The Gates of Sleep

by Mercedes Lackey

  “How often did your mother write to you, child?” Arachne asked, as Marina settled uneasily into her chair.

  “Once a week or so, except when she and my father were in Italy; less often then,” Marina replied, trying to keep her tone light and conversational. “She told me what she was doing, about the books she had read, the friends who had visited. Not when I was a child, of course,” she amended. “Then she told me mostly about her garden, and made up stories to amuse me. At least, I think she made them up, although they could have been stories from the fairy tale books she read as a child.”

  “What sort of stories?” Arachne asked, leaning forward.

  I wonder why she’s so interested?

  “Oh, fairy tales and myths, about little creatures that were supposed to live in her garden, gnomes and fauns and the like,” she replied with a slight laugh. “Entirely whimsical, and perhaps that was the problem, why I never cared much for them. I was not a child much given to whimsy.”

  She thought that Arachne smiled. “No?”

  “No. I preferred the myths of Greece and Rome—and later, the stories about Arthur and his knights and court and the legends of Wales and Cornwall,” she said firmly. “And serious things; real history, Shakespeare and adult books. And poetry, which I suppose, given that I lived with artists, was inevitable, but the poetry I read was mostly Elizabethan. I was a serious child, and mother didn’t seem to understand that.” She chose her words with care. “Oh, just for instance, she seemed to think that since I lived with the Tarrants, I should be a painter, when my real interest is music. She would send me expensive paints and brushes, and I would just give them to Sebastian Tarrant—and he would buy me music.”

  “An equitable arrangement. How very businesslike of you.” Arachne chuckled dryly, a tinkling sound like broken bits of china rubbing together. “And when you were older, what did your mother write about then?”

  “What I’ve told you—mostly about her everyday life. Her letters were very like journal entries, and I tried to write the same to her, but it was difficult for me.” She shrugged. “I think, perhaps, that she was trying to—to bring us together again. To make us less than strangers.”

  “I believe you could be right.” Arachne shook her head. “Poor Alanna; I knew her even less than you, for I did not even have the benefit of letters, but all I have gleaned since I arrived here makes me think that she must have been a seriously troubled young woman. I begin to wonder if the estrangement between my brother and myself might have been due in part to her.”

  “Surely you don’t believe that my mother would have wanted to come between a brother and sister!” Marina exclaimed indignantly. “That doesn’t sound anything like her!”

  “No, nothing of the sort,” Arachne replied, unruffled by the outburst. “No—but I must wonder if—if my brother was afraid that if I saw her, I would—” She shook her head again. “No, surely not. But if I saw that he had bound himself to someone who was—not stable—well, he must have realized that I would urge him to—”

  “It puzzles me, but that I really did not know them,” Marina said, sitting up straighter. “If you have any guesses that would explain why I was sent away, I would be interested to hear them, and I assure you, I am adult enough to deal with them in a mature manner.”

  Oh, very pompous, Marina. On the other hand—I’m tired of being treated like I’m still in the nursery.

  Arachne paused. “You know that I told you how your mother seemed to have a—a breakdown of her nerves following your birth. Now, when you tell me of these letters of hers, well—what if she was not telling you whimsical tales as a child? What if she actually thought she saw these creatures in her garden?”

  Marina for a moment could not believe what her aunt was trying to tell her. “Are you suggesting that she lost her wits?” Her voice squeaked on the last word, making her exclamation a little less than impressive.

  “It would fit the facts,” Arachne said, as if musing to herself. “My brother’s refusal to see, speak, or even write to me, their reclusiveness, the fact that he sent you away. He could have been protecting you—from her.”

  It was a horrible thought. And one which, as Arachne pointed out, did fit the facts.

  And it would explain why the uncles and my aunt wouldn’t tell me why I’d been sent away. And why the reason was never, ever brought up in those letters.

  Now, Marina knew that the little whimsical creatures that her mother had described really did exist—and had lived in her garden. But just because an Elemental Master was able to work magic and see the creatures of her element, it did not follow that she was sane… in fact, Elemental Masters had been known to become deranged by the very power that they wielded. Especially after a great stress, such as a death, an accident—or childbirth.

  So what if that had happened to Alanna? Then Hugh would have wanted to get the infant Marina as far away from her as possible—he was protected against anything she might do, magically, but a baby would not be. And who better to send her to than the Tarrants, whose power could block Alanna’s?

  It all made hideous sense. “I have to wonder if you are right, Madam Arachne,” she said slowly. “It does explain a number of things. In fact, it is the only explanation that fits all of the facts as I know them.”

  She felt a horrible guilt then; here, all this time, she had been blaming her parents for sending her away, when they were protecting her, and in the only way possible! And those letters, filled with anguish and longing—had they come from a mother who dared not bring her child home lest she harm it? What worse heartbreak could there be?

  Without Marina realizing it, Arachne had bent forward, and now she seized Marina’s hand. “It is only a theory, child. Nothing more. And I know—I know—that if nothing else, your mother must have been quite well and in her full wits when they went to Italy this year. I am certain, as certain as I am of my own name, that your parents intended to bring you here after your eighteenth birthday. Everything that I have found in their papers points to that.”

  When I would be able to protect myself, even if mother wasn’t quite right yet. She nodded. “I think, from the letters I got, that you are right.”

  Arachne released her hand. “I hope I haven’t distressed you, child. I didn’t intend to.”

  “I’m sure not—” Marina faltered. “But you have given me a great deal to think about.”

  Arachne made shooing motions with her hands. “In that case, dear child, perhaps you ought to go to your room where you can think in peace.”

  Marina took the hint, and rose. “Thank you. I believe that I will.”

  But as she turned to leave, she caught sight of her aunt’s expression; unguarded for once.

  Satisfaction. And triumph. As if she had won a high wager.

  Chapter Twelve

  MARY Anne did not ride. Mary Anne was, in fact, afraid of horses. It was all very well for them to be at one end of a carriage, strapped in and harnessed up, while she was at the other, but she could not, would not be anywhere near one that was loose or under saddle. And for once, not even Arachne’s iron will prevailed. When confronted with the order to take to saddle, Mary Anne gave notice. Arachne rescinded the order. Or so Sally had told Marina, in strictest confidence.

  Supposedly a groom was detailed to ride with Marina for her safety. Supposedly, in fact, a groom was to lead her horse (as if she was a toddler on a pony) in a parody of riding. In actuality, the stableman took one look at her firm and expert seat, her easy control of the reins, and the way in which she could handle every beast in the stables (not that there were any horses that Marina would call troublesome) and snorted with contempt at the very idea. “I’m shorthanded enough as ‘tis,” he said, “‘thout sending out one on fool’s errands. The day Hugh Roeswood’s daughter needs to be in leading-strings is the day they put me to pasture.”

  So Marina (whether or not Arachne was aware of it) rode alone, and for the last week, she had gone out every day for at le
ast an hour.

  She was learning the paths and the lanes around Oakhurst slowly, for the horse that the stableman assigned to her was a placid little mare, disinclined to move out of a walk unless there was a powerful incentive. But the old hunter that Marina used to ride at Blackbird Cottage was the same, and on the whole, she would rather ride a sedate and predictable horse than a spirited, but unpredictable one.

  She took great pleasure in her riding habit, of black wool and trimmed with fur, not the least because it came with a riding-corset that allowed her almost as much freedom as going uncorseted. She needed it; she needed her riding-cloak as well, for it was cold, with snow lying deeply on the fields, and especially in the lee of the banks and hedges. There might be more snow some time soon, though for now, nothing much had come from the cloud-covered sky.

  Her rides had taken her down to the vicarage on two visits so far—not too often, and only by invitation, which Mr. Davies had been punctilious about sending up to the house after his teatime visit the Monday afternoon following her foray to church. In fact, she would be going there today on a third visit, this time with a peculiar bag slung over her shoulder.

  She’d seen this bag in the gun room—dragged there by Reggie so that he could boast about previous triumphs in the field—and rather thought it was a falconer’s game bag. Whatever its original purpose in life, it was now a carryall when she went riding, as it sat very nicely on her hip and was large enough to carry almost anything. Today it held copies of her embroidery patterns, tracing paper, her spare pricking-wheel, and pounce bags of chalk and charcoal.

  Whenever Margherita (or Sebastian, at her behest) had created an embroidery pattern, Marina had made a copy; she had an entire portfolio of them now. The vicar had asked for her suggestions for items for the parish booth at the annual May Day Fair on her first visit. She suspected that he hoped for items from Oakhurst for the jumble table, but she knew that her mother had contributed a great many white elephants over the years to little purpose. Marina had a better idea, and had asked him to gather the materials—and people—she needed to make it work.

  When she arrived at the vicarage, she left her horse tied up at the gate, for she didn’t expect to be very long. At her request, the vicar had gathered the women of the Parish Society together, and at her entrance into his rather bare parlor, a dozen pairs of curious eyes turned toward her. She smiled, and received some smiles, some nods, and one or two wary looks in return as he introduced her.

  Following her instructions, he had arranged for a worktable in the middle of the room, and supplied some scrap fabric, which lay atop it. The worktable looked to be purloined from the kitchen and the ladies of the parish sat around it on a motley assortment of chairs, none new, most ancient. A cheerful fire in the fireplace warmed the air sufficiently that they had dispensed with their coats and cloaks, but all had kept their bonnets on, and a wide variety of hat ornaments bobbed in her direction.

  “Good afternoon, ladies!” she said cheerfully. “I’m sure you know that I’m Marina Roeswood. I hope you don’t mind my putting myself forward like this; Mr. Davies thought, because I was fostered with the Tarrants of Blackbird Cottage, who are well-known artists, I might have some original ideas for the goods for this year’s parish booth—and as a matter of fact, I do.”

  With no further preamble, she took her supplies from the falconer’s bag and proceeded to show the women how a professional seamstress, embroideress, or modiste transferred an embroidery pattern from paper to fabric. They watched with amazement as she ran the pricking-wheel over the penciled design, then laid the now-perforated paper on a piece of fabric and used the pounce-bag along the lines of the design, tapping it expertly and firmly on the paper.

  “There, you see?” she said, removing the paper to show the design picked out in tiny dots of white chalk. “Now, the last step is to baste the lines of the design before the chalk brushes off, and there you are! On dark fabric, you use a chalk-bag; on light, a charcoal-bag. And this system allows you to use the pricked pattern over and over, as many times as you like, doesn’t mark the fabric, and is a great deal less fussy than sewing over the paper pattern.”

  The vicar proclaimed himself astonished. The women—the wives and daughters of the shopkeepers and the well-to-do farmers—were delighted. As with most amateur embroideresses, they had either stitched through a paper pattern, forcing them to use it only once, or had drawn their patterns inaccurately on the fabric itself when the fabric was too dark or thick to use as tracing paper. Many a fine piece of cambric or silk had been ruined this way when the marks made by the pencil wouldn’t come out—many lovely designs had been executed off center or lopsided.

  “And these are all very new and fashionable designs, similar to the ones that Messrs. Morris & Co. is producing, but quite original,” she told them, spreading out the sheets of patterns before their eyes. “My Aunt Margherita Tarrant is known all over England for her art-embroidery, and has produced lovely things with these designs for some of the best homes in London and Plymouth.”

  That won them over, completely, and with these new designs and tools, there was great excitement over what manner of things might be made. Marina helped them to parcel out patterns, tracing them so that more than one copy could be dispensed, and running the wheel over them since there was only the one wheel to share among the lot of them. As they worked, they were happily discussing fire screens, cushions, antimacassars, and any number of other delights. No one else would have anything like this in the three other parish booths from the churches that regularly had booths at the May Day Fair. Every one of these ladies would make something that she would like to have in her own home. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise Marina in the least to discover that each would make two projects at a time—one to sell and one to keep. As that cheerful fire further warmed the room, the ladies warmed to Marina—who had, of course, seen exactly the items that had been originally made with these patterns, and was ready to offer advice as to materials and color schemes. Mr. Davies beamed on them all impartially; from the scent of baking, his old housekeeper was making ginger biscuits to serve the ladies for tea.

  But the spicy scent perfumed the air in a way that shook her unexpectedly with memories of home, and suddenly, she couldn’t bear to be there—among strangers—

  “Have I left you with enough to occupy you, ladies?” she asked, quickly, around a rising lump in her throat. “For I believe my guardian will be expecting me back—”

  By this time, the gossip was flying thick and fast as well as discussion of fabrics and colors and stitches, but it stopped dead at her question. The ladies looked at one another, and the eldest, old Mrs. Havershay, took it upon herself to act as spokeswoman. “Thank you, Miss! We’re ever so much obliged to you,” she said, managing to sound both autocratic (which she was, as acknowledged leader of her circle) and grateful at the same time.

  “Oh, thank you,” she replied, flushing. “You’ve no idea what a good time I’ve had with you, here. I hope—”

  But she couldn’t have said what she hoped; they wouldn’t have understood why she wished she could join their sewing circle. She was gentry; they were village. The gap was insurmountable.

  As the others discussed projects, love affairs, and business of the village, one of the younger—and prettier—of the daughters helped her gather her hat, cloak, and gloves and escorted her to the door. “Thank you, Miss Roeswood; we were all dreading what sort of crack-brained notion the vicar might have had for us when he told us you were going to show us your ideas for the booth,” she said, and hesitated, then continued, “and we were afraid that he might be letting—ah—kindliness—get ahead of him. He’s a kindly gentleman, we all like him, but he’s never done a charity booth before.”

  “He’s a very kind and very pleasant gentleman,” she agreed readily. “And don’t underestimate him, because he’s also quite intelligent. As you’ve seen, sometimes a new idea is better than what’s been traditional.”

 
; “True, miss, and even though some folks would rather we had our old vicar back, well, he was a good man, but he’s dead, and they aren’t going to get him back, so at least Mr. Davies is one of us, and they ought to get to like him as much as us young ones, But please—some of us—”

  Marina gave her a penetrating look, and she seemed to lose her courage, and blurted, “—we’ve been wondering about what you think of our vicar, what with making three visits in the week, and—”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth and looked appalled at what she had let slip. Marina just chuckled.

  “You mean, have I any designs on him myself, hmm?” she whispered, and the girl turned beet red. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and surely had what schoolgirls called a “pash” for the amiable young man. Marina suddenly felt very old and worldly wise.

  “My dear Miss Horn, I promise you that my only interest in our good vicar extends to his ability to play chess,” she said soberly. “And his ability to compose and deliver an interesting, inspiring, and enlightening sermon,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Oh.” The girl turned pale, then red again, and ducked her head. Marina patted her hand, and turned to go.

  The meeting with the ladies had taken less than an hour; she hadn’t expected it to take much longer, truth to tell. The cold air on her cheeks made enough of a distraction to get her tears swallowed down, and she mounted her horse feeling that she had done her duty, in more ways than one. If Arachne expected her back as soon as she finished, well, she was going to take her time, and never mind the cold.

  “And she believed it?”

  Arachne smiled; Reggie’s expression could not be more gratifying, compounded as it was of equal parts of astonishment, admiration, and envy. He leaned back into his chair in her personal sitting room, a lush and luxurious retreat furnished with pieces she had taken from all over the house when she first arrived here, and smiled. “Mater,” he continued, “That was brilliant! I never would have considered suggesting to Marina that her mother was a candidate for a sanitarium.”