by M. J. Putney
“Thanks. Nothing heavier, though. My skin is awfully sensitive.” Nick pulled off the old shirt, stuffed the remains in his sack, then donned the new one.
Rebecca tried not to stare but couldn’t help admiring his lithe, muscular body. The body he’d put between her and being burned alive. His hair was still half-gone, but the skin of his back was smooth and unburned.
To keep Nick from freezing, Cynthia surrounded him with hearth witch warmth, and then they were on their way. Their route back to the caves was different from the one the French had used. Rebecca suspected that the caves were so extensive, Levaux hadn’t even known of the painted cavern that held the mirror. If he had known time travel was possible, he surely would have used the power in some horrible way.
As they made their way through the woods, Nick took her hand. She clasped it tightly. “I don’t think I thanked you yet for volunteering to be broiled in my place.”
“The only way he could hurt you was over my dead body,” Nick said flatly.
She shuddered. “Please don’t say that! It could so easily have become true.”
“But it didn’t. We’re heading home with our mission accomplished.” A triumphant note entered his voice. “All alive and more or less intact. We’re good!”
She had to laugh. “Indeed we are, and I’m profoundly grateful that I have helped our friends as they helped me. But I will be very, very glad to return to studying biology and mathematics and chemistry at Lackland Girls Grammar!”
“Peace and quiet, other than the odd bomb falling nearby,” Nick agreed. “And … under the same roof.”
His emotions were as easy to read as letters in flame across the sky. She said quietly, “To be of different faiths is a great challenge, but I no longer believe it to be an insurmountable obstacle. If we are both serious about building a bridge across our differences—I believe we will succeed.”
His energy blazing joyfully, Nick swung around and embraced her, his lips meeting hers. She was shocked by how utterly right his kiss felt. How could she have resisted him so long?
She broke the kiss, shaken, and rested her head against his shoulder. “I’m afraid to put my arms around you for fear that I’ll hurt you!”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t mind, not after what you just said.” He took her hand again. “But now we need to get moving. The sooner we reach the portal, the sooner we can go home.”
Home. Together. Laughing and holding Nick’s hand, she broke into a run to catch up with the others.
She’d never known life could be so good.
* * *
Tory was mentally drained and physically depleted by the time they reached the portal, but not so much that she considered resting before heading back to Lackland. She surveyed her friends, then lined them up with Elspeth at the far end in deference to the fact that Nick had suffered a major injury.
The way he and Rebecca were grinning, it was clear the two of them had reached some sort of understanding, so his state of mind was good even if his body wasn’t fully recovered. “Say good-bye to the elephants and other painted beasties!” Tory called. “Is everyone ready?”
After a chorus of agreement, she turned to the mirror. Allarde squeezed one hand gently. The other she raised, concentrating on their destination. Mirror, mirror, take us home, please!
Once more they were dragged through chaos before returning to normal awareness, but everyone was so glad to be home that there wasn’t a single complaint when they landed in Lackland. Since Tory was folded on the floor again, she used the opportunity to cuddle against Allarde. His arms went around her and they both simply rested on each other as mage lights were created.
“This mission began when you had a sudden foretelling about France invading England,” she said. “What do you feel now?”
“That possibility is gone.” He stood and helped her up. “We have a long war ahead before Bonaparte is defeated, but it won’t be fought on British soil.”
“Like Cynthia, I’m selfish enough to make that my first priority,” Tory said with wry humor. Arms around each other, they headed back to the central hall, the last of the straggling group of weary magelings.
Mr. Stephens and Miss Wheaton greeted them jubilantly where the tunnel reached the hall. “You did it!” Mr. Stephens exclaimed. “The wards returned to normal just short of the point of total failure, and no one here feels any more threat of invasion!”
“And you’re all home safely,” Miss Wheaton said, her voice warm. “It’s a miracle!”
“Not a miracle,” Tory said, not removing her arm from Allarde’s waist. “Just good teamwork.”
Mr. Stephens’s expression changed, his exuberance fading. “I’m sorry, Allarde, but I have bad news for you.”
Allarde stiffened under Tory’s arm. “Yes?”
“There is no good way to say this.” The teacher hesitated before saying, “Your father is dying. You must return home immediately.”
CHAPTER 36
Allarde had been expecting something like this, Tory realized. She felt his body stiffen but sensed no surprise when he said, “I’ll leave first thing in the morning. Can you ask the headmaster to arrange for a post chaise?”
“Of course. And … I’m sorry,” Mr. Stephens said.
“I’m going with you,” Tory said. “I believe we’ve already established that I am not a frail flower to be left in the conservatory when life becomes difficult.”
From his expression, she knew that this time he wasn’t going to be noble and claim he didn’t need her, but he did say, “You’ll get into trouble with the school.”
“Do you think I care about that?”
His mouth curved up on one side. “Not as much as you should. You might get locked into solitary confinement when you return.”
It was a possibility and could be a serious nuisance. But she’d worry about that later. “We’ve sailed to Dunkirk under enemy fire, gone behind Nazi lines into France, and penetrated Napoleon’s lair and returned safely home. School discipline doesn’t seem terribly important just now.”
Rebecca said hesitantly, “If I can be introduced to whoever is in charge—your headmistress?—I think I can assure you that she won’t be concerned about your absence. When you return, she’ll just nod and think that all is well.”
“That could be convenient,” Elspeth said. “No need to burn your bridges, Tory.”
“Thank you, Rebecca.” Tory smothered a yawn, suddenly so tired that she could barely stand. “But now I’ll get some rest. We’ve a long ride ahead of us, Justin.”
* * *
Though the trip was long, it was fast. Weather mage friends were very convenient at keeping storms away, so the roads stayed dry. Allarde was quiet but resigned during the trip. When they spoke, it was about their friends and adventures, not what they would find at the end of their journey.
When they stopped for the night, Allarde booked two rooms and referred to Tory as his sister. Since they both had dark hair, no one questioned that. But they slept in each other’s arms.
The post chaise deposited Tory and Allarde at Kemperton Hall’s front entrance well after dark on the second day of travel. As they waited for the door to open, Allarde said bleakly, “I don’t know if I’m in time to see him. Foretelling ability is no good with something this personal.”
Tory took his hand. “You did your best. And if he’s … already gone, at least you’ll be here for your mother.”
“And she’ll be here for me.” His mouth twisted. “I wonder how long my cousin George will give her before she must move into the Dower House.”
“Surely he wouldn’t force her out!” Tory exclaimed. “A house this size should have enough space for the dowager duchess as long as she wishes to stay!”
“You haven’t met my cousin George,” Allarde said dryly.
The door swung open, revealing a stern-faced footman. His expression eased and he bowed them inside. “It’s good that you’re home, my lord.”
“I’m
no longer a lord, Griffin.” Allarde handed over his hat. “Please have my luggage brought in and a room prepared for Lady Victoria. Since you’re not wearing a black armband, I assume my father is still with us?”
“I believe so.” The footman hesitated, then added, “To those of us who work here, you will always be ‘my lord.’”
“Thank you.” Allarde lifted Tory’s cloak from her shoulders and gave it to the footman, then offered her his arm. “I imagine everyone is in my father’s rooms?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Allarde led Tory to the sweeping double staircase. He was doing an excellent job of keeping his composure like a proper English gentleman, but Tory felt how deeply he was strained. “Courage, mon héros,” she murmured in French. “At least you are here in time to say good-bye.”
“For that, I am grateful,” he said bleakly.
As they started up the stairs, Allarde stroked the polished marble curve of the railing. “When I was little, I loved sliding down these railings. My mother was always horrified if she caught me.”
Tory could understand why since a fall might be lethal, but the thought of him as a dark-haired little boy swooping happily down the railing was endearing. “Now you slide between centuries.”
That made him smile. “Only in your magical wake, my lady.”
At the top of the staircase, they turned right and proceeded down a long corridor with high, molded ceilings above and rich carpeting underfoot. The hall was as magnificent here as it was on the ground floor.
When they reached the massive set of double doors at the end of the corridor, Allarde opened one for Tory and they entered together. The bedroom was as large and luxurious as one would expect for a duke, with a massive canopied bed in the center and fires burning in both wide fireplaces.
But though a duke was unlikely to die alone, Tory hadn’t expected there to be so many people present. The only one she recognized was the duchess, looking pale and tired as she sat by the bed holding her husband’s hand. More than a dozen other people were in the room: family members, she supposed, along with servants, a vicar, and men who might be physicians or lawyers.
The low murmur of voices stopped when she and Allarde entered. An edged male voice said, “So he’s come!” The unwelcoming tone made Tory very glad she was here.
Another voice muttered, “Who’s the girl, his mistress?”
“Lord Fairmount’s daughter,” was the reply. “Another damned mageling.”
Tory kept her head high. Only Justin and his parents mattered, not these bigots.
“Justin!” His mother rose from her chair by the bed and crossed the room to greet him. “I’m so glad you made it here in time.”
Tory stepped out of the way as Allarde and his mother embraced. The duchess’s lovely face was haggard but resigned. In her son’s arms, she found some comfort.
Allarde asked quietly, “How is he?”
“The end is very near.” She stepped back and brushed at a loose strand of silver hair. “I think he’s been waiting for you.” She turned her gaze to Tory. “I’m glad you came, my dear.”
There was a world of meaning and acceptance in the simple words. Tory replied equally quietly, “You know I will always do anything in my power for Justin.”
The duchess nodded. Taking Allarde’s arm, she led him toward the bed. A tall, dark-haired man around thirty stepped into Allarde’s path. He looked like a rough sketch of Allarde, cruder and less refined. “Here to change his mind?” the man said, controlled anger in his eyes. “It’s too late for that.”
Allarde frowned. “I’m here to say farewell to my father, George. There is no question of changing his mind. Please step aside.”
So this was George Falkirk, the heir, waiting hungrily for the title and the vast wealth of Westover. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he had the sense to step aside.
Others drew back so Allarde could reach his father. The duke’s eyes were closed and he looked as pale as death, but Tory saw the faint rise and fall of his chest.
“Father.” Allarde took his hand. “You waited for me, as a gentleman should.”
The duke’s eyes opened and the faintest of smiles crossed his face. “Justin. I’m glad to see you one last time.” The focus of his eyes shifted. “You and your lovely young lady.”
Taking that as permission to move forward, Tory stepped to Allarde’s side. “The feeling is mutual, sir.” On impulse, she bent and pressed her lips to the parchment coolness of his cheek. “I wish I could have known you longer.”
He smiled, his expression peaceful. “It’s been long enough that I know my son is in good hands.”
Tory bit her lip, moved that he accepted her even though she was costing Allarde his heritage.
The moment was interrupted when a brusque voice said, “Your grace, you must sign the papers now, before it’s too late.”
A man dressed like a prosperous lawyer thrust several papers at the duke, along with a pen dipped in ink. Behind the lawyer stood George, his face tight.
A drop of ink formed on the pen, then dripped onto the blue brocade coverlet in a black, spreading stain. Startled, Allarde said, “What papers are so important that they must be signed at such a moment?”
“The disinheritance papers, Justin,” his mother said in a detached voice. “They have been drawn up, but your father hasn’t signed them.”
Allarde’s confused gaze moved to his father. “You haven’t signed? On my last visit, we discussed the matter and agreed that my magical abilities disqualify me for inheriting the title.”
His father gazed back, his voice the barest thread. “Disinheritance is the accepted custom,” he whispered. “A peer with magical abilities would face much criticism. It would be difficult.”
Allarde looked as if he were barely breathing. “Difficult, yes. Not impossible.”
“You must sign, sir!” George hissed, barely able to keep his voice down even though he was at a deathbed. “You owe it to our name, our family honor!”
“Do I?” the duke said reflectively. “What seemed so clear … no longer does.”
His gaze moved from Allarde to his wife. He smiled again and then closed his eyes. The duchess took his hand, her expression stricken as her husband took a long, rattling breath … then breathed no more.
Tory gripped Allarde’s hand as he closed his eyes in silent grief. She envied the love he and his father had shared, but that made this loss heartrending.
As the vicar began to pray in a soft voice, George said with barely suppressed fury, “Westover was going to sign! You all saw that! He intended to sign, but he was too weak at the end!”
A soberly clad man stepped forward. “Excuse me, Mr. Falkirk, but I am Hollings, his grace’s personal lawyer for the last thirty years. He asked me to prepare disinheritance papers four years ago, when Lord Allarde entered Lackland Abbey. Yet in all that time, the duke never chose to sign them. I saw no evidence that he intended to do so tonight.”
“I’m the true heir!” George said, his voice rising. “Not that wretched mageling! I’ll take it to the courts! To Chancery! To the House of Lords!”
“Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought, George Falkirk.” The duchess rose, petite but indomitable. “A whole roomful of witnesses saw my husband decline to sign the papers. Ever since Justin’s magical talents manifested, the duke has been torn about whether or not he should disinherit his only son. A son who is superbly qualified to be the next Duke of Westover, and who loves this land as deeply as his father did.” Her eyes narrowed. “He will be a far, far better duke than you could ever be.”
George’s fists clenched furiously and he took a step toward the duchess. Allarde instantly stepped between them. “You will not upset my mother,” he said in a steely voice. “Nor are you welcome in this house. You will leave immediately.” His gaze moved to a servant standing discreetly to the side. “Mr. Jenkins, see to it.”
“Yes, your grace.” The servant’s voice was bla
nd, but his eyes were jubilant. Here was another man who was glad that Allarde hadn’t been disinherited.
Tory glanced around the room. Beyond sorrow over the duke’s passing, she saw that some of those present looked appalled that Allarde would inherit, but more looked pleased. Only aristocrats hated magic. Average folk respected and welcomed it.
The duchess said, “The family would like to be alone to mourn, so all of you leave except for my son and Lady Victoria.” The room cleared out at her order, and Allarde closed the door when everyone had departed.
The duchess sank into the chair by the bed. “This won’t be easy, Justin. When you turn twenty-one and take your seat in the House of Lords, many members will give you the cut direct. Caricaturists will draw vicious cartoons, and much of what is wrongly known as ‘polite’ society will refuse to associate with you.”
“I know,” he replied. “I had accepted my disinheritance. Now I must rethink my future.” He reached out for Tory’s hand and held it tight.
“This won’t be the easiest path,” Tory said gravely. “But what is easy isn’t always the best.”
The duchess smiled. “What a very wise young lady you are. It’s time that society changed its views about magic, and who better to convince them they’re wrong than you two?”
Allarde hugged his mother. “As long as I have the support of you and Tory, I can face anything.”
“I know.” The duchess’s smile faded. “Now, please leave me. I want to be alone with my husband for the last time.”
Tears in her eyes, Tory withdrew with Allarde. After he closed the door, he said apologetically, “I’m sorry, I’m still in shock. I didn’t expect this. I … I don’t know quite what to do next.”
“You need the strength of Kemperton,” Tory said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
He nodded and together they went downstairs, collected their cloaks, and headed out into the cold night. Tory took his arm, grateful to be out of the suffocating atmosphere of the sickroom. As they walked away from the house, she felt Justin’s tension begin to fade.