“I know. I feared this possibility might distress you. Remember, I’m not certain that you slew her. Your creation of the dragon illusion, however, proves you have sufficient magical power to do so, and the circumstances indicate a strong probability that you did. One who possesses such power cannot be allowed to walk about in ignorance of it.”
Ignorance sounded wonderful. Mute, Miranda shook her head.
A rustle of silken skirts, then the scent of lavender, and Arabella knelt beside her. The older woman put an arm around her. “Weep if you like, child. I know you grieve her death.”
This shock stabbed too deeply for tears. If she accepted Arabella’s offer of comfort, was she accepting the power to kill? Miranda sat rigid.
“I wanted—I hoped to become a healer,” she managed. “Like my mother.”
“You still can be.” The older woman squeezed her arm lightly and rose. “You see now why we must bring your skills under control without delay. Come, let’s try a scrying. Something that’s happening now would be easiest to summon.”
Miranda’s hands shook. She locked them together in her lap. Dully, she stared at the fire.
“Miranda.” Arabella’s firm tone broke into her daze. “Reach out to the fire and summon an image.”
Miranda turned to the flames. Lucy, she thought, struggling against the cloud of guilt on her soul. Nothing happened.
“Try harder. I can’t feel your power.”
Miranda took a deep breath and tried again, pushing magic toward the flames. Still nothing.
“Better,” Arabella said. “Again.”
They tried for almost an hour, but Miranda failed to summon anything in the flames, even with Arabella’s help. Through her mind, again and again, ran the image of Mistress Smith’s limp form.
At last, the dowager countess said, “We’ll stop for a while. I think the news has disturbed you even more than I feared. Rest for a bit. We’ll try again before supper.”
Miranda nodded wearily and rose. “Yes, Arabella.” She rose and started for the door.
She had nearly reached it when Arabella said, “It may help you, Miranda, to see what you may have done as good for Mistress Smith even if it’s troublesome for you. While you rest, consider the good someone with your power might do.”
Miranda could only pick at her food during the noon meal, which Patience had brought to her in her chamber. Afterward, she sat by the fire, watching the flames without seeing them. Despite having donned her cloak, she couldn’t seem to get warm.
As it had for hours, her mind turned around and around the same thought like a spinning wheel on its hub. She might have killed an innocent woman. Arabella had presented the information as possibility, not as certainty, but it seemed more likely to be true than not.
If she had, it would have been a mercy. Must have been. But still murder.
Could any number of healings make up for that? Assuming she mastered the skill one day?
Someone tapped on her door. She jumped but didn’t answer. Perhaps whoever it was would assume she slept.
The knock sounded again, harder. “Miranda,” Arabella’s voice said.
She took a deep breath that did nothing to steady her. “Come in.”
The older woman opened the door and stepped inside. Silhouetted against the lights in the corridor, she looked even more imposing than usual.
“Why are you sitting in the dark, child?”
In the dark? Outside, thunder rumbled, and the churning clouds blocked the daylight. “I didn’t notice that it was dark.”
“I imagine not.” Her teacher shut the door and, with a wave of her hand, lit the candles in the sconces. “Your feelings do you credit, Miranda, but you mustn’t let them overwhelm you.” She seated herself on the opposite side of the hearth.
“How can I not?”
“You were desperate to help that woman somehow. At such times, one does what one must. What one can.”
“Even if it’s wrong?”
“Would it have been, to grant a dying, tormented woman a merciful end? Is that wrong?”
“My father would’ve said so.” Miranda hesitated. “Milady—Arabella—what would you have done?”
The older woman shook her head. “I can’t say. It’s possible, with skill, to induce a sort of unconsciousness in another person though few of us possess that knack.”
With a sigh, she added, “I might have tried to do that. If I couldn’t, I don’t know whether I would have slain her. I’ve never faced that choice. I do know that power such as yours must have the restraints that come with training. So we’re going to continue your lessons.”
“I’d really rather not, just yet.”
“Of course you don’t want to try again, for now you fear your magic. All the more reason to control it. Come, Miranda. Sit up, look at the fire, and face your destiny.”
The argument made too much sense to ignore. Miranda squared her shoulders. “What shall I do?”
“I think you held back your power earlier.” After a moment, Arabella said, “Let’s try a new exercise. Move your chair closer to mine, so you’re facing the hearth.”
When Miranda had done so, the older woman said, “Take my hand.”
Miranda complied, and Arabella said, “Now I’ll summon an image, and I want you to feel what I do.” An image appeared in the flames, Richard and Jeremy sitting in the library.
“What do you feel?” Arabella asked.
“Nothing, I’m afraid.”
Patiently, Arabella said, “Extend your perceptions until you can feel mine. Open your senses and then try to reach farther. Close your eyes if it helps.”
Miranda shut her eyes and opened her mind. The ticking of the mantel clock and the crackling of the fire grew sharper. She reached outward, and her power brushed someone else’s. As it had when she’d tried with Richard, it created a tingling at the nape of her neck.
“Very good,” Arabella murmured. “Now trace my power and align yours with it.”
Miranda tried, but the tingle vanished.
“Don’t try so hard. Let the magic flow.”
Flow? Trace? There was something ... like that?
“That’s it,” her teacher breathed. “Hold your power there and open your eyes.”
Miranda obeyed. The image in the flame showed clearly. Richard and Jeremy sat in chairs by the library hearth, talking. Sipping ale.
The tingle faded. The image flickered.
“No,” Arabella snapped. “Hold it steady.”
The sense of other power faded, yet the image in the flame held. Miranda caught her breath. Was she doing that?
The older woman released her hand. “Now think of what you’d like to see.”
The image wavered. Faded. Lucy, Miranda thought, straining. Nothing happened.
“I’ll help you,” Arabella murmured. “Joining my magic with yours will more than double what each of us wields, but I’ll withdraw mine as soon as you summon an image. The only way to learn control is on one’s own.”
The tingle on the back of Miranda’s neck grew stronger, as though someone were prodding her there. Her friend’s face appeared in the flame. Lucy smiled, chatting with the scullery lad.
The tightness in Miranda’s chest eased. This was a small step, nothing that could hurt anyone. Mayhap her fears of doing accidental damage had been exaggerated. As Arabella had said, she’d been desperate at the hanging.
Miranda glanced at the older woman. “That’s Lucy, my friend.”
“Good. Now hold it steady.”
The prodding sensation faded. Miranda reached for the image.
“Steady, child. You’re losing it.”
The image died. No!
Miranda reached, throwing her perceptions outward. The image flickered. Turned nightmarish purple-gray with swirling mists. Her heart leaped into her throat.
“Hold,” Arabella urged her. “Stay with it.”
The mists thinned. A dark-haired man lay crumpled on the ground, his swe
at-damp shirt clinging to his shoulders. Around him darted ghostly shapes with ghastly faces, some with gaping wounds and others with no flesh.
He curled his arms over his head, as though to fend them off, but they rushed toward him. Their claws raked his back, opening bloody welts. His body jerked as though in pain.
The man was Richard. Miranda couldn’t have said how she knew, but she was certain, even though his arms covered his face.
Her chair crashed backward as she shot to her feet. “I can’t—can’t stop it.”
“Let it go.” Arabella stepped in front of her. “Miranda. Look at me.”
She couldn’t. Power surged through her, a link from somewhere else to her head and then to the fire.
“Make it stop,” she panted, heart pounding.
Arabella yanked the bell pull, then rushed into the corridor. “Fetch Lord Hawkstowe at once,” she ordered someone, her voice sharp with command. She hurried back into the room.
Power surged against the vision. Miranda scarcely felt it. In the flames, the horrifying torment continued. Richard writhed, helpless against it.
Then he stood before her, his face real and solid. “Look at me,” he ordered.
“I am.” But she couldn’t shut the vision from her mind. It lay over his face like thin, colored glass.
His hands wrapped around both of hers. “Grandmère, stand with me. Jeremy, douse it.”
His grandmother stood beside him, an arm around Miranda’s shoulders. Power surged into Miranda’s mind, a wall inching up between her and the hearth. In her mind, silver flickered against the fire, smothering it. As the sense of it ebbed, so did the strength in her knees.
Supporting her with one arm, Richard righted her chair. She sank into it, suddenly cold and queasy.
He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her. “Breathe slowly. Deeply,” he ordered. He knelt by her chair and drew her against him. Over his shoulder, he said, “Jeremy, you know what to mix?”
“I’ll raid your grandmother’s herbs, if I may.”
Minutes dragged by. Shivering, Miranda huddled in Richard’s embrace while he rubbed her arm steadily. The warmth of his body and the faint bay leaf scent of his garments were comforting.
“You can’t—” Her teeth chattered. “You—I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Don’t worry about it now. Just breathe.” Gently, he brushed her hair off her brow.
“But—I think—you might be in—in danger.” Her teeth clacked together so hard that they hurt.
“The flames do not lie.” Arabella spoke quietly, though worry shadowed her eyes. “Still, future scrying shows only possibility, not certainty. Richard—”
“Later for that,” he insisted. “Ah, Jeremy.”
Holding a goblet, Jeremy’s hand moved into her vision. “Drink it down,” he ordered. “Quickly, so as not to taste it.”
Her shaking hands banged the goblet against her teeth. Richard cupped his hand around hers and guided it to her mouth.
“Quickly,” he repeated. “Jeremy believes in nasty medicine.”
He truly did. The bitter, acrid taste made her stomach churn, but she would drink anything to stop the shivering.
Fighting the urge to gag, she passed the cup back.
Richard stroked her hair again, the touch soothing. “That’s it. Breathe.”
Slowly the shivering subsided, and she fought the temptation to burrow into his hold.
“What was that drink?” she asked, straightening.
Richard released her but remained kneeling by her chair, his face grave.
“Herbs and magic,” Jeremy said. “Your power escaped your control. Unpaced, it drained you and trapped you in the vision. The herbs will let you rest and recover.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Of course.”
The earl still knelt beside her. “Jeremy brought interesting news. We’ll share it with you, and then you should sleep for a while.” He glanced at his friend.
“But we should talk about that vision.” Miranda insisted. “It was awful, and it was about you.”
His eyes wintry, he said, “It can wait.”
Jeremy knelt to face her. “A friend of ours went to the Cottonian library, where Buck found the copy of the Croyland Chronicle he used. They had a number of monastic chronicles, but none from Croyland.”
“So it’s gone.”
“Yes,” Richard confirmed, grim-faced. “Now we must discover what became of it.”
Miranda awoke in her bed. Its yellow damask curtains hung open. Blinking, she stared at the matching canopy. She’d been in the chair by the fire. How—?
Fabric rustled in the corner, and Patience hurried to the bed. “How’re you feeling, mistress?”
“Better.” Tired, but not deathly ill. Or shivering, as she had been earlier.
“Milady said you might come down for supper if you like. The reverend is staying. Or y’can eat here.”
“I’ll go down.” The coverlet lay over her. Beneath it, she wore only her shift. “Who undressed me?”
“Milady and me. Are you sure you’re feelin’ well, mistress?”
“Yes. Thank you.” How mortifying to have caused so much trouble. “I’ll dress for dinner.”
“His lordship said you fainted. I’m glad you’re better.”
“So am I. Thank you.” His lordship? That could only mean Richard, but it made sense. Arabella couldn’t have carried her to the bed. And they’d given the UnGifted maid, who couldn’t know the truth, a logical explanation.
Patience dressed her and tidied her hair. Miranda wiped her own face, and the cold water revived her a bit.
She opened the door to go downstairs. When Patience followed, Miranda said, “I’ll be fine, Patience, I assure you.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Richard stepped into view, as though he’d been waiting against the wall near the door. “I’ll escort you to dinner.”
A polite nod dismissed Patience.
Such thoughtfulness was part of the reason she liked him far too much. “That’s kind, but I don’t want to trouble you further.”
“It’s no trouble.”
They walked a few paces in silence. “You were very brave today,” he said.
“I didn’t feel brave. I fell asleep in the chair.”
He smiled. “Yes, but you did it without hysterics. Which I do appreciate. How do you feel?”
Though his smile made her pulse skip, she summoned a casual tone. “Much better, thank you. I apologize for all this fuss.”
“Pray, don’t. Everyone hits a rough patch in training.”
“If that was a rough patch, I’d hate to see a serious problem.” She hesitated. “Richard, about that vision—”
“We won’t discuss it.”
“But if you’re in danger, we must.”
He stopped, staring into her eyes. “I know what it portends,” he said, his face grim, “and talking about it won’t help. Besides, it may not come to pass.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “As you wish.” If he knew, he’d been warned, and he likely wouldn’t welcome her prying.
His expression softened into one of concern. “On another point, you must let me know if you feel any loss of focus or if you have another vision you cannot control. They’re dangerous. It’s better to cause a fuss by asking for help than to combat them alone.”
“I believe you, but I don’t like asking for help. I cling to what my father called arrogant pride.”
Richard’s eyes met hers steadily. “Sometimes only arrogant pride, a stubborn refusal to give up, keeps us standing.”
He was talking about more than magic. The depths of his eyes held pained understanding of the desperation that made hope a mean joke and stubbornness a lifeline. Oh, she knew that feeling.
Softly, she replied, “Very true, my lord.”
He held her gaze a moment longer before he said, “Let’s go to dinner, then.”
The impersonal mask dropped over
his face again and remained there while they walked through the house. Still, Miranda found herself unable to forget those few seconds when she and he had shared perfect understanding.
That moment owed nothing to magic and all to who the two of them were. Thus it became doubly precious.
When the time came, leaving here would be very difficult, but necessary. No matter what his grandmother said about magic compensating for rank, no earl could develop a serious interest in a serving maid.
“Grandmère told me of your discussion about the hanging and of your lesson before that final vision. I understand why you’re distressed. I’m sorry for the shock it gave you.”
“Thank you. Do you have any advice for me?”
“I can add nothing to what she told you, but we agreed that you should have lessons in magical healing. She has a teacher in mind for that, and when Jeremy has time, he’ll instruct you in the magical use of herbs. No one knows more about that than he does.”
“I’m grateful. That’s kind of him.” Especially since he scarcely knew her. And such lessons would take her closer to her dream of being a healer like Mother.
At the dining parlor doorway, the earl paused. “One warning. Once tapped, power such as you displayed today grows ever stronger. It can be lethal, so learning to control it is imperative, but don’t practice scrying alone. An incident such as today’s, if you had no help, could kill you.”
Chapter 11
“Richard. I know you can hear me, lad.”
The spectral voice grated in Richard’s ears. For once, though, Edmund might prove useful. Awakening, Richard sat up. The ghost had seated himself on the bed, leaning back against one of the foot posts. Its ornate scrollwork was visible through him.
“Sitting on the bed’s a bit encroaching, Edmund.” Richard raised a hand to forestall the ghost’s reply. “You’ve studied in the Pendragon library. Do you know how to splice time or whether someone living could do it? Can the dead?”
“So far as I know, no one can do it, though I can commune across time with our kinsmen.” Frowning, the ghost rubbed his chin. “Each of them resides in the years that made up his life. While I can’t go to them, when I think of them, or they of me, we see spectral images of each other in the fog. I suppose that’s a way of splicing time, though rather limited.”
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