The Herald of Day

by Nancy Northcott

  “If you need a wall blown out,” Anne said, grinning, “I’ll gladly have a go.” Her smile was so friendly that she didn’t seem to be bragging. Miranda smiled back.

  “We work together on magical problems,” Elspeth added.

  Arabella explained, “That’s what a magic circle does. Now. Let’s see how you handle a healing spell.”

  She walked to the cabinet across the room and removed a dagger in a tooled leather sheath. “We’ll use this in our lessons today.”

  Sarah held out a hand, and Arabella offered her the weapon, hilt first. Sarah drew the dagger, a simple one with a leather-wrapped hilt and a sleek steel blade.

  “I’ll cut my palm,” Sarah said. “Elspeth will heal it and show you how it’s done.”

  Miranda’s fists clenched in the folds of her skirt. “I saw a girl cut her hand in the kitchen once. Carving meat from a spit. It putrefied, and she—lost the hand. And left the inn.”

  Sarah waited until Miranda lifted her gaze from the blade to Sarah’s face. “We’ll teach you how to stop that from happening,” she said. Pressing her lips together, she drew the blade over the heel of her hand.

  When a thin, red line welled behind it. Miranda swallowed hard. Anne took the blade, wiped it, and magically cleaned it. “This purifies it as well,” she noted.

  Supporting Sarah’s hand in one of hers, Elspeth beckoned to Miranda. “Come stand by me so you can see. You’ll touch a finger beside one end of the cut, only one finger, as I’m doing now. Then envision it closing as you trace its line, feeding magic to the image.”

  As Elspeth’s finger moved, Miranda could feel the flow of healing magic over Sarah’s skin, the strands of it weaving across the wound like a shuttle through the strands of a loom. The wound on Sarah’s hand closed as though it had never been there.

  Sarah smiled at Miranda. “Now Elspeth will cut her hand, and you’ll try to heal it.”

  As Elspeth made the cut, Miranda’s stomach still felt jittery. She couldn’t seem to make the power flow.

  “Steady,” Elspeth murmured, smiling. “Call the power. Don’t try to yank it.”

  “May I use words?”

  “If you must, but it’s better if you don’t.”

  Miranda closed her eyes, the better to focus on the magic flowing within her. It should flow down her arm. To her hand. Yes. Now her finger tingled with it.

  She traced the cut, and it closed.

  “Well,” Arabella said, “you seem to have inherited your mother’s knack. I believe your success calls for celebratory tea. Ring for it, Miranda, will you?”

  The celebration was short-lived. The next lesson, scrying, produced no improvement.

  Unfortunately, that was the skill she needed most.

  Easy to feel superior, George decided, nursing his coffee, when one had great wealth. What was the harm in his staying at Hawkstowe House? It was his future home, after all. Now Richard had shunted him off to a mean little room above a tavern in the Strand. Ridiculous!

  The bustle of people going in and out of the coffeehouse at mid-day, the voices of patrons, and the rich smell of tobacco surrounded him, yet here he sat with nothing but coffee, and the penny and a half for it feeling rather dear. At least he had the long table, one of a dozen in the place, to himself for the moment.

  The rough plaster walls and beamed ceiling might’ve seemed cozy, but the place was altogether too busy with people who were no concern of his. As was the inn where Richard had booked him a room. Really, the place was full of tradesmen!

  But he couldn’t afford better with the paltry sum Richard allowed him.

  As heir to the Hawkstowe titles, he should have a larger allowance. Especially if he were to attract a wealthy wife to bring in fresh funds. Yet Richard, instead of seeing reason, acted as though he had a poker up his arse. He’d be furious when he discovered George had taken a silver tray today.

  Not that the money from selling it would last long. He’d intended to ask Grandmère for a loan, if she hadn’t been so busy.

  Frowning, he sipped coffee. Who the devil was that girl, anyway? He’d never heard of any Willoughby kindred.

  George sniffed. The girl didn’t matter. Nor did Richard. The tray came from his own chamber. He was entitled to it. Besides, he needed the money.

  Richard didn’t understand what losing a wife and child could do to man. If he did, he’d have come to Kendal Manor when Mary Rose and James had been so ill. Perhaps even brought one of his fancy London doctors. Who knew how they might’ve helped?

  “May I join you?” A harsh voice broke into George’s reverie.

  Squinting through tobacco smoke, George saw the newcomer’s burgundy velvet suit, thick lace foaming at the wrists and throat, and then the man’s face. It was square and amiable but with a hard set to the mouth. A long, light brown wig framed his face in curls.

  “Do I know you?” George asked.

  “By reputation, I imagine, and not a good one in your family. You’re George Mainwaring, aren’t you?” At George’s nod, the man seated himself on the opposite bench. “I’m Canby.”

  Canby. Lesser title of … Wyndon. “You’re a de Vere.” George shrugged. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. I’m here to have coffee and read the newspapers. May I order coffee for you?”

  “You’d buy for an enemy’s kinsman?”

  “As you said, we’ve no quarrel, have we?”

  Something felt amiss, but most men didn’t court one so down on his luck as George. Who was he to spurn a kind gesture? “I thank you,” he replied.

  “It’s the least I can do.” Canby beckoned to a serving wench. When she reached their table, he ordered more coffee for George and a dish for himself.

  George nodded gratefully. “What brings you to share a table with me?”

  Canby leaned forward. “In truth, Mainwaring, I need your help. Your cousin Richard has seduced away a young woman from my father’s lands in Kent, a former serving maid. He refuses to allow Father to meet with her, to be certain she is well. I want you to help arrange such a meeting.”

  Nothing. Nothing and more nothing despite an afternoon of trying. Seated in the library, Miranda bit her lip in frustration.

  Arabella said, “Let me help you. I’ll scry, and I want you to feel what I do. As we did before.”

  An image appeared in the flames, the staff working in the kitchen. “Extend your perceptions again. Reach outward with your magic,” the older woman said. “Close your eyes if it helps.”

  Miranda shut her eyes and opened her mind, reaching for her magic. Her power brushed Arabella’s, creating a familiar tingle at the nape of her neck. Blending with someone else’s power came more easily now.

  “Very good,” Arabella murmured.

  “Hold your power steady and open your eyes.”

  Miranda obeyed. The image died.

  No! She reached, throwing her magic at the flames in frustration. The image flickered. Died, then surged into one of a great city. London. The eastern part, she somehow knew. where she had once lived with Father and Johnny and Uncle Peter.

  But the buildings were different, brick or stone, not the wood and stucco she remembered from before the fire. These streets were not bustling but nearly empty. House doors were marked with the red X of the plague.

  Men with cloths over their lower faces stood guard outside. Stooped men, also covering their mouths and noses with cloths, pushed carts laden with corpses. Ahead and behind walked men carrying cylindrical, long-handled bells. Plague bells.

  A man seized a cat. Raised a knife—

  “No!” She sprang to her feet, and the vision winked out. Heart pounding, she turned to her teacher. “How can that be? There’s no plague now.”

  The older woman looked grave. “If you have the seer gift, you perhaps could scry the past, the plague of 1665, but aside from the fact that’s now impossible, the buildings are wrong.”

  “But—” Miranda swallowed hard.
“Was that ... the future?” Pray, no.

  “We must look again to find out.”

  Miranda drew a steadying breath. “Of course.”

  Men had killed stray animals during the plague, fearing them as carriers. Had sealed afflicted families into their homes to die. If she had even a slim chance to prevent that, nothing excused failing to try.

  “If plague is coming,” Arabella said, “the Gifted must lose no time preparing for it. Lives will depend on how many healers we have ready.”

  Chapter 12

  Spending an evening on frivolous pursuits seemed odd to Miranda when the weather was unpredictable, the farmers were suffering, and plague might break out. But as Arabella had replied when Miranda questioned her earlier, staying home would change none of that.

  “Besides,” the older woman had pointed out as they entered the Hawkstowe carriage, “staying in the good graces of the king and queen is never a waste of time.”

  So they’d come to Whitehall Palace. Their coach deposited them near a three-story gateway of flint and stone in a checkerboard pattern. It had two eight-sided turrets, and terra cotta medallions adorned them and the face of the gate. Despite her best efforts, Miranda found herself gawking.

  From the gateway, their group made their way to the Great Hall, on the far side of the palace. Richard had led the way without ever needing to ask a footman to direct him. He must have come here often.

  In the ornate Great Hall, they watched a play, with dancing, about the need for a monarchy. The king had even danced with the players. Then the Master of Revels had announced dancing in the banqueting house.

  The banqueting house was magnificent, with gilding on the ornate ceiling that outstripped anything Miranda had ever imagined. The chamber was ablaze with sweet-smelling beeswax candles set in sconces and crystal chandeliers lighting the ceiling murals. In the center of the floor, the bejeweled peerage of England bobbed and stepped in time to the music.

  For this one evening, she could mingle with these titled, wellborn guests, but she could only pretend to belong among them.

  “I’m still not certain I should have come,” she whispered to Arabella.

  “Nonsense, my dear. I told you, none will gainsay our honest claim of kinship.” The older woman smiled. “Besides, you shouldn’t pass up the chance to see the king and queen.”

  Seeing them was all very well. Meeting them, if Miranda was lucky, would not happen. Despite Arabella’s careful instruction, her throat seemed more likely to close in the royal presence than to push out the proper words.

  She peered around the lovely room. Father disapproved of the frolicking court, but it didn’t seem as bad as he’d said gossip painted it. The men and women behaved perhaps too familiarly, touching each other’s faces and bodies, but not to the point of licentiousness.

  Among the women, only she and Arabella wore necklines with any claim to modesty, and hers pushed her breasts up rather more than she was used to. Clad in emerald satin with cream lace petticoats, part of her new wardrobe, Miranda had trouble believing she could look so fine. Her new shoes, her first with heels, still felt teetery, but she’d avoided accidents so far.

  Harder to accept was her hair, now pulled into a bun at the back of her head and gathered into two fashionable clusters of curls on the sides with a fringe across her brow. She felt very unlike herself.

  Richard smiled down at her, making her pulse skip. “Do you dance, cousin?”

  In genuine regret, she shook her head. Dancing with him would be such a pleasure. “I never learned. My father thought it sinful.”

  How polite of him to look disappointed. Clad in blue satin with a smallsword at his side and with his dark hair not covered by a wig, he cut a dashing figure. He could likely have any woman here as his partner.

  The candles’ heat and scent mingled with the various floral and musky perfumes worn by the guests crowding the chamber. The air felt more oppressive than a July midday in the heart of London.

  “Excuse me,” Richard said. “Cabot’s over there. I’ll invite him to join us.”

  Arabella tugged Miranda’s elbow gently. “The queen wishes to meet you.”

  “The queen? But why?”

  “She meets all the young ladies who come to court.” The older woman leaned closer. “To see if they’re potential rivals.”

  “How could someone compete with the queen?”

  “By becoming the king’s mistress.”

  If half the rumors were true, many women had done that. How awful that the queen had to deal with rivals under her very nose.

  Arabella led the way to one end of the long chamber. On a low dais, the queen sat with brightly dressed women around her. Small and dark, she had prominent teeth and a long nose.

  “The king once described Her Majesty as having excellent eyes and an agreeable face,” Arabella whispered. “She shows to better advantage since giving up the heavy use of cosmetics.” She drew Miranda to a halt some half a dozen feet from the queen’s party.

  A bewigged man in an ornate suit of pale green satin, with frothy lace billowing at his cuffs and throat, stepped forward. “Your Majesty, here are the Dowager Countess of Hawkstowe and her cousin, Mistress Willoughby.”

  Arabella sank into a deep curtsey, and Miranda followed suit. All that practice walking in her new shoes was serving her well.

  “You may rise,” the queen said.

  Arabella led Miranda forward. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”

  “Good evening, milady.” Queen Catherine’s dark eyes flicked over Miranda. “Mistress, how do you like our court?” The elongated vowels of her Portuguese accent gave her speech a charming lilt.

  “It’s beautiful, Your Majesty. But overwhelming.” Miranda smiled apologetically. “Rather grand for the likes of me.”

  Arabella leaned forward and quietly said, “Mistress Willoughby is of modest parentage, Majesty. And modest virtues.”

  Comprehension flickered in the queen’s eyes. She smiled slightly. “Welcome to London, mistress.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “A good evening to you both.” Queen Catherine nodded, ending the interview.

  Arabella curtsied again. Miranda followed suit. Rising, they backed away. As they blended into the throng again, Miranda said, “She seemed very pleasant.”

  “Because she now knows you won’t try to bed the king.” Arabella frowned. “He’s the most amiable of men, but really! No man should flaunt his mistresses and their bastards before his wife. And while a man should certainly support his get, giving them all titles is a bit much.”

  Miranda blinked. “He gives them all titles?”

  “Yes. Here comes Lord Trentford,” Arabella said softly. “He’s not only Gifted but reliable, a good connection for you to form.”

  A broad-shouldered man of medium height broke out of the crowd. His long, brown wig framed a genial, fortyish face. Smiling, he greeted Arabella as the now familiar feeling of recognition tingled at Miranda’s nape.

  “This is Mistress Willoughby, our cousin,” Arabella told him, stressing the last word.

  Comprehension flickered in his eyes, and his smile became warm instead of merely polite. “Cousin,” he said, inclining his head to Miranda as she curtsied.

  “How do you like London?”

  “Well enough, my lord. I was modestly reared, so this is all very different from what I’ve known.”

  “Your origins don’t matter nearly so much, cousin, as where your Gifts can take you. Will you be staying in London long?”

  “That depends, my lord.”

  “We’re exploring possibilities,” Arabella said, smiling.

  Trentford nodded. “I expect you will find many doors open. Call upon me if I can be of service. Good evening to you both.”

  He turned away, and Arabella squeezed Miranda’s arm. “Excellent, my dear. Trentford is unfailingly courteous but not particularly inclined to extend himself. I believe you’ve caught his interest.”


  Miranda’s cheeks heated. “That seems unlikely to me.”

  “Then we must see that you meet more of the right people. That will convince you more effectively than anything I can say.”

  Frowning, the older woman added, “Alas that trying to straighten out all these changes is consuming so much time. We’ve little to spare until that’s put right again.”

  “By undoing whatever was done,” Miranda said. When Arabella nodded, Miranda added, “If all is undone, though, none of this will matter anyway. I likely won’t even know you.”

  Or her grandson. The realization hurt more than it should’ve. Dismayed, Miranda looked for him in the crowd.

  Richard stood across the room with a tall, broad-shouldered man who had his back to her. What were they discussing, that the earl scowled so?

  Richard glared as the Earl of Greenhold approached Grandmère and Miranda. “Od’s fish, must Grandmère present her to every lecher in the room? And where’s the king? If he’ll only make his entrance, I can present her, as Grandmère insists, and we can go home.”

  “You’d spoil her grand evening?” Above the rim of his goblet, Cabot’s gray eyes gleamed. “You’ll regret this ‘cousin’ tale your grandmother devised. Even if the lass looked like a sow, every unwed man in the room would still angle for a dowry from the Hawkstowe fortune. Not to mention the additional motives of the Gifted ones.”

  “I knew this was a bad idea.” A damnable one. Now he would have to fend off suitors, a distraction from the more important issue of the time change. All six of the Gifted peers in sight had wangled introductions, as had several unGifted.

  She deserved better than any of them.

  Cabot smiled, clearly enjoying Richard’s irritation. “Not to make matters worse for you, but I heard Castlemaine went in to see the king a short time ago. She wants something, rumor has it, so they’ll be a while.”

  “How pleasant for them,” Richard muttered. Lady Castlemaine was one of the royal mistresses, a prime favorite, and known for wheedling whatever she wanted out of the king. No matter how costly. Unfortunately, her wheedling tended toward the carnal and thus consumed a great deal of time.