, truly like a suit like Elizabeth’s?” Margherita asked, a bit doubtfully. “Personally, I would feel as if I’d been trussed up like the Christmas goose in one of those rigs, but if you really want one—”
“Oh, Aunt!” Marina said breathlessly, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Margherita had resisted, quietly, but implacably, every hint that Marina had ever given her about more fashionable clothing. Nothing moved her, not the most delectable sketch in the newspaper, not the most delicious description of a frock in one of Alanna’s letters. “Do you think you’d really like that?” was one response, “It’s not practical for running about outside,” was another. And she couldn’t help but agree, even while, the older she got, the more she yearned for something—just one outfit—that was truly stylish.
“All right then. It won’t be a surprise, but it will be done in time for Christmas.” Margherita’s expression was a comical mix of amusement and resignation, as she turned the
pony’s head and slapped the reins on his back.
“But, where are we going?” Marina asked, bewildered, as Margherita sent the pony out of the village, trotting along the road that ran parallel to the railway, into the west.
“Well, I don’t have the skill to make you anything like that! And besides, we’ll have to get you the proper corset for it as well; just compare what they’re showing in advertisements with what you own. We won’t find anything in Killatree; we might as well go to Holsworthy.” Margherita smiled. “You’ve never had anything other than the gowns I made or ordinary waists and skirts from Maggie Potter; you’ll have to be fitted, we’ll have to select fabric, and we’ll have to return for a final fitting.”
“Oh.” Marina was a bit nonplused. “I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble—”
“Nonsense! A Christmas gift needs to be fussed over a bit!” Margherita laughed, and flicked her whip warningly at a dog that came out of one of the farmyards to bark at them. “It’s not as if we were going all the way to Plymouth—although—” she hesitated. “You know, we could. We could take the train there, easily enough. The seamstress in Holsworthy is good, but she won’t be as modish as the one that creates Elizabeth’s gowns.”
For a moment, Marina was sorely tempted. Plymouth! She had never been to Plymouth. She had never been to any big city.
But that was the rub; she had never been to any big city. After a moment, her spirit quailed at the thought of facing all those buildings, all those people. Not Plymouth; not unless she’d had time to get her mind around going there. And then—well, she’d want to stay there for more than a day. Which meant she truly needed to get herself mentally prepared for the big city.
“I’d like something simpler than Elizabeth’s suit,” she said, after thinking of a good way to phrase it. “After all, couldn’t we do the ornamentation if I decide I want it later? And I’d like that better. If you can’t actually make the suit, I’d rather have your designs for ornaments.”
The Gates of Sleep Page 11