But Sophie stood frozen, unwilling—unable—to obey. The tall man still held Mama around the shoulders, grinning, and Mama’s face still wore that caged-fox look; how could Sophie even contemplate running away? Yet what good did she do by remaining?
The wind had died down a little, and Sophie hurled another stone while no one was looking. Then the smaller man turned, strode towards her, and slapped her face, once—twice—again—she staggered—and once more the wind howled dementedly about them all, fetching down dead twigs from the trees overhead.
Mama’s lips moved, and she made a sort of twisting motion with one hand, and Sophie, all unwilling, found herself turning on one heel and setting off towards home. Behind her Mama’s voice rose, shouting words she did not recognise or understand. In her panicked fear Sophie managed to surmount whatever force compelled her homeward; the wind gathered strength and speed, and overhead boughs creaked and snapped as she ran towards Mama, just in time to see the two men slide to the ground, as if they had suddenly fallen asleep.
Mama was safe—thank all the gods!—and Sophie pelted towards her, weeping with relief and the aftermath of terror, to fling herself into those outstretched arms.
But before her eyes a deadfall branch, loosened by the sudden breeze that had now died as abruptly as it sprang up, leant away from the trunk of an apple tree—split—plunged—and Mama lay still between her fallen assailants, her arms outflung, and a spreading pool of bright red seeped out into the muddy ground.
* * *
Sophie remembered Mrs. Wallis arriving at a dead run, falling to her knees beside Mama, weeping, imploring, importuning the gods of healing to save Mama’s life; remembered the shade of a smile on Mama’s ashen face as she whispered something that Sophie could not hear. Remembered Mrs. Wallis saying, in a voice that shook, “I swear it, Laora. By the love I have for you I swear it.”
Then she had found Sophie and Joanna clinging together—Sophie sobbing, shaking, with blood smeared over her face and trickling sluggishly from her nose, Joanna dry-eyed, ashen-faced, and silent—and knelt to gather them into her arms.
“Your Mama has gone to live in the Elysian Fields,” she told them, her voice breaking, “but I shall always look after both of you—all of you . . .”
Sophie had tried to speak but succeeded only in wailing. At last she managed to get out the single word “Mama,” and then all the rest came tumbling out higgledy-piggledy, and Mrs. Wallis’s round, kind face went very still, and she held Sophie tighter.
“We are beyond the interdict,” she muttered to herself. “Laora, Laora, you were right to fear for her. How could you be so foolish, love, how could you?”
Sophie remembered those words, quite without meaning to her at the time, and felt that her heart would break.
* * *
Mama was gone, Mrs. Wallis had said so, but the men who had tried to hurt her were only sleeping, and when they awoke a little time later, Mrs. Wallis made them forget.
Mrs. Wallis was calm and kind and dependable. She shepherded Sophie and Joanna back to the house, back to the familiar comforts of the nursery, where Amelia was waiting tearfully, and tucked them all up into their beds, with the nursery-maid to watch over them.
* * *
Amelia and Sophie had awoken the next morning while Joanna was yet asleep, and run downstairs calling for Mama. Mrs. Wallis called the whole household together in the kitchen and explained that Mrs. Callender had found a very difficult experimental spell in an old book in the library which she had wished to study and had tried to work it alone; that the spell had proved even more difficult and dangerous than she had expected; that they must all take good care of the little girls now that Mrs. Callender was no longer here to do so. She had written to the Professor, she said, to acquaint him with the sad tidings.
Sophie and Amelia wept, and remembered the tale, and Sophie’s waking mind forgot the true one.
* * *
A shattering roar erupted from the circumference of the courtyard as every torch blossomed upwards, every magelight lantern flared into a blinding little sun. For a heartbeat the ravaged courtyard showed bright as day; then, just as suddenly, all was plunged into darkness.
Gray had ducked, for a moment, instinctively. Now he called as much light as he could muster and stood straight, battling a sudden, furious, swirling wind. All about him, heedless of their costly finery, people were flattening themselves against the reassuring solidity of the cobblestones.
The source of this elemental chaos stood quite still, oblivious, howling her grief and rage at the night sky. Her nose was bleeding heavily, crimson tracks against her waxen skin—too vast, too wild a release of magickal energy taking its toll of her body, again . . .
“Sophie!” Gray shouted as he struggled towards her, trying in vain to make himself heard over the cries of panic, the keening of the wind in the denuded trees. “Sophie, stop!”
When at last he reached her, he saw at once that further speech would be of no use. Mrs. Wallis would have slapped her face, or shaken her, to bring her to her senses; but Mrs. Wallis . . .
In any case, Gray had never in his life struck a woman, and he had certainly no notion of beginning with Sophie.
Instead he drew her rigid, trembling body against his and held her tight. Briefly she fought his encircling arms; then—so abruptly that his ears rang in the unexpected silence—the wind and Sophie’s howling ceased together, and she sobbed in his arms like a child.
“Sophie, cariad.” Again she seemed not to hear him. She shivered, and clung tighter as he bent to slide one arm under her knees.
Magelights pulsed into existence, small and larger, all over the courtyard, and people staggered to their feet. Guardsmen had surrounded the King and his family, weapons out; stewards with fire-pots emerged from the direction of the ballroom and rushed hither and thither, reigniting the snuffed-out torches; men, and a few women, in the garb of healers followed at a run. All these doings Gray saw but dimly as he passed by, his attention all on Sophie.
Through a gateway whose guards had left their post, they found the light and relative warmth of an interior corridor; round the next turning Gray found two gilt chairs and a velvet-covered sofa, on which, with a sigh of relief, he deposited Sophie. Her shivering had grown worse, though at least the flow of blood from her nose was slowing; he shed his coat once more and wrapped it about her shoulders, then sat beside her and drew her into his arms again.
Words began to emerge through the racking sobs, the chattering teeth. “Mama! Mama!” Gray heard, incredulous; then, more inexplicably still, “Mantret on, Mama, mantret on . . .”
I am sorry.
And what in Hades had Sophie to be sorry for?
* * *
“Sophie.” That voice—familiar, beloved—at last began to break into Sophie’s confused and desperate misery, forcing her to recognise the arms that held her, and behind the iron tang of blood, the scent of the body that supported hers. For just a moment she was herself again—was no longer a terrified child—was confident and comforted; until the weight of what she had seen, what it had made her remember, descended again to crush all hope. To think that her most terrifying nightmares, these nine years, had been simple truth!
Gray let go her shoulders and slid gentle fingers beneath her chin. Irrationally dreading lest he should read in her face the secret of her guilt, she twisted out of his grasp, regained her feet, and made to flee, nearly losing her balance; when he stood and came towards her, she pushed him away, eyes averted, both palms flat against his bloodied breast.
He staggered back, one step, two; then, steadying himself, he stepped forward again and caught her by the shoulders. Confused and frightened, she exerted herself not to be seen—but to no avail.
“Whatever dreadful thing you believe yourself to have done, cariad, will be no less dreadful, being hidden.” He spoke so mildly, so reasonably, that onc
e more she took heart; and then she saw again, in her mind’s eye, the plunging branch, the spreading blood . . .
“No,” she said, denying—what, she hardly knew. “No, no . . .”
“Sophie!” A new voice, frightened, urgent; the sound of rapid footsteps against stone, away down the unfamiliar corridor in which they stood. Gray’s hands dropped away from her face; she felt rather than saw him straighten into tense alertness, gazing over her head to locate the speaker. Turning to follow his gaze, Sophie had a vague impression of dark hair, a white face, a rumpled green gown—
“Joanna?” she whispered, incredulous, as the apparition flung itself upon her.
Joanna it was, miraculously unscathed, and in the same breath berating her sister and thanking all the gods that she yet lived. Half strangled by the younger girl’s frantic embrace, Sophie closed her eyes and returned it in grateful silence.
Joanna released her at last and, looking from her face to Gray’s, seemed to take in their wretched state. “What has happened out in the courtyard?” she demanded. “You are all over blood! They have not . . . they have not won? There was so much shouting and running about—but then I heard Sophie singing—and then more shouting—and the most dreadful noise . . .”
Sophie blinked. “I—I hardly know—”
“Sophie,” said Gray urgently, turning her to face him and clasping her shoulders with both hands. “You will be well, now?”
How am I to answer that question? She nodded, feeling dazed, and clung tighter to Joanna’s hands.
“Joanna, look after your sister,” Gray commanded. “Both of you, stay here. I shall be back directly.”
And without another word to Sophie, he strode off in the direction of the courtyard.
“He has gone without his coat,” said Joanna, hefting the mass of deep brown velvet. “You had best put it on; you are shivering.”
“Jo.” Sophie sat quite still as her sister draped the coat again about her shoulders. “Jo, I have remembered something dreadful . . .”
* * *
Quite what he had expected to see on reentering the courtyard, Gray hardly knew. There had been time enough, at any rate, for the interrupted rite to come nearly to its end, for the first sight to meet his eyes was that of the King—flanked by three smaller figures that must be his sons, and two larger ones whom Gray could not identify—preparing to add the crowning tribute to the haphazardly reassembled heap on the altar.
For a moment Gray could only think how odd it was that His Majesty should choose to finish his prayers before addressing the other, more urgent demands upon his notice. But though the traitors had spoken with malign intent, in urging that he let nothing prevent him from fulfilling his obligations, they had also spoken truth: It would be a poor sovereign indeed who placed his innocent subjects in jeopardy by slighting the gods.
The final invocation drew to a close; the broken cake of wheat, oats, and barley was piled atop the rest. After a brief, silent consultation, one figure detached itself from the group round the altar, to return bearing a torch borrowed from a passing steward.
Gray squinted through the smoke, at once fascinated and perplexed, as the King hefted the crackling torch and cried aloud the Latin words that meant, Grant that I may lead my people another year in prosperity and peace, and set the heap of offerings alight.
“May the gods grant it.” Gray spoke the response by instinct, only then remarking other voices murmuring the same hopeful words. The courtyard, so apparently empty, in fact hummed with quiet industry. Healers moved with steady purpose among the injured and those suffering from exhaustion and nervous strain; stewards and footmen gathered the debris of revel and calamity, slowly restoring that ravaged place to its accustomed sobriety. Guardsmen manned the gates to gardens and ballroom; even the gateway through which Gray had emerged was, he now discovered, flanked by two large and formidable men-at-arms.
He wondered for some moments that they should have failed to challenge him, before at last recollecting the charm he yet wore.
Though the stewards did their best, they had no means to dispel the haze that filled the air, and which the light of the rekindled torches and the smoke of the burnt-offerings were every moment increasing; worse, at the eastern end of the courtyard, where a gate gave onto the Palace gardens, a late-autumn mist crept in from off the river. Already the altar and its attendants had all but vanished from Gray’s sight; around the circumference of the courtyard, guardsmen were now indistinguishable from statues. There was, to his relief, no sign of Professor Callender or any of his confederates, but to find those he sought began to seem a daunting task indeed.
“Your pardon,” he mumbled, half-stumbling over a man in healer’s robes who knelt beside a weeping noblewoman. The healer raised his head, surveyed Gray incuriously, and, without a word, returned to his task.
Gray wandered among the groups of deflated revellers, every one a stranger to him, until he began to despair. He was nearly halfway across the courtyard, as best he could judge, when his ears caught at a fragment of familiar speech and, turning abruptly, he beheld at last one of the objects of his search.
Not dead—no longer even insensible—Mrs. Wallis sat composedly upon a stone bench, conversing with the healer whose fingers probed the impressive bruise on her temple. “Mr. Marshall!” she greeted him, smiling.
Having assured himself repeatedly that he would certainly find her safe and well, Gray was unprepared for the magnitude of his relief—the more so because it was only on Sophie’s account, and Joanna’s, that he had sought her to begin with. For his own part, he was so angry that he cared not whether she lived or died, but to have brought them such ill tidings . . . No, it did not bear thinking of.
“And what,” Mrs. Wallis inquired, “have you done with Mrs. Marshall?”
Gray blinked. “Oh!” he said, after a moment. “She is . . .” He pointed vaguely, unable to get his bearings in the thickening haze. Then, indignantly, “She is terribly frightened. You must come to her at once, and show her that you are not dead—”
“Marshall!—is that you? Quid agis, Marshall?”
Gray turned towards the voice, narrowing his eyes to no avail, and at the same time taking a firm hold of Mrs. Wallis’s elbow. This precautionary gesture, even as he made it, struck him as slightly foolish—but with Mrs. Wallis one never knew. “Magister?” he called. “Satin bene istic tibi? I am here, and I have found Mrs. Wallis, but—”
Master Alcuin loomed quite suddenly out of the smoke and mist and reached up to clap Gray on the shoulder. “I am exceedingly glad to have found you,” he said. “I made sure you had moved this way, but in this gods-accursèd mist . . .” Then looking about him, he demanded, “And Miss Sophie? She is safe? Where have you left her?”
“Just inside the south gate, and I shall take you to her. But I beg you will hurry, for”—with a wave of his hand at Mrs. Wallis—“I have news that ought not to be delayed. And, while we go, you must tell me—where are the Professor and his friends? They have not—”
“They are made prisoners; His Majesty ordered their arrest,” said Master Alcuin. “I fear, however, that we shall be next. A moment only, and I shall tell you all—” And turning, he called out, “Kergabet! This way, if you please—I have found them!”
There was a sound of hastening footsteps, and Sieur Germain appeared behind Master Alcuin, relief writ plain on both their faces.
“Ah!” Sieur Germain’s nod of satisfaction took in Mrs. Wallis as well as Gray. “Well met, madame. Now, let us make haste—”
Then his face went stiff and wary, his gaze focused on something beyond them. Gray turned to look—still holding fast to Mrs. Wallis’s arm—and beheld a guard captain and a quartet of guards.
One of the guardsmen peered at them and said, “I do recognise those two, sir: the tall one, and the little old man. I cannot vouch for the others.”
“Very well.” The guard captain surveyed them wearily. “They are all in it together, I daresay. You, you, and you”—nodding at Gray, Sieur Germain, and Master Alcuin in turn—“I arrest you in the name of His Majesty the King.”
Almost before he had finished speaking, each of them had a guardsman looming at his shoulder.
“I must protest, Captain,” said Sieur Germain. “What offence have we committed?”
“Disturbing the peace,” said the guard captain, wooden-faced. “‘Arrest them all, and let this appalling mess be sorted out in the morning,’ His Majesty said. I hope, gentlemen, I may rely upon you to consider your own dignity?”
“That other lot carried on most dreadful,” Gray’s hulking young guardsman confided, sotto voce. “M’lady was in a great taking, for—”
“Reynolds!” At his captain’s stern look, Reynolds shut his mouth with a snap.
“Now then,” said the captain, and his little troop was in the act of forming up its prisoners to be marched away, when out of the mist a firm, commanding voice said, “Captain Prichard, a moment, if you please.”
A moment later there emerged, flanked by another pair of guardsmen, none other than the King himself.
“My daughter,” he said, addressing the prisoners. “You will take me to her—at once, if you please. By all the gods, if she has come to any harm—”
* * *
“The wind . . . you made the wind blow?” said Joanna, wide-eyed, when Sophie had finished her tale. “I had thought . . . But I hardly know what I thought. Foolish things. The Mother Goddess, protecting Mama, or—”
Astounded by this reaction to her miserable confession, Sophie caught her sister by the shoulders: “Do you tell me that you have known, all these years, how Mama died, and said never a word about it?”
Joanna shrugged and looked away. “I did not know it was to be such a secret,” she said. “Of course Father and Mrs. Wallis told a different tale, but I did not think you could believe them, any more than I did; and you dreamt of it so often, you know, that I thought—”
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