Anth - Mistletoe & Magic

by Mistletoe

  "Yes, well, I can see how that would confuse you," Matilda peered down at the floor, then cleared her throat. "You were right that there is something amiss with them." She paused to clear her throat again. "They are not human."

  Matilda made a face. "Do you remember when you asked me if I had turned Lord Cheshire back into a man before he left? And I said, 'not to fear, he left as he arrived'?"

  Odel nodded with bewilderment.

  "Well, he left as a rat," Tildy admitted. Then, just in case Odel was misunderstanding what she was saying, she added, "He also arrived as a rat. All the lords who have filled Roswald these past two weeks— except for Lord Suthtun— were originally rats."

  Odel stood gaping at the woman, picturing the men in question. She was recalling the way they had scrabbled so quickly up the trees. Then she remembered the odd way they had of eating and how she thought it reminded her of something. Now she knew. Rats. She could actually picture them right now— eating. And as they ate they grew ears and whiskers. They were rats. All of them rats… And one of them, Cheshire had—

  "Oh, God," Odel breathed, her face paling and her eyes going round.

  "What is it?" Matilda asked with concern.

  "One of them kissed me!" she cried. She began scrubbing at her mouth a bit frantically. "Oh, yuck! Ick! Ptooey!"

  Matilda rolled her eyes, but allowed her a moment of such behaviour, then grabbed her hands impatiently to still them. "As I said," she repeated grimly, forcing Odel's attention back to her. "My dust cannot affect people— at least not their choices. God gave man free will; he would hardly supply me with dust to take that away. I can change the inside of the castle, I can turn ducks into maids, and rats into love-struck men, but I cannot make you love someone, or make that someone love you."

  Odel forgot about being kissed by a rat.

  "Then, Michelle—"

  Matilda nodded. "Lord Suthtun loves you."

  For a moment, joy suffused her face, then it was immediately replaced with regret. "Oh no! What have I done?"

  Nothing that cannot be undone," Matilda assured her. Her godmother stood up, grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the door. "Come with me."

  "Where are we going?" Odel asked as she was led from the room and up the hall.

  "You are going to straighten things out." Matilda announced firmly.

  "But how?" Odel cried as they reached and started down the stairs. "What can I say? I thought my aunt had cast a spell on you? He will think me mad."

  "You will come up with something." Tildy assured her, then paused at the bottom of the stairs. She glanced around before satifaction crossed her face. "Look."

  Odel followed her gesture to see Michelle standing in the doorway to the kitchens, talking to a servant. No doubt he was arranging for something to be taken to Eadsele.

  "Go to him," Matilda urged quietly, digging a small pinch of fairy dust out of her sack. She blew it in the general direction of Lord Suthtun. All at once, the doorway he was standing in was suddenly alive with mistletoe. "Kiss him. Tell him you love him. Make things right."

  Odel hesitated briefly, then swallowed, straightened and moved determinedly forward. She arrived at his side just as he finished with the servant. The girl retreated into the kitchen and Michelle turned toward the great hall, pausing when he found Odel in his path. She saw pain flash across his face, then it was gone, replaced by a smooth, emotionless facade.

  "Lady Roswald," he murmured formally. "Is there something you wished?"

  "Aye," Odel said huskily. "You."

  At his startled expression, she pointed upward.

  He glanced ulp, spotted the mistletoe and his mouth tightened. She knew he was about to reject her, so she refused to give him the chance. Stepping forward determinedly, she reached up on tiptoe, catching his tunic and tugged him down to her. Their lips met.

  It wasn't as easy as she had hoped. He did not melt into her embrace, did not take over the kiss and give his passion rein. Instead, he remained stiff and silent. Odel tried to coax some passion from him with her lips, but found it impossible.

  Tears stinging her eyes, she drew back slightly. She whispered, "I was wrong, my lord. Last night… I was afraid. But now I am more afraid of losing you. Please, my lord. I love you."

  Catching her upper arms, Michelle eyed her warily. "So you will be my wife?"

  "If you are sure it is waht you want," she said huskily. A smile blossomed on his lips.

  "Aye, I am sure," he told her quietly. "I love you too."

  Joy filling her face, Odel started to reach up on tiptoe again to kiss him, but he lowered his head, eeting her halfway. This time the kiss was mutual.

  A cat's hiss and a russtle of rushes distracted Odel and Michelle briefly from their kiss. They both glanced around in amazement as a pack of perhaps twenty rats fled through the open door of the keep and out into the cold winter day. Stranger, the long, thin cat that followed seemed less to be trying to catch them and more to be herding them away. Vlaster. It was a moment before Odel noticed that the great hall was decidedly empty of guests.

  "Where did everyone go?" Michelle asked with surprise when he saw where she was looking. He glanced toward Matilda.

  "Who, dear?" the woman asked innocently, not seeming to notice the panic growing on Odel's face.

  "Lords Beasley and Trenton and—"

  "Oh, my, well. They saw the lay of the land and retreated," Odel's aunt said sweetly. She arched an eyebrow at them. "Is there something you two wish to tell me?"

  Michelle hesitated and glanced down at Odel, the smiled widely. "Aue. We shall be married tomorrow." he announced. He glanced down at Odel when she nudged him in the stomach. "What?"

  "Tomorrow?" she asked pointedly.

  "Aye," he said, then looked uncertain. "You will marry me tomorrow, will you not, Odel? I vow I shall work very hard to make you happy. I shall tell you you are beautiful every morning, brush your hair every night, and tend to you ask kindly as I do my horse and my squire."

  Odel burst out laughing at the proposal, then hugged him tightly. "I could not have asked for a more romantic offer, my lord. Aye, I shall marry you."

  They had barely sealed the bargain with a kiss when Matilda released a husky sigh, then began bustling toward the door. "Well, that's that then. I am off."

  "What?" Odel pulled slightly away from Michelle. The woman had hounded her all this time to be wed, and now she wasn't even going to be present? "But tomorrow is Christmas. And I would like you to be there when we are married. Will you not stay for the wedding?"

  "Oh." Her aunt's expression gentled. "I shall be there, you may count on that. But in the meantime, I have much to do, my dear. Forty-nine to go, you know. Besides, you should spend christmas with Lord Suthtun's family. And marry at Castle Suthtun as well. If you leave now, you should get there in time for the feast.

  "But we could not leave Michelle's squire Aunt Matilda, you—"

  "His squire is much better, I understand, and more than healthy enough to make the journey." The words had barely left her mouth when Michelle's squire came bounding down the stairs, the very image of a healthy young lad. One could almost imagine he had never been ill.

  "Are you really all right, boy?" Michelle asked with a frown. The lad spotted him and hurried to his side.

  "Aye, my lord," Eadsele said, then he shook his head in bewilderment. "Only moments ago I felt weak and feverish, then as suddenly as it came on, my illness was gone. I feel right as rain."

  "There you are, you see?" Matilda called, gaily ignoring Odel's annoyed glance. She waved on the servants that came trundling down the stairs with Odel's baggage; apparently the woman had made them begin packing for her. "No reason at all for you to remain here alone through the holidays. Go on to Suthtun. His mother and sisters shall adore you, I promise. Why, by this time tomorrow you shall hardly recall me."

  "Oh, but—" Odel began, but whatever protest she would have given faded from her mind in a fit of sneezing. There seemed t
o be dust everywhere. The door closed behind Matilda and the last of her servants. Turning with confusion, Odel peered at Suthtun.

  Smiling, he pressed another quick kiss to her soft lips. "Come along. She is right. My mother and sisters shall adore you as much as I do."

  Odel was silent for a moment, then she smiled slowly. "But no more than I adore you."

  Laughing as Suthtun grabbed her hand, she ran with him toward the door and out into a whole new world.

  A Midnight Clear

  Lisa Cach

  Chapter One

  Woodbridge, Vermont

  December 1,1878

  Her breath misted before her, a faint drifting ghost in the cold night air. The train platform looked empty, illuminated by a yellow gaslight that was dim and soft against the winter darkness. All was quiet but for the hiss of the engine's steam and the rumbling of a freight door. Catherine stepped down from the train onto the wooden planks, her heeled shoes thudding on the hollow surf ace. She was used to the frantic rush of New York, and had forgotten the slower pace of home. Only a few others were disembarking at this station, already walking toward the exit, leaving her alone beside the blackened steel wheels.

  With each stop the train had made, each familiar place-name called out, her excitement had built, and she had peered blindly out the window at the depths of the night, searching vainly for some known landmark, restraining herself from telling the others in the carnage that this was where she was from, this was where she was born and raised. And here she was at last, standing on the planks of the Woodbridge platform, unable to believe she had finally arrived.

  "Catherine!" her father's voice called.

  "Papa!" she cried, her nearsighted eyes searching him out, and finding him at last, a figure that became clear as he moved toward her. She hurried to close the distance, the long back hem of her velvet skirt, with all its folds and flounces, dragging fashionably across the wood, the opening of her silk-and-mink coat flapping. She was showing unseemly enthusiasm, she knew, and Aunt Frances would not have approved.

  Her father caught her in a hug, enveloping her in the scents of wool and pipe tobacco, reminding her for a moment of her childhood. He patted her on the back, his broad hand over-strong in his enthusiasm, and then released her. He blinked rapidly, a suspicious sheen in his eyes.

  "Did you get something to eat? Was the trip comfortable?" he asked. "Did you have any problems switching at White River Junction?"

  "I'm fine, Papa, just tired. Two o'clock in the morning is a weary time for a train to arrive." Her original train had left New York at four in the afternoon, and she was stiff and sore from sitting on the poorly padded seats, her tight, elegant travel ensemble a constant reminder to sit straight and not lean back. She was exhausted, and the space between her shoulder blades ached with tension.

  "Your mother is waiting up, and I shouldn't be surprised if Amy is still awake as well," he said, leading her into the station, where porters would bring in her trunks. "Your visit is all Amy's been able to speak of for weeks."

  T've missed her."

  He glanced at her, the sheen still in his eyes. "We've missed you, too," he said, then looked away. "Porter!" he called, his voice loud in the quiet station, and went to fetch her luggage.

  "Good gracious, where did you get that?" Amy asked, staring with wide green eyes, the plumed purple hat in her lap forgotten. The young girl was sitting cross-legged atop her bedcovers, clad in a white nightgown.

  Catherine looked down at herself, at the red French corset and white silk chemise she'd just revealed by removing her bodice and camisole. "In Paris. There are dancers there who wear nothing but scarlet corsets and short petticoats, and they lift even those up to show their legs to the men."

  "You saw them?" Amy asked, incredulous.

  "Once. Aunt Frances thought it would be educational to go to such a dance hall show. She says that one can on occasion be daring if one is sure to behave like a lady whilst doing so. Of course, she also said it is even better if one can count on the silence of one's friends."

  "What was it like at the dance hall? Were there ladies of the night there?" Amy half-whispered, eyes widening on the forbidden words.

  Catherine laughed. "And what would you know of them?"

  "I would know much more if anyone thought I was old enough to discuss them."

  "You'd find them more sad than fascinating." She went to hang her bodice in the wardrobe. Talking with her younger sister was increasing the sense of unreality she felt, back in the room in which she had grown up. Amy in person was somehow different than Amy in letters, where Catherine had let her imagination fill in her sister's spoken intonation and expression. Was this Amy the same girl she had thought she had stayed close to through the mail? Even Mama had been altered, more gray in her hair, her cheeks a little fuller than Catherine remembered, her figure a little heavier. It was a surprise to realize that her family had been living their own lives while she had been away, growing up and growing older.

  "So there were such women there?"

  "I don't know for certain. Aunt Frances forbid me to gawk, and it was too dark and smoky to see much, anyway."

  Amy's eyes went once again to the corset. "Mama doesn't have anything like that."

  "Do you like it?" Catherine asked, striking a pose with one hand on her hip, the other lifting her skirts to show a bit of stockinged leg.

  "Do If I got my first corset this year, you know, but it's a plain thing, all white cotton without any trim or lace or anything, I don't even need it yet," she complained.

  Catherine smothered a smile. "You wouldn't remember, but I was the same shape as you at thirteen. In two years you won't recognize yourself." She remembered as well her own young fascination with pretty under things, and how they had seemed both forbidden and unattainable, things that belonged to a very adult world. In her trunks was a pink, beribboned corset for Amy, and a chemise and drawers "combination" trimmed with Valenciennes lace. They were innocent enough for a girl, but pretty enough for any woman. She would give them to Amy in private, though, as she hardly thought her sister would enjoy opening such gifts in front of Papa.

  "Truly, you looked like me?"

  "Truly. But you'll be much prettier than I, with your eyes."

  "I like your brown ones," Amy said. "They look like weak tea in white china cups."

  "Do they?" Catherine laughed, and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, her pale skin showing the shadows under her eyes. Her irises did indeed look the same color as weak tea. "I suppose you're right." Her dark brown hair was still piled up at the back of her head, the large loose braids pinned over small cushions to give the arrangement the great mass that was fashionable. Her scalp and every muscle atop her skull ached with the weight.

  She heard Amy moving behind her, the bed creaking as she climbed off.

  "Cath, look! It's snowing?"

  She went to the window, where Amy was already raising the pane, heedless of the additional chill to the room. Catherine stuck her head out beside her sister's, watching the fluffy flakes fall silently in the light from the window.

  "It's the first snow of December," Amy said. "Do you remember what that means?"

  "Of course I do. Wasn't I the one who told you in the first place?" Catherine said, remembering the myth her grandmother had told her. "With the first snow of December, the snow fairies come to celebrate the Christmas season. They grant the wishes of those with pure hearts, and then with the ringing in of the New Year, they return to their lands in the north."

  "I'm too old to believe it anymore, but I like to pretend it's true."

  "I do, too," Catherine admitted. She put her hand out, catching a cluster on her palm and watching it melt. The breeze picked up, and she shivered. "It's too cold to be hanging out a window in my underthings," she said, and withdrew into the room.

  Amy lingered a moment longer, then followed, pulling shut the sash. "I'm glad you're back, Cath."

&nbs
p; "I am, too."

  The clock in the hall below was striking half past three when she finally blew out the lamp and pulled up the covers against the cold of the room. Amy slept in the bed next to hers, her final "good night" followed quickly by deepened breathing, her gray cat, Quimby, nestled at her feet.

  Home, at last. It had been nearly two years. Catherine had been living and traveling with Aunt Frances, her mother's wealthy, artistically inclined sister, since shortly after Catherine's graduation from Mount Holyoke. Last Christmas had been spent in London, there had been months in Paris, long stays with friends in Italy, and weeks at a spa in Switzerland. For the past several months they had been in New York, in Aunt Frances's large town house, entertaining poets, painters, writers, and the more daring of the New York social elite, all while Uncle Clement had happily busied himself with his business affairs, remaining in the background of his wife's social world.

  Aunt Frances had wanted to give her an education of a different sort than the scholastic one offered at Mount Holyoke, and Catherine had to admit that her aunt had succeeded. Perhaps she had succeeded too well, and home would now seem small-minded and provincial in comparison to such grand sights as the canals of Venice and the palace of Versailles, not to mention the dancers of Paris. Maybe she would no longer fit in here.

  She stared into the darkness, listening to the faint creakings of the house and to Amy's breathing. There were no sounds from the street, Woodbridge asleep for the night. She was tense despite her exhaustion, the room feeling less familiar than the opulent bedchamber she had left behind in New York, with the mementos from her travels on the walls and strewn about on small tables. Would this house ever feel like home again?

  She scolded herself for even thinking the thought. Surely she would feel more a part of things in the morning, after a good night's sleep, and after a few days she would find herself once more in step with the rhythms of her family's life. She would cease noticing the changes, and would forget that she had been away.

  After all, if she didn't belong at home, then where did she belong?