Lessons After Dark

by Isabel Cooper

  “It’s nothing, really. I’ve just been writing for a while.”

  Gareth stepped around the desk to her side. “They do pay me for something. Give me your hand. I promise you’ll have it back afterward.”

  The implied challenge did the trick. She extended her hand quickly and held very still as Gareth took it. He might have said something about that, but the feeling of her small, smooth palm beneath his thumb was more distracting than he’d thought. Flesh and blood, he told himself. Nothing out of the ordinary here. No reason warmth should spread from their linked hands; no reason to relish each circle his thumb made on her palm.

  “So,” he said, “my connection to Apollo might not be just a symbol?”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Brightmore’s voice was a little distracted, a touch breathless. “Perhaps. Or Airmed for the Celts, or beings, perhaps a being, using those names.” Gareth pressed harder for a moment, and her eyelids drifted half-closed. “None of it’s very clear yet. Probably, um, not Raphael, not if we’re talking descent.”

  “Probably not,” Gareth agreed. He’d stepped a little forward at some point, he noticed now, and he was looking down at the top of her head. There were strands of red and blonde in her chestnut hair, and a few that were almost black. His fingers moved down to her wrist, tracing lines and then circles over the tense muscles there. “Did you come up with this theory yourself?”

  Mrs. Brightmore shook her head slowly. “No, I—had it explained to me. And then I studied considerably.”

  She had done that. There was a callus on her right forefinger where she would hold a pen. There were the ink stains. There were the books. “Ah.”

  Gareth thought if he reached out his free hand he could just touch the side of her face, tilt her chin up, perhaps, so she was looking at him with those rich brown eyes. Her skin would be like silk beneath his fingertips.

  Mrs. Brightmore’s breath might have been quicker now, or Gareth might simply have been noticing the way her breasts rose and fell. They were easy to notice. Even in her plain skirt and shirtwaist the woman had the sort of lush curves no man would find easy to ignore. Perhaps it was just his perception.

  All the same, under his fingers, he thought he felt the pulse in her wrist speed up. Mrs. Brightmore did look up at him then, and her eyes were dark. Her lips parted a little.

  “I think that should suffice for any further studying,” Gareth said. He dropped her hand and stepped back quickly. “I assume you have quite a bit of it ahead.”

  “Ah,” she said. In both distraction and acceptance, her tone was a mirror of Gareth’s from a moment before, only with slightly more surprise. Did she sound disappointed too? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to tell.

  “I won’t intrude on your time any longer,” he said, his voice thicker than he would have liked. He turned away and heard her take a breath.

  Fabric rustled.

  Gareth didn’t stay to hear any more.

  Chapter 10

  A pillar of shining mist rose from the center of the ballroom, thinner and prettier than the gray-brown fogs Olivia had become used to in London. Prettiness served no purpose, but because the mist was more transparent, she could easily see the two children who were standing within it. It was brighter around them too, as it siphoned off the energy that glowed like a second skin within them.

  “Michael,” Olivia asked, focusing on the boy’s face now and letting her other awareness recede a little, “how do you usually begin to make it rain?”

  “I go up to the clouds, in my head, of course, and—”

  She held up a hand. “Let’s start there. How do you do that?”

  Michael fell silent for a moment. Olivia let him think and switched her focus back to the flow of energy in the room. As she’d hoped, the patterns she’d chalked on the floor held the mist in place, and the mist was steadily but not too quickly conducting energy away from Michael and Elizabeth. Olivia could see its lower edges glowing as it transferred power away and grounded it harmlessly.

  Theoretically harmlessly, that is. She hadn’t ever read that grounded power in floorboards would be a problem, any more than it was for electricity. Hopefully neither the floor in the ballroom nor that in Elizabeth’s room would suddenly take a dislike to everything above it, turn to rubber, or start sprouting trees.

  She turned her attention back to Michael as he started talking again. “I think about what the clouds look like right then,” he was saying slowly, “and how they’re made, and then…it’s a little like talking to them, maybe? Not like a conversation. More like riding. You dig your heels in, and the horse knows it means ‘go.’”

  “All right,” said Olivia. “Elizabeth, is there anything in what Michael said you think you could use?”

  Elizabeth bit her lip and looked at the floor, tracing a pattern with the toe of one stockinged foot.

  All three of them had removed their boots on entering, Elizabeth and Michael following the habit Mrs. Grenville’s practice sessions had instilled, and Olivia because the thought of wearing boots across the smooth expanse of floor made her wince. The ballroom, with its gold-papered walls and its large windows framed by amber-colored drapes, was one of the rooms that still looked like it belonged in a well-appointed country house, and she found she wanted to keep it that way.

  “Maybe,” Elizabeth said, her forehead wrinkled, “if I think about how my power works? I know how gravity works, everyone does, so maybe if I think about that and then tell it to, um, stop working for me? A little?”

  “A little,” Olivia agreed firmly. “Michael, do you tell the clouds how much rain you want?”

  “Not so you could measure it,” Michael said, shrugging, “but a general sort of idea.” He looked over at Elizabeth. “Try and make a picture of what you want.”

  “Now?”

  Olivia nodded. “Now.”

  The girl closed her eyes. Her face was squinched up into a mask of nervous concentration, and Olivia could see the power inside her start dancing like boiling water. Teeth firmly set in her lower lip, she took in a deep breath—

  —and rose a foot in the air.

  “Well done,” Olivia said, not allowing Elizabeth time to get distraught. “Much more controlled than last time.” That was true. She’d risen, not shot up, and didn’t show any signs of going higher.

  “It’s more than I meant to move,” Elizabeth said, and she was doing a decent job of keeping her voice optimistic now too. “But it didn’t feel as…as downhill as usual.”

  “Right. You won’t, in here.” Olivia gestured around the room. “And once you’ve practiced a little in here, you’ll have more control outside. Do you think you could move? Fold your legs, for instance?”

  “I…maybe?” Slowly and uncertainly, Elizabeth crossed her legs in front of her tailor-fashion. She folded her arms too, for either symmetry or self-protection, and floated like one of the djinn from the Arabian Nights, if djinni had worn bloomers and blouses and had twin braids of red hair.

  Mr. Hawkins and Lyddie would’ve given their eyeteeth for someone like Elizabeth, Olivia thought. She would have done so herself. Her hardest evenings had been when she was up against a Child Prophet or Girl Medium. Back then, she hadn’t thought those girls had any power. Back then, she hadn’t thought anyone did.

  Now she wondered how many Elizabeths and Michaels had been among those children, and how many were still earning their living a step or two above sideshow exhibits. Had they looked down on women like Olivia, whose only abilities until three years ago had lain in swift talk and sleight of hand? Envied them for their control? Hated them, perhaps, as the reason people doubted them…or the reason people went to see them at all?

  Past is past, Olivia reminded herself. It had been one of Mr. Hawkins’s favorite sayings. You can’t live there, and it’s best you don’t visit too often.

  For a man without much education, he’d been remarkably wise.

  “Good,” she said quickly. “Now hold that as long as you can, and l
et me know if you feel yourself slipping. Michael, I want you to make it rain, but not too much. We’ve had enough in the past few days, I think.” She made a face, and the children, as she’d intended, laughed. “Just a shower and just over this part of the house.”

  “How’ll you be able to tell, ma’am?” Michael asked. “There’s only the one window. Unless—is there a spell so you can see two places at once?”

  “Probably, but I haven’t cast it. I’ll depend on your honor.”

  Also, it didn’t really matter whether Michael succeeded or not. The important thing right now was how the power drain affected his control.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, recitation-style, closed his eyes, and took a breath. Concentrating, he looked even younger than usual. Power began to move inside him, but much more gradually than it had in Elizabeth. A few bubbles surfacing rather than a full boil. Olivia watched his face through the mist and restrained a sigh when she saw a fading bruise on his left cheekbone.

  Olivia had glimpsed only a few of Mrs. Grenville’s practice sessions, but what she’d seen made her wince even in memory. Necessary, perhaps—probably, since neither of the Grenvilles seemed the sort who’d indulge in wanton cruelty—but certainly brutal. Part of her was even surprised Mrs. Grenville had forbidden boots during practice, given the resources at hand.

  Then again, as far as the students and their parents were concerned, broken bones probably crossed a line even if they could be easily mended. Mrs. Grenville seemed smart enough to realize that. Perhaps, too, she hadn’t wished to put an undue strain on Dr. St. John’s strength…or his patience.

  Olivia wanted to make a catty remark about his lack of either quality, in the privacy of her mind, but couldn’t quite make herself agree that he did lack them. She was no real judge of strength, either physical or magical. The only other natural talents she’d encountered were Michael, Elizabeth, and Dr. Gillespie, and they were all so different in form as to make comparison almost impossible.

  As for patience, she’d rarely seen Dr. St. John display anything but control. Even a few days before in the library, one couldn’t say he’d been impatient. Quite the opposite. Remembering, Olivia blushed and felt heat spreading to places lower on her body. The strength of the feeling was as surprising now as it had been at the time.

  She turned to face the closest window, looking out at the overcast sky and the half-built dormitories down the hill. No rain yet. Olivia watched for it, trying to compose herself as she did so.

  Olivia was no sheltered girl. She’d enjoyed the physical aspect of her marriage a great deal. That had been long ago, though, and memory faded. In the time since, she’d not become precisely a fallen woman, but she’d touched men and taken a few hands. There’d been the occasional spark, since neither her heart nor other parts were in the grave, no matter what Society thought was proper. There’d been nothing like what she’d felt with St. John’s fingers on her, as outwardly close to innocent as the contact had been.

  And what, exactly, had the man been playing at?

  Olivia didn’t believe for an instant he’d taken her wrist purely out of either duty or altruism. If he’d been trying to seduce her, he wouldn’t have stopped, certainly not so abruptly. A magician might have been using the contact to better target her in the future, but St. John had admitted he was no magician. Besides, irritating as he might be, she’d never thought he was a danger.

  The first fine drops of rain appeared on the window. As Olivia had requested, it was very light, almost a mist outside to match the one indoors. She turned back to face the children, fairly certain her face was its normal color again, and smiled approvingly. “Very nice, Michael. Is it more difficult than usual?”

  “A bit, ma’am,” Michael said, sounding more cheerful and less petulant than Olivia had come to expect from him. Energy was flowing steadily inside him. Not particularly quickly, but more so than it had been when he’d worked under normal circumstances. “It’s not too much trouble, though. I’m keeping it over this part of the house too.”

  “Well done, then,” Olivia said. She looked from him to Elizabeth, who was still sitting cross-legged in midair. The girl’s face was rigid with concentration, and her power didn’t flow as steadily as Michael’s. It seemed to stutter and skip on occasion. Even so she’d stayed about where she was, and that was a beginning.

  Olivia smiled at them. “Now,” she said, “I want you both to stop what you’re doing, as gradually as you can. Michael, let the rain stop, but don’t send the clouds away. Elizabeth, float back down to the floor. Then we’ll start the next exercise.”

  Chapter 11

  Despite the presence of an annoyingly beautiful confidence trickster, Gareth was beginning to like Englefield. He’d managed to get his office set up and the necessary paperwork dealt with, Simon was as amusing over port and cards as he had been in university days, and there were far worse things than spending a crisp autumn evening in the countryside with a bit of time on his hands.

  Balcony doors that suddenly opened were one of them. The sudden noise yanked Gareth away from contemplating the view. He didn’t flinch—he’d stopped doing that after a few weeks back in England—but he turned to regard the newcomer with no great joy.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Mrs. Brightmore. She spoke politely enough, but her set chin and narrowed eyes conveyed a different message: she had as much right to be on the balcony as he did, and what was he doing glaring at innocent passersby anyhow?

  Gareth considered adding her to his growing list of less fortunate things. Her past, her tone, and her presence on the balcony all argued for it. Her general competence argued against. Her figure, her eyes, and the intriguing curve of her lower lip could count for either side.

  “Have you seen Arthur?” she asked, pulling Gareth out of his internal debate.

  “Waite? No, not in the last hour or two.”

  Mrs. Brightmore frowned. “He didn’t show up for practice, Mrs. Grenville said. You’re the last person we’ve asked.”

  Gareth abruptly stopped thinking about the view—either one. “Who saw him last?”

  “William. It was after my class, a few hours ago. They were in their rooms. William left to see if he could get some bread and butter from the kitchen, and Arthur was gone when he got back. He didn’t think anything of it until practice.”

  Although Gareth hadn’t been to any of Mrs. Grenville’s practice sessions, he couldn’t imagine any of the students casually deciding to miss one. Still, he spoke lightly as he got to his feet. “He’s probably just gone down to the village and lost track of time.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping. All the same…” She glanced over toward the forest waiting beyond the gardens and buildings of Englefield. To Gareth, it looked damned uncomfortable. To a teenage boy, it might suggest adventure, or an afternoon of fishing. “We should take a look before dark. Accidents, you know.”

  “I know,” said Gareth.

  He followed Mrs. Brightmore back through the door and downstairs, noticing how stiffly she held herself. Worried, almost panicked, and trying not to show it. Doing a fairly good job too, Gareth thought, and dismissed the urge to reach out in some reassuring gesture or other. He was not in a position to offer comfort to this woman. He didn’t want to be. That was important to remember.

  Simon met them in the hall. “The servants are checking the house, and Joan’s gone down to the village,” he said, “since I know the forest best. St. John, sorry about the leg, but I think you’ll have to come with me in case the young idiot’s fallen down and hit his head. Mrs. Brightmore—”

  “I’ll keep an eye on the students,” she said, very calm. “Unless you think another magician would be helpful out there.”

  “I wish I knew,” said Simon. “‘I’m not as familiar with the forest as I’d like to be. But one of us should stay behind.”

  ***

  “At times like this,” Simon said as he and Gareth made their way down the path to the
forest’s edge, “I rather agree with those people who say the youth of England travel too much.”

  “I don’t think you could say Waite’s travelling,” said Gareth.

  “Not Waite. Me. Until a few months ago, I was at Englefield only for school holidays, and not always then. I don’t know a great deal about the forest myself. And”—an odd half smile crossed his face—“it’s a strange place, really. There are a bunch of standing stones in it, somewhere, nothing big enough to excite much comment, but I suppose we did have druids here in the old days. It’s…” He sought for a word, then spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

  “Strange?” Gareth suggested dryly.

  Simon laughed shortly. “Rather. How are you holding up?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Gareth said. He’d found a walking stick, which helped a bit. His leg would probably pain him that night, particularly if he had to use his power on Waite, but that happened. He’d had worse. “Don’t worry about me.”

  The forest didn’t seem particularly unusual when they entered it. The trees were the usual mix, red and gold leaves standing out against the darker evergreens. The grass was the usual faded gray-brown of autumn. The dirt was, well, dirt. None of the shadows moved.

  On the other hand, the place was large. A number of paths led away from theirs, and if Waite had come this way, he’d left no signs of his passing. “I’d rather not split up,” Simon said and sighed.

  “We need a bloodhound,” said Gareth.

  “Miss Woodwell could find something, but we don’t have much time before dark.” Simon frowned. “I hate to try divination without the right implements, but it looks as though I might have to. Do you—?”

  A branch cracked on the right-hand path. It sounded too loud to be wildlife, or to be the sort of wildlife one encountered on an English estate. “Hello?” Gareth raised his voice. “Is someone there?”

  A figure came around the bend. Tall and slim, with dark hair currently hosting several leaves. “Dr. St. John?” Waite asked. As he drew closer, Gareth saw his face was whitish green, and he seemed to have trouble focusing. “Mr. Grenville? I’m afraid I’ve gone a bit astray.”