by A R DeClerck
“On the contrary, she always protected me.”
“A noble woman.”
“The best.” Grayson sighed as he stared toward Summer Ridge. “We will land the dirigible here, on my father’s back acreage. He’s offered us the use of a carriage to Summer Ridge.”
“Excellent.” Archie could not detect the sour taste of dark magic in the air, but ever since Icarus had taken London under his protection, the dark wizards had come up with ways to hide their stench. Still, they always slipped up eventually.
The captain set the ship down on the barren back 40 acres and his men tied it off quickly. They would stay with the ship under the supervision of Nickerson, Levisque’s XO. As Archie, Bastion, Lucia, Trimble and Levisque scaled to the ground the ship’s crew was already busy unloading their baggage.
“Here’s my father now.”
Archie looked up to see a heavyset man in working clothes striding across the field. A taller man in brown britches and a white shirt followed him.
“My father, Lord Percival Trimble, and my brother Atraxas Trimble,” Grayson introduced them. The men shook hands and the Trimbles bowed in the fashion to Lucia. Grayson’s older brother was as tall as Archimedes, filled out from his days of running the estate. With his head of curling black hair and wintery gray eyes, Archie had to admit the fellow was something of a fine specimen. He watched Lucia’s cheeks redden at the man’s dimpled smile and felt the copper of his fingers grate together as his hand clenched.
“Welcome, welcome.” Percival Trimble was aging, that much was true, but he was as hale and hearty as a man half his age. “Always good to meet more of the Grand Master’s agents.” He shook his head and stroked his long gray beard. “Terrible business, this. The last thing Kensington needs is talk of black magic.”
“Thank you for your support,” Archimedes stepped closer to Lucia, hoping the elder Trimble brother could read his body language. She was his lady, and interference would not be allowed. The elder brother was apparently as bright as his younger brother was, as he nodded his head and moved to stand on the other side of his father in deference to Archie’s silent challenge. Lucia had fire in her eyes when she glared at Archie, but he ignored her. He had to make it clear that she was not available, or every eligible bachelor in Kensington would be running to Summer Ridge to court her.
“Yes, yes, anything we can do for the Grand Master and for dear Elizabeth.” Percival’s hand was soft on Grayson’s shoulder. “As much a daughter to me as any of my own children, she was.” Something passed between the three Trimbles but Archie figured it a family acknowledgment of the loss of Grayson’s love to their neighbor.
“We’ll away to Summer Ridge as soon as possible.” Archie looked at Bastion and Levisque, who both nodded in agreement.
“Yes, yes. The carriage is waiting, and another will hie your luggage to you when it’s all unloaded. We’ll be to Summer Ridge ourselves in three days. The ball, you know.”
Archie shook his head. “Ball?”
“The annual Harvest Ball.” Grayson closed his eyes as if trying to gather his patience. “I’d forgotten it’s this week.”
“Aye and young Elizabeth will not cancel it. The people of Kensington must see that we three families will not give up.”
“I hope to have the honor of a dance, Mistress Conti.”
Archie glared at Atraxas, even more annoyed when Lucia smiled at the man. “Of course, Master Trimble.”
The Trimble men walked away and Archie gathered his annoyance up and tried to stuff it down deep. “To Summer Ridge, then. Let’s try to wrap up this dark mage business before the ball, if we can.”
SUMMER RIDGE WAS A sprawling estate that stretched over a hundred acres of prime growing soil. To the east of the main house, Archie could see the skeletons of the grape vines, picked bare before winter.
The carriage turned down the long lane toward the house, and Archie frowned at the heavy cloud that clung to the sky over the main house. He closed his eyes and opened his mind up to the aether, asking it to search out dark magic. He jumped when a soft hand on his knee broke his concentration.
“We’ve arrived.”
He nodded, closing his eyes to listen for the aether. For some reason they were silent. Strange, considering the aether had taken a liking to him after the Longmoore incident. “I hear nothing.”
“Perhaps there’s nothing to hear.” Bastion’s face said that even he did not believe it. The air around Summer Ridge was heavy; pregnant with malice or sadness, it was too soon to tell which.
The house loomed over them, casting its shadow across the courtyard where the driver stopped the carriage. Archie leaned over Lucia to look out the window at the massive house. Built of brick it was mostly square, capped on its ends by tall chimneys puffing smoke into the crisp autumn air.
“A sparse style, as the Wickets prefer,” Grayson said, gesturing to the flat brick of the front of the house. The windows were not gabled, the doors set flat into the walls. The only ornamentation on the whole of the house came in the form of two enormous stone lions, perched on either side of the front door. “Mr. Harmon Wicket built this house in 1824, tilling the ground for his grapes with his own two hands.”
“I don’t feel especially welcome,” Levisque murmured, as the footman appeared to open the carriage door.
Archie took Lucia’s hand to help her down, but he had to agree with the captain. There was an air about the place that suggested visitors were not appreciated.
The door burst open and a woman with a pile of blonde hair swept onto the path, hurrying to Grayson and throwing her arms around him.
“On the contrary,” Bastion said after a moment, “it appears young Trimble is welcome.”
The woman pulled back from Grayson and smoothed down the severe black of her day dress, tucking one of her unruly blonde curls behind her ear. “Pardon my lack of decorum,” she said, “but I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”
“Elizabeth Wicket, these are my friends from London.” Grayson introduced them all. “This is Elizabeth Wicket, mistress of Summer Ridge.”
She curtsied prettily, and then shook their hands with a firm grip and a direct gaze to each of them. “Thank you all for coming. As I wrote to Grayson, I feel I am at a loss with how to proceed.”
“Dark mages are a scourge which must be dealt with as quickly as possible. You’ve done the right thing to ask for help.” Lucia smiled at the young woman. Elizabeth was Grayson’s age, her face unlined by time or grief, despite the loss of her husband. All her sorrow, Archie thought as he looked at her, sat squarely in her dark blue eyes.
“Come inside.” Elizabeth took Grayson’s arm and waved them all inside the house. “This is Mr. Justice, our houseman. He has worked for the Wickets since Delbert was a young boy. Mr. Justice will show you to your rooms and make sure all your luggage is delivered as required.”
Justice was a cadaver of a man with thin features and a permanent frown. He watched them disapprovingly as they followed Elizabeth into the house. He would never naysay Elizabeth’s dictate, but he obviously did not like having them at Summer Ridge. Archie jumped a little as Justice clanged the door shut behind them.
“This way, if you please.” They followed Justice up the stairs as Elizabeth headed toward the kitchens to see to tea.
“I’ve prepared your rooms in the east wing.” Justice pushed open the doors as he walked. “Ms. Birch is in charge of housekeeping and will see to your laundry and cleaning. Please stay in the east wing. Mr. Wicket’s rooms are located in the west wing and he prefers quiet.”
“We’ve been told Mr. Wicket is ill.” Archie’s words stopped the butler as he turned back toward the stairs. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, I assure you. Age and the loss of his only son do not sit well with Mr. Wicket.”
Archie caught the eyes of his companions. One worry they all shared was that Elizabeth’s fears of dark magic were nothing mo
re than age and grief. “Thank you, Justice.”
“Good day.” The butler was silent on the stairs as Archie looked at Bastion, Grayson, Corrigan and Lucia.
“I must admit I feel uneasy, but I cannot assign that unease to dark magic. Perhaps it is simply the weight of loss that dampens the aura of the house,” he told them.
“Perhaps.” Lucia shivered, and Archie could see that she was tense as she looked around at the dark of the hallway. The lights were turned down low, perhaps to save money or to conserve the steam. They cast shadows on the hardwoods, and they could hear the whip of the wind rattle the windows.
“We cannot give up yet,” Grayson argued. He crossed his arms and a stubborn frown set itself on his lips. “We owe Elizabeth more than a cursory examination of the house.”
“Settle, son.” Archie patted the young wizard’s shoulder. “No one is suggesting we’re done here. I, for one, wish to know more of Elizabeth’s fears. Let us tidy up after the journey, and gather again for tea. I’ve many questions for Elizabeth Wicket.”
Grayson seemed to accept Archie’s assurances, and he, Bastion and Corrigan disappeared into their rooms, the doors closing with a snick behind them. Archie stepped to Lucia and ran his thumb over the frown on her forehead. “What has you troubled?”
She captured his hand with hers, holding it, but the frown did not ease. “I cannot say for certain. A bit of spider’s web, tickling my nose. A feeling I cannot seem to be rid of.”
“Aye, I feel it too.” Archie bent his head so that they were eye to eye. “More than sorrow. Darker than pain.”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper between them in the shadows of the hallway.
“Don’t let your guard down, Archimedes.” Lucia moved to her own room, but her eyes stayed locked with his. “There is danger here.”
“I will never let anything happen to you.”
“It’s not just me I’m concerned with.” She closed the door and Archie sighed. In all honesty, he was worried, too. Whether it was dark magic, or the darkness of sorrow that tainted this house, it was tainted. Eventually, if they could not manage to find the cause, it could swallow them all.
Summer Ridge
Kensington
“Mistress Conti, you look lovely.”
Lucia smiled at the young widow. She had changed from her dusty rose travelling dress into a more suitable day dress in pale pink. It was suited to her fuller figure, cinching at her waist to fall softly over her ample hips. She would never be dainty, like Elizabeth Wicket, but she felt pretty in the pink and lace anyway. She could not help but to feel the heat of Archimedes’ gaze on her, and she knew he thought she looked pretty, too. She often thought that he would think her attractive even in sackcloth and burlap.
“Thank you.” She took her place at the table as the gentlemen sat, pulling her heavy napkin into her lap. Elizabeth was a fine host, pouring tea and passing around biscuits of many varieties.
“Try the molasses tart,” she said, pointing to a heavy pastry covered in cream. “They are my mother’s recipe.”
Lucia took one of the confections, passing the plate to Archimedes on her right. His hand brushed hers, on purpose of course, though he seemed to ignore the spark of attraction between them. He took a lemon pie because he had a penchant for all things lemon. And sour, she thought with a sudden bit of humor. He must, to be attracted to her acerbic personality.
They ate in relative silence, but when Archimedes patted his lips with his napkin Lucia knew the time for talk had come. She reached for his hand, stilling him before he could utter a word. He was an intelligent man, but sometimes his methods were a bit too direct for a woman like Elizabeth Wicket. The young widow needed a finer bit of prodding than Archimedes might have been capable of providing.
“Tell us, Elizabeth, about Summer Ridge.”
The woman’s pale eyebrow went up, but she sipped her tea and nodded. “Two hundred nineteen acres, growing mostly white wine grapes for our vineyard. We employ nineteen hands to work the land, and the four of us here in the house.”
“And who lives in the house?” Lucia watched the young woman’s face. She was lovely like a china doll might be lovely, her cheeks smooth and her lips like cupid’s bows. There were shadows under her eyes, though, that spoke of sleepless nights.
“Myself, Justice, Ms. Birch and Mr. Wicket.” Elizabeth’s hands were shaking, Lucia noticed, when she mentioned the elder Wicket.
“And what of Mr. Wicket?” Lucia came to the heart of the matter softly, easing the young woman into her description of her father-in-law. His strange behavior had prompted Elizabeth to write to her childhood friend, desperately seeking some kind of help with the old man.
“Horace Wicket. He is seventy and one. He married his wife, Imogene and they had three children. All but one, Delbert, died in infancy. Delbert was the apple of his father’s eye. Mr. Wicket was always a strong-willed man with a temper.”
“And now? What has happened to Mr. Wicket now, Elizabeth?”
The men were spellbound as the women spoke to one another, a connection between them. It was something Lucia had discovered about herself and her magic after meeting Cora. She was good at listening, good at making people trust her so that they would answer any question she asked. Almost like a spell, the aether wove between her and the person she talked to, connecting them. She’d asked Cora to keep her newfound power a secret, until she could learn more about it. Now, she figured, the cat was out of the bag.
“He is angry. Not like before, but violent.” Elizabeth’s hands shook and her teacup rattled on the plate. Grayson reached for her hand, holding it gently in his. “When Del died he shut himself away in his rooms. He refused to eat. I called the doctor and he was given a tincture and instructions to remain quiet and without stress. I thought he was getting better.”
“But he’s been worse?”
Elizabeth nodded. She patted her eyes with her handkerchief that she kept tucked into her sleeve. “Much. He threw a teapot at Mr. Justice, and a steak knife at Ms. Birch. He will not bathe; will not dress. He doesn’t speak, except when he mutters words that make no sense.”
“What kinds of words? Can you repeat them?”
Lucia glared at Archie as he broke the spell with his question. Elizabeth blinked, dazed, but she nodded.
“Marwolaeth a thywyll, I think.”
“Death and dark, in the old Welsh.” Archie put his napkin on his plate. “Not normally what one might hear from an old man in his dotage.”
“Oh no, Mr. Wicket is strong.” Elizabeth’s voice went quiet. “Stronger than ever. He lifted a wardrobe that even the strongest of our farm hands couldn’t lift alone. He threw it across the room.”
“What has the doctor said since?” Bastion asked. He was, like Lucia, an apothecary, trained in the art of healing. His interest would lie in a possible physical cause to Mr. Wicket’s behavior; an illness or poison of some sort.
“He came, once. Mr. Wicket bit him and he won’t come back.”
“Bit him?” Corrigan barked a disbelieving laugh. “How’s that?”
“Right here, when he leaned close.” Elizabeth tapped her cheek, her eyes wide. “The doctor refuses to come ‘round again.”
“I’ll have to examine him, of course.” Bastion’s eyes caught Lucia’s. “I suppose we’ll need a somnolence spell.”
“Something of the sort,” she agreed. “We can’t have him biting us.”
“I’ve been terribly afraid that he’ll sneak from his rooms and murder us all while we sleep.” Elizabeth teared up, patting them away with her handkerchief. “I’ve had to lock his doors.”
“You did the right thing,” Grayson assured her, and the others nodded.
“Can you help him?” Elizabeth turned her teary blue eyes to everyone at the table, one by one. “Can you help us all?”
“Tell me, Mrs. Wicket, what makes you think a dark mage has brought this upon your house?” Archie’s voice was soft, but the question was hard.
“This.” Elizabeth held out her arm, pulling back the sleeve.
Lucia hissed, rearing away from the raised, inflamed brand on the young woman’s forearm.
“Where did you get this?” Archie stood, taking Elizabeth’s arm in his hand to bend over the brand. It was a double circle, halved with a line.
“Ten years ago from the blacksmith, Atticus Dooley.” Elizabeth’s eyes locked with Grayson. “We both have one.”
Grayson pulled back his sleeve to show them an identical brand on his own forearm. “He caught us watching him perform a ritual. This was our punishment. When we told our parents, Dooley was arrested by the Grand Master for being a dark mage.”
“This looks fresh.” Archie studied the two brands side by side, and Lucia agreed. Elizabeth’s was angry and raised, Grayson’s just a thin scar.
“It started to hurt three days after the doctor visited Mr. Wicket. It’s been like this ever since.”
Archie’s eyes caught Lucia’s and the knowledge passed between them. Whether a dark mage or a novice practitioner, someone practicing black magic had the Wickets in their sites.
Archie patted the young woman’s hand and moved back to his seat as she pulled down her sleeve.
“I know that the brand’s appearance means someone is working dark magic against me.”
Lucia was surprised by Elizabeth’s statement. Though she was aware dark magic had run rampant through London before the Grand Master and Icarus had arrived to drive it out, she’d had no idea how pervasive it really had been. Even here, in the outskirts of agricultural Kensington, the people had been touched by evil. “Perhaps not against you.” Lucia sipped her own tea, now cold. “It’s possible the mage is working his magic through you. Feeding off your sorrow. Your rage.”
“Rage?” It was Bastion’s turn to question Lucia’s words. She knew that to the men Elizabeth Wicket seemed a dainty, quiet woman. Lucia knew that in truth the woman was simmering with quiet rage and fear inside her lace and satin. Behind that china doll’s face was a woman with emotions running high. She could see the tension in the narrowing of Elizabeth’s eyes and the calm precision of all her movements. Lucia knew a thing or two about rage, and about hiding it from polite company.