M'Lady Witch

by Christopher Stasheff

  Here, however, there was the best of reasons. She had to save her poor Alain from the clutches of that poisonous female, Delilah—and had to save him personally.

  She had draped the cloth, marked it, then laid it out and chalked the patterns with not a moment's hesitation, following the diagrams in her mind's eye. Then she cut itstaring at the lines, thinking of the separation of molecules, watching the cloth separate itself along the lines she had drawn. Twice she made a mistake; twice she held fabric together, stared at it, and thought of the linen molecules moving, faster and faster until the cloth was whole again, each separate thread having bonded itself to its other half so that it was no longer cut, but as sound as new.

  She was as talented in telekinesis as Delilah was in projection.

  Now she held the sections of cut cloth together, staring at the edges, watching the threads flow together so well that you could see no seam at all. Molecule bonded to molecule, far tighter than any thread could bind. The unfinished edges folded themselves over, bonded, and made themselves into hems.

  By noon, it was done, and she slipped it on for the first fit. She went to the window, opening the casement and letting out a trilling whistle. The aural call was only there to help her concentrate; really, it was her mind that reached out and summoned ...

  A robin flew down, perching on the tree branch outside her window. It stared at her, then cocked its head inquisitively. Cordelia stepped back, reading the bird's mind. The robin saw her, and she read her own image from its mind, viewing herself through its eye, stepping back until she could see all of herself.

  She gasped with delight.

  She saw a fairy-tale princess complete in every detail except the headdress, of course; she had yet to make that. However, it was a dress such as a fairy-tale princess would have thought scandalous. The neckline was daringly low, and it fitted her torso as though it had grown there. Even as she gazed, she thought of a slight rearrangement of electrical charges, and the skirt and petticoat moved toward her legs, clinging. She walked toward the window opening a few steps, and the static charge molded the cloth to her limbs—not completely, for the petticoats muffled the outline considerably, but enough to more than hint at her contours. She viewed them with a critical eye, and decided that her contours might not be so insufficient, after all—and there had been enough boys who had sought to touch them on some of her outings. Not so lush as Delilah's curves, perhaps—assuming that Delilah's were real but more perfectly proportioned.

  She turned, walking away from the bird, gazing at the back of her reflection, at the neckline, scooped low enough to show her shoulder blades, cloth clinging to hint at the smooth curves of hips. She looked back over her shoulder, lowering her eyelids, giving her best imitation of Delilah's alluring smile, and tried rolling her hips as she walked. Yes, it did seem to work.

  She blushed as she thought of herself actually putting on a performance of that sort before Alain. She would not dare! And even if she did, surely he would not dare to appreciate it!

  But the thought did excite her.

  Still, the dress was a trifle too loose here and there. She thought at the cloth, and the seam turned inward, the darts tightening until it fit her—well, perhaps not quite like a glove above the waist, but certainly like a flower below.

  And, too, it did need some adornment. She blew a kiss at the bird, dismissing it, slipped out of the dress, lifted the lace, measured it off against the cloth, and bonded it so that it filled in the scoop of the neckline, the dip behind her shoulders. Her mother had told her that what was imagined was more effective than what was shown; it was only necessary to give the gentlemen something for their imaginations to work on.

  Cordelia certainly didn't intend to give them anything more.

  When she was done, she summoned another bird—a bluebird this time—to look at her while she read its mind, and caught her breath with delight. It was quite the most lovely gown she had ever seen, even if she did say so herself. She dismissed the bird with a gay wave, slipped out of the dress and, in her chemise, took up the buckram, the lawn, and the veil, and began to make the headdress.

  Somewhere in the middle of all these labors, she caught a sudden, stray thought—a servant approaching her door. Quickly, she dumped the dress into her lap topsy-turvy and pulled a thread through a needle, then scrubbed fingers through her hair to make it tousled, disarrayed.

  A knock came.

  Cordelia called, "Open!"

  The door opened, and the serving-wench stepped in, holding a tray in one hand. "My lady, you have not come to dine."

  "Oh, I cannot!" Cordelia did her best to sound frazzled. "See how deeply in the toils I am!"

  The wench came closer, large-eyed. "Surely, my lady, the seamstress could aid thee... "

  "Mayhap, but I am loath to ask. Oh, I will be done in time, I am sure of it! Nay, but set the wine and bread there, on the little table—I think there is room. I shall take it when I have a moment."

  "Even as you say, my lady." The maid curtsied, roundeyed, then stepped out, closing the door behind her. Cordelia caught the impression of smug satisfaction, and answered it with a vindictive smile, glaring at the door. So they thought they would have her beaten, did they? Well, all to the better. Let Delilah think Cordelia was in a state and could not possibly have a decent gown. Nothing would strengthen her so much as Delilah's overconfidence.

  She was done by early afternoon. The bread, cheese, meat, and wine were quite good. She ate lightly, not wanting to feel sluggish when she waked.

  Because, of course, she wanted to be fresh for the evening's festivities. She lay down to nap, closing her eyes as she sought out a finch, leaving a stern command within its mind to come trill beneath her window in an hour. She left the same command within her own mind—only to wake, not to trill—hid the lovely gown in the wardrobe, locked the door, and lay down to sleep, satisfied.

  After all, she did want to look her best.

  She woke at four, added one last touch—a cloak, of a contrasting material; only a great circle of cloth that she could throw over herself to hide the gown. When the knock on the door came, she quickly threw the cloak over her shoulders and called, "Enter!"

  It was a servant, with a can of steaming water. Cordelia bade her put it by the hearth, and the maid did, then left, with many curious glances about the room.

  "Oh, I had almost forgot!" The maid turned back in the doorway and came to bring Cordelia a domino mask. "It is to be a masked ball, my lady."

  Cordelia thrilled with delight, but tried to sound worn and exhausted. "Thank you, good soul."

  "As you wish, my lady." The maid gave a little curtsy, then left, closing the door behind her.

  Alain stared, paling. "I could never behave so!"

  He was watching the "neighbors" flirt with one another as they bowed and chatted and danced. None had been introduced as other than the character they were dressed as, most of them from the romances, some from old myths. But they were all very outgoing, and the dances were rather earthy.

  "Of course you can," Geoffrey assured him. "It is a masked ball, Alain. None shall know who you are."

  "Well ... there is truth in that," Alain said thoughtfully, then looked up sharply. "But hold! I have heard of these masked balls. Is there not something about unmasking at midnight?"

  "Well, aye," Geoffrey allowed, "so, if you are careful to leave before midnight, no one will discover your identity." Alain's gaze wandered over the glittering company, golden in the light of myriad candles. "Well ... true ... 'twould be a pity to miss the last of the ball..."

  "Yet mayhap would be worth it." Geoffrey took a sip of his wine. "Bear in mind, though, that you need not decide until it is nigh the hour of midnight. If you feel that you would do something ... exhilarating, something ... that is not truly evil, mind you, but only a little wicked, or no, not even wicked, but ... daring ... why, if you have done it, you leave before midnight!" He clinked his glass against Alain's. "If you have not, you
stay for the unmasking! Drink up!"

  Alain sipped the wine absently, his mind clearly else where. Then he looked up, suddenly remembering what he had been thinking before. "Hold! I should not drink wine so early! 'Twill make me drunk, will it not?"

  "What—one goblet of wine?" Geoffrey gave a deprecating laugh. "Do not give it a thought."

  But he had. He had given Alain's wine quite a lot of thought. It was now thirty percent alcohol.

  Geoffrey knew Alain of old, of course, and knew that the Prince had grown up drinking wine, as did most noble children on Gramarye. He would not become drunk, Geoffrey knew, but perhaps rather ... uninhibited ...

  The musicians had tuned their instruments and begun to play. Cordelia stood in the shadow at the top of the staircase, shrouded in her cloak, eyes wide as she stared at the guests, feeling a strange nervousness, a strange apprehension. How many of them were truly neighbors, and how many Delilah's minions?

  How could she hope to outshine Delilah on her own territory?

  But my heavens, there were a lot of people! Admittedly, their garb was old-fashioned by the standards of Runnymede—but nothing was ever really out of style on Gramarye. They were certainly jovial enough, laughing and talking as the servants passed among them with goblets of wine. The entire Great Hall was already filled with company—at least half dowagers and their husbands.

  But the other half were young. Probably most of them were married, but they were young and vibrant nonetheless. They milled about, making quite a roar. Like waves upon the beach, they were about to engulf her.

  "Surely you are not timid, Lady Cordelia!" Cordelia looked up, alarmed.

  It was Delilah, parading down the stairs in a gown so lovely that it made Cordelia gasp. Mask or not, there was no mistaking her—the cascade of golden hair was artfully arranged and equally artfully displayed, as was a generous expanse of bosom. The heart-shaped face, the voluptuous curves-all were enhanced by the splendor of her pink-and-gold gown.

  Cordelia felt a bitter stab of jealousy.

  "Why, what a mouse you are!" Delilah said. "Will you start at every shadow? Come, how can you possibly not delight in such an evening as this?"

  "I ... I will endeavor to." Cordelia summoned what remained of her self-possession and drew herself up.

  "I rejoice to hear it. Do you go before me, for I have no wish to dim your luster."

  Cordelia's eyes narrowed behind her mask. "Surely, Lady Delilah, no gown can compare with yours tonight. Nay, do you precede me. 'Tis your house, after all, and 'tis your due."

  "I thank you, my dear. I shall." Delilah nodded with a pinfeather smile and stepped to the head of the stairs. She motioned, and her maid hissed down to the majordomo. He looked up; his eyes widened a moment; then he turned to the crowd and bawled out, "The Lady Helen of Troy!"

  Of course, Cordelia thought.

  As one, the crowd turned to look, and the musicians struck up a soft march. Delilah paraded down the stairs.

  For a moment, the crowd was silent, staring. Then, as one, they broke into applause.

  Cordelia tried to remind herself that most of them must be in Delilah's pay—but still, the jealousy burned within her. The hussy!

  Well, Cordelia would answer in her own style.

  The applause turned into congratulatory conversation as Delilah reached the foot of the stairs. The young men were pressing forward to kiss her hands; the ladies were "oh"ing and "ah"ing and congratulating her on so wonderful a costume, then turning away to mutter savagely with one another.

  Cordelia knew her hour had come. Her heart thumped so painfully that she thought it would tear through her dress. Still, she handed a note to the footman on the stairs, who handed it down to the majordomo.

  When Delilah had moved far enough away from the stairs, the majordomo raised his voice and cried, in his clarion tones, "The Lady Elaine of Shallot!"

  It had seemed like a good idea, at the time—a silent rebuke to Alain. Now, Cordelia wasn't so sure.

  The crowd quieted a little as they turned to look at the new arrival.

  Cordelia held her breath, straightened, and stepped onto the first step.

  The crowd was totally silent, a sea of faces staring up at her.

  Cordelia nearly died inside. She descended another step, another. There she stopped and whirled the cloak from her shoulders.

  All eyes were on her, stunned.

  She began to walk again, but faltered in her step, holding on to the handrail for dear life. Had she committed some immense faux pas? Was she truly in enemy territory in more ways than one?

  Well, then, she would show them of what she was made! She lifted her chin high and took another step. Suddenly, the crowd burst into applause, cheeringmost of it masculine.

  It slammed at her ears. Her eyes widened behind the mask in amazement. Could they truly be applauding her? They certainly could. The young men were pressing to the fore, with the older men not far behind them. She came down the stairs slowly, the applause and cheering ringing in her ears.

  As she stepped onto the last step, some of the young gallants pressed forward to seize her hands and kiss her fingers. She looked down at them, amazed, then lifted her eyes ...

  And saw Delilah's glare of hatred. She knew she was truly a success.

  CHAPTER 13

  The look on Delilah's face was all Cordelia needed. Obviously, her gown was far more beautiful than even she had supposed.

  She still did not realize that she was a very beautiful woman in her own right—as beautiful as Delilah, 'really, though less voluptuous. The severity of the gown enhanced her classical features, and the warmth of the color set off the fairness of her complexion marvelously, bringing out the golden highlights in her auburn hair.

  Her nervousness fled, to be replaced by gloating. She smiled like the cat who had lapped up the cream, graciously extending her hands to her eager admirers, stepping down into the middle of the throng, blowing kisses to one and all, feeling a secret, shameful thrill as they bowed low over her hand—and her decolletage.

  "You are the sun, milady!"

  "Then beware that I should shine on you, milord," she returned, "for I might burn you."

  "Indeed you might," he gasped, and another man said, "Ah! Would that I should be so roasted!"

  "I should make it hot enough for you, be sure," she said.

  "But I should prefer to see you by the light of the moon," said another gallant, looking deeply into her eyes. " 'Ware, sir," she said. "You may lie."

  "I could hope for no sweeter fate," he promised herexactly the response she had hoped for. She felt a secret, scandalous delight, and let her laugh cascade down low to end in a throaty chuckle. The man's eyes burned into hers, but another man caught her other hand. She turned, and looked directly into ...

  Forrest's eyes.

  Eyes that seemed to devour her, to swallow her up, and he was breathing, "My lady, surely there could never have been such beauty as yours!"

  "Why, sir," she said, her breath catching in her throat, "you have known me these days! And you have never told me so before!" The strange, tickling feelings inside that his presence always seemed to evoke were there againbut she must have been becoming accustomed to them, for somehow, she wasn't at all frightened. No, she found these feelings no longer so novel, but much more exhilarating, delightful, and only wanted more of them.

  She stepped a little closer to him, and he breathed, "Sun and moon alike you are, and they both shine upon me in your presence."

  "But I have no presents to give you, sir." She stepped a little closer.

  "Your own fair self is a wealth of gifts that would honor a king," he returned, stepping closer too, his arm slipping about her waist. "Will you dance?"

  "Aye—f think that I shall," she said, letting her eyelids droop and turning her head a little, so that she was eyeing him sidelong.

  He laughed, low and in his throat, but catching his breath as he did so, and stepped away from the disappointed gallants,
who rumbled their outrage as he swept Cordelia out onto the floor.

  They flowed smoothly into the motions of the age-old peasant dance, body to body, hip to hip, for only a few moments as their feet moved in unison—then apart, clapping, back to back, and his shoulders brushed hers, his hips brushed hers, then back to the front again for a few steps more, then, arm in arm, for a few paces side by side, their gazes locked, gazing deeply into one another's eyes. She felt herself turning warm inside, felt her knees weakening, but that was fair enough, because he turned then and, catching her about the waist, caught her right hand in his left, and pressed her against him as they flowed through the steps of the dance, and she could let herself weaken, let her limbs go limp, for he was holding her up ...

  Halfway across the floor, Alain followed their every move. "Can she truly be as wanton as she appears, Geoffrey?"

  "One can never say, my friend," Geoffrey answered. "Women often go to great lengths to seem to be something that they are not."

  "But why should they do such a thing?" Alain demanded.

  "Why," Geoffrey said, "to hold our interest by making themselves mysterious—or simply because they wish to, because it gives them pleasure."

  Alain's eyes returned to the lady in green. "She surely seems to take delight in it! And you say that she may be truly virtuous, and only enjoys the pretense of wantonness?"

  "Oh, quite surely! There is not a woman alive who does not wish to be desired, to be beautiful and the center of all attention, simply because of her beauty and her graceand her sexual allure. No, my friend, every woman has the right to be as attractive as she can be and wishes to be, without having to fear men's advances becoming improper."

  But though the words were fair, his expression was one of subdued shock as he watched his sister move about the floor with the forest outlaw—and when the dance brought them together, moving as though they were one.

  Alain's gaze still wandered. "Where is Cordelia, though? This whole ball is empty, lackluster, if she is not here."