They hadn’t left a will. How could they not have left a will? Aunt Margherita seemed stunned, too stunned even to think; she hadn’t said a dozen words since the lawyers broke the news. But there was no will, and her guardians were not her legal guardians.
Somewhere in the jumble of lawyers, estate managers, and men of business had been someone who had known where she was, and when her real aunt—someone she had never even heard of until now—had been told of the accident, had been told that Marina was living here, she had taken charge of everything. She—Arachne Chamberten—had sent these lawyers to take her away.
Now this person that Marina had never heard of, never seen, and never wanted to see, was legally in charge of her, her property, her very life until she turned twenty-one.
And this person decreed that she must leave Blackbird Cottage and go to Oakhurst. Immediately. With no argument or opposition to be tolerated.
Aunt Margherita and Uncle Thomas sat there like a pair of stunned sheep. Of course they were in shock—it had always been clear to Marina that her aunt and uncles considered her real mother and father to be their dearest friends, even though they only had contact with them through letters anymore—but Hugh and Alanna were dead, and Marina needed them now!
And they might just as well have been waxwork figures for all the help they were giving her!
“I don’t want to leave!” she wailed, looking desperately at the policeman, fixing on him as the only possible person that might be moved by an appeal.
“Sorry, miss,” he mumbled, turning very red. “I know you’re upset-like. I mean, know it’s a shock, to lose your parents like this—”
I don’t care about that! she screamed inside. Don’t you understand? My real parents are here, and you’re trying to take me away from them!
But—she couldn’t say that, much less scream it.
“Miss, it’s for your own good,” the policeman said desperately. “These gennelmun know their business, and it’s for your own good. You oughtn’t to be with them as isn’t your own flesh and blood, not now. And it’s the law, miss. It’s the law.”
Her throat closed up entirely, and she felt the jaws of a terrible trap closing on her; she understood how the rabbit felt in the snare, the mouse as the talons of an owl descended on it. if only Uncle Sebastian was here! He would do something, surely—But Sebastian was off in Plymouth and wasn’t expected back until tomorrow—
There could not have been a better time for them to arrive, or a worse time for her. Her chest ached, and black despair closed down around her.
The lawyers had made it abundantly clear that they were not going to wait that long—that in fact, if Marina balked at going, the policeman that they had brought with them was perfectly prepared tuff her into their carriage by force. She saw that in their eyes—
—and in his. He would apologize, he would regret having to manhandle her, but he’d do it all the same.
No escape—no escape—
They couldn’t have gotten the Killatree constable to go along with this—kidnapping! she thought frantically. Which was probably why they had brought one from Holsworthy. A Holsworthy man wouldn’t know them. A Holsworthy man wouldn’t have to answer to all of Killatree tomorrow for helping strangers tear her away from Blackbird Cottage and her guardians.
“Pack the girl’s things,” said the second lawyer coldly—the first words he’d spoken so far—looking over Margherita’s shoulder at Sarah and Jenny. “And hurry up about it. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“Ma’am?” Sarah said, looking not at the lawyer, but at Margherita.
“Do it,” the third lawyer snapped, “Unless you’d care to cool your heels in gaol for obstructing us in our duty, woman.”
Shocked, angry, Sarah’s gaze snapped to the policeman, who turned redder still, but nodded, affirming what the lawyer had said.
Sarah made a choking noise, and Jenny turned white.
“But—” Marina’s spirit failed her utterly, and she slid to the floor, sobbing, her heart breaking.
She remained dissolved in tears while Sarah and Jenny packed for her, huddled against the seat of the sofa. Margherita just held her, speechlessly, and Uncle Thomas sat, white-faced, as if someone had shot him and he hadn’t quite realized that he was dead yet.
She sobbed uncontrollably while Hired John grudgingly loaded the trunks and boxes on the top of the waiting carriage. She wept and clung to Margherita, until the policeman actually pried her fingers off of her aunt’s arm, and pulled her away, wrapping her cape around her, ushering her into the carriage, almost shoving her inside.
There was nothing in her mind now but grief and despair. She continued to weep, inconsolable, tears pouring down her cheeks in the icy air as the carriage rolled away, leaning out of the window to wave, hoping for a miracle to save her.
But no miracle came, and the horses continued to carry her away—away—
She continued to wave, for as long as she could see her aunt and uncle standing stiff and still in the middle of the road, until the road took a turning and they vanished from view.
Then her strength left her. She collapsed back into the corner of her seat and sobbed, sobbed until her throat was sore and her eyes blurred, sobbed until her eyes were dry, and her cheeks raw with burning tears.
Through it all, two of the three detestable lawyers sat across from her, the third next to her, with folded arms, and stony faces. If they felt anything, it certainly didn’t show. They were the waxworks, with their cold faces and hearts of straw.
They might claim that they were lawyers—but they were more and less than that. As much as that policemen, they had been sent to make sure she didn’t escape, to make sure she was delivered into captivity, a prisoner of her parents’ lack of foresight and the implacable will of a woman who was a complete stranger.
And so she wept, as darkness fell, and the carriage rolled on, and her captors, her jailers, watched her with the cold eyes of serpents in the night.
Chapter Eight
THE carriage rolled on through the night, long past even the most fashionable of supper-hours; evidently the Unholy Trinity were taking no chances on Marina making a bolt for freedom. The carriage rattled over roads not improved by the snow, swaying when it hit ruts, which would have thrown her against her unwelcome seat-mate if Marina hadn’t wedged herself into place. She continued to huddle in her corner, as far as possible from them, back to them, her face turned into the corner where the seat met the side of the carriage, aching legs jammed against the floorboards to hold herself there. By the time darkness fell, she was no longer weeping and sobbing hysterically, but only because she was too exhausted for further emoting. Instead, she stared dull-eyed at the few inches of window curtain in front of her nose while slow, hot tears continued to burn down her raw cheeks. After sunset, she could no longer see even the curtains. The lawyers didn’t bother trying to talk to her; leaning forward to put their heads together, they whispered among themselves in disapproving tones, but said nothing aloud. Apparently it was enough for them that they had her in keeping.
They can’t keep me from writing, can they? They can’t stop me from sending letters—
Well, actually, they could, or rather, her Aunt Arachne could just by refusing to allow her pocket money for postage. It was very clear from the Trinity’s attitude that they had been completely appalled by the household that they had found her in. Evidently Margherita, Thomas, and Sebastian were considered disreputable at best, and immoral at worst.
The Trinity would not have come as they had and acted as they had done if her new guardian had any intention of allowing her contact with the old ones, that much was blindingly clear from the way she had been handled—or, rather, manhandled. Whatever they had expected when they arrived, her situation had evidently fed right into their prejudices and preconceptions. They had expected to find a loose, disreputable, eccentric household quite beyond the pale of polite society, and that was exactly what they’d seen.
Which probably contributed to the speed with which they bundled her out of there… their narrow little minds must have been near to splitting, and they must have been frantic to get her away.
And if Aunt Arachne ever finds out I was posing for Uncle Sebastian, she’ll use that as a further weapon against my family.
Given how quickly she’d been hustled away, she could well picture the absolute opposition to any attempt on her part to return. She could see no way that she could win back home—not until she was of age and could do what she wanted.
Horrible little respectable minds!
Three years—it seemed an eternity. She stared into the blackness in front of her nose and tried to think. What to do? Was there, in fact, anything that she could do?
No. And imprisoning me is going to be “for my own good.” How can you possibly argue with that? Worse, everyone, absolutely everyone, would agree with them! Taking me away from “corrupting and decadent influences,” because everyone knows what artists are like.
More tears flowed down her face, and her throat and chest were so tight she had trouble breathing.
It took her a moment to realize that the carriage was slowing; moment later, it came to a stop. A hand tapped her elbow peremptorily.
“Miss Roeswood, we have paused for a moment at a post-tavern,” a cold voice said distantly, its tone one of complete indifference. “Have you any—ah—urgent requirements? Do you need food or drink?”
She shook her head, refusing to turn to look at him.
“Then each of us will take it in turn to remain to keep you company while the others refresh themselves,” the lawyer said, and settled back into his seat next to her, springs creaking, while the other two clambered out of the coach. Since she was wedged into the corner furthest from the door, and facing away from it, all that she saw was the reflection of a little lamplight on the curtains as the door opened. There was a little, a very little, sound of voices from the tavern itself, then the door shut again. She might have been alone, but for the breathing of her unwelcome companion.
She wondered what they would have done if she had needed to use a water closet. Probably escorted me to the door and locked me inside, she thought bitterly.
Her guard was shortly replaced by one of the other two, who had brought food and drink with him by the smell of it. She wasn’t interested in anything like eating; in fact, the strong aromas of onion and cold, greasy beef from his side of the carriage made her feel ill and faint. He ate and drank with much champing of jaws and without offering her any, which (even though she had refused to move and had indicated she had no needs) was hardly gentlemanly.
Her stomach turned over, and she put one hand to her throat to loosen the collar of her cape. Her head ached; her eyes were sore, her cheeks and nose felt as if the skin on them was burned or raw. She shut her eyes and tried to shut her ears to the sound of stolid jaws chewing away at a Ploughman’s lunch and a knife cutting bits off the onion and turnip that were part of it.
They were not going to stop for long, it seemed. The second lawyer returned to the carriage as well in a few moments, and then, hard on his heels the third joined his compatriots. Once he was inside, the third banged on the roof of the conveyance by way of telling the unseen coachman to move on, and the carriage lurched back into motion again. They really weren’t wasting any time in getting her away.
She rested her burning forehead on the side of the carriage and pulled her warm cloak tighter around her shoulders, not against the chill of the night, but against the emotional chill within the walls of the carriage. Were they going to travel all night?
Evidently, they were.
The next stop, a few hours later, brought the same inquiry, which she answered with the same headshake. It also brought a change of horses, as if this carriage was a mail coach. No expense was being spared, it seemed, to make sure she was brought directly into the control of her new guardian.
I hope she’s paying these horrible men next to nothing. From the type of food they’d brought into the carriage—the cheapest sort of provender, a Ploughman’s lunch of bread, pickle, onion, a raw turnip, and a bit of greasy beef or strong cheese—it seemed that might be the case.
I hope it turns to live eels in their stomachs. I hope the carriage makes them sick. She wondered, at that moment, if there was something she could do magically to make them ill, or at least uncomfortable. But she hadn’t been taught anything like that—probably because Elizabeth wouldn’t approve of doing something that unkind even to automatons like these three.
Her spirits sank even further, if that was possible, when she realized that she couldn’t even use magic to communicate with her former guardians. She hadn’t been taught the direct means. There were indirect means, messages sent via Elemental creatures, but hers weren’t theirs. The Undines, in particular, wouldn’t approach Uncle Sebastian—theirs was the antagonist Element.
But—what about Elizabeth?
Surely she could send to Elizabeth for help, with the Undines as intermediaries—
But not until spring. Not until the water thawed again. The Sylphs might move in winter, but not the Water Elementals, or at least, not the ones she knew. And she couldn’t count on the Sylphs—in fact, she hadn’t even seen any since that odd nightmare. She could call them, but they wouldn’t necessarily come.
Hope died again, and she stopped even trying to think. She simply stared at the darkness, endured the pain of her aching head, and braced herself against the pitching and swaying of the carriage.
Eventually, snoring from the opposite side told her that somehow at least two of her captors had managed to fall asleep. She hoped, viciously, that the coach would hit a particularly nasty pothole and send them all to the floor, or knock their heads together.
But in keeping with the rest of the day, nothing of the sort happened.
Hours later, they changed horses again. By this time she was in a complete fog of grief and fatigue, and couldn’t have put a coherent thought together no matter how hard she tried. And she didn’t try very hard. In all that time she hadn’t eaten, drunk, or slept, but this time when the rude tap on her shoulder came, she asked for something to drink.
One of them handed her a flask, and she drank the contents without thinking. It tasted like cold tea, heavily creamed and sugared—but it wasn’t very long before she realized that there had been something else in that flask besides tea. Her muscles went slack; foggy as her mind had been, it went almost blank, and she felt herself slipping over sideways in her seat to be caught by one of the repellent lawyers.
Horribly, whatever it was didn’t put her to sleep, or not entirely. It just made her lose all conscious control over her body. She could still hear, and if she’d been able to get her eyes open, she’d have been able to see. But sensation was at one remove, and as she went limp and was picked up and laid out on the carriage seat, she heard the Unholy Trinity talking openly, but as if they were in the far distance. And although she could hear the words, she couldn’t make sense of them.
She heard the crowing of roosters in farmyards that they passed, and knew that it must be near dawn. And shortly after that, the carriage made a right-angle turn, and the sound of the wheels changed.
Then it stopped.
The lawyers got out.
She fought to open her eyes, to no avail.
Someone else entered the carriage, and picked her up as if she weighed nothing. She heard the sound of gravel under heavy boots, then the same boots walking on stone. It felt as if the person carrying her was going up a set of stairs, but though she tried once again to regain control of her body, or at least open her eyes, her head lolled against his shoulder—definitely a he—and she could do nothing.
A door opened in front of them, and closed behind them. “She drank it all?” asked a cool, female voice.
“Yes, mum,” replied a male voice, equally dispassionate. One of the Trinity. Not the person who was carrying her, who remained silent.
“G
ood. Come, James, follow me.”
The sound of light footsteps preceding them. Another set of stairs, a landing, more stairs. Another door.
She might not even be able to open her eyes, but there was nothing wrong with her nose. And by the scent of a fire with fircones in it, of beeswax candles and lavender, she was in a bedchamber now. “This is the young Miss Roeswood, Mary Anne,” said the female voice. “She’s ill with grief, and she’s drunk medicine that will make her sleep. Undress her and put her to bed.”
The man carrying her stooped—her head lolled back—and laid her on a soft, but very large bed, with a muffled grunt.
The light footsteps and the heavy went away; the door opened and closed again. Someone began taking off her clothing, as if she was an over-large doll, and redressed her in a nightgown. The same someone—who must have been very strong—rolled her to one side, pulled the covers back, rolled her back in place, and covered her over.
Then, more footsteps receding. The door opening and closing again. Silence.
The state she drifted into then was not exactly sleep, and not precisely waking. She seemed to drift in a fog in which she could see and hear nothing, and nothing she did affected it. There were others in this fog—she could hear them in the distance, but she could never find them, and when she called out to them, her voice was swallowed up by the endless mist.
It was, to be truthful, a horrible experience. Not at all restful. A deadly fatigue weighed her down, a malaise invaded her spirit, and despair filled her heart.
Finally, true sleep came, bringing oblivion, and with it, relief from her aching heart, at least for a time.
She woke with a start, the very feel of the bed telling her that yesterday’s nightmare had been no thing of dreams, but of reality, even before she opened her eyes. And when she did open them, it was to find that she was staring up into the ochre velvet canopy of a huge, curtained bed. She sat up.
The Gates of Sleep Page 14