She glanced once more at his hands, at their warm brown tone, their clean nails. Too clean. Even Blaic, who was meticulous, couldn’t keep the ink stains off his hands. Pens spluttered, ink not yet dry smeared under the swipe of a careless hand, while ink poured from bottle to bottle spattered cuffs. Even if Mr. Knight had not written for some time there should still be stains. Whatever Mr. Knight was, he was not an author.
Could this Mr. Knight, sitting so quietly in her library, be the mysterious rider who’d appeared seemingly out of the very stones at Barren Fort? Could Blaic be right in assuming that such a rider would come from the world of the Fay? Had he pursued her today? The cloak had concealed much, but surely his shoulders were just as broad. And there was something terrifyingly familiar in the cock of his head.
Suddenly, Clarice was filled with an inner certainty that had nothing whatever to do with observable facts. Every instinct cried out against him. Outwardly calm, inwardly screaming, Clarice rose slowly and walked over to the cold fireplace to give several emphatic tugs on the embroidered bell-pull.
“I have a sudden fancy for macaroons. My cook has a miraculous touch with such things,” she said, trying to recapture her easy smile. Please God that Camber would respond to the sudden vicious jangling of the bell with both footmen and the house pistol! She doubted either would be of any use against one of the immortal Fay, but all she longed for now was the sight of another human being.
Chapter Three
When the door burst open, she began to say gratefully. “Oh, Camber ...”
Her words clashed in midair with a higher voice saying, “Aunt Clarice, I have come—
Morgain Gardner stopped in midsentence, his heavy brows coming down over his nose. “Who’s this?” he asked with a nod toward Mr. Knight.
“A friend of your father’s,” Clarice said, hurrying over to stand between the boy and the man. Whatever dark purpose Mr. Knight had, Clarice must protect Morgain.
She said, “Didn’t I tell you to remain in your room until such time as you felt you could apologize to me?”
“Indeed, yes.” He straightened his shoulders and began an obviously preset speech. “Aunt Clarice, I have come before you to apologize unreservedly for my foolhardy and inconsiderate behavior. Knowing full well that a good laborer is worthy of his hire, it was most wrong of me to pillage Mr. Yeo’s apple trees without consideration. As Seneca rightly says—”
“Yes, yes, Morgain. Apology accepted. Now, if you please . ..”
As usual, he paid no attention. Clarice looked at her nephew with love, mingled with worry and exasperation. Morgain was short for his nine years, with a pale, freckled complexion and a snub-nose that showed no signs of growing into his father’s more aquiline profile. He wore the reddish hair he inherited from his mother somewhat long, to hide projecting cars. His brows were thick, which tended to distract attention from the remarkably quick deep green eyes that had been his father’s legacy. From babyhood, he had never known any qualms about demonstrating his large vocabulary in a clear, beautifully inflected voice. His first term at school had been sheer hell.
But eventually he’d won the respect of his cruel peers by a talent for uncomplimentary verse directed at masters, and by a fist that proved capable of striking both very straight and very hard. Within a year, he’d gone from being a pariah to being one of the notables of the school, an outcome which, though fortunate in itself, had done nothing to limit a self-opinion that had started out tolerably high.
Morgain, perhaps feeling that he deserved more of an introduction than he had received, neatly avoided her by going around the other end of the settee. “How do you do, sir?” he said again. “I’m Morgain Gardner. You know my father?”
“I’m Dominic Knight. Yes. We have the same publisher.”
The two shook hands. Clarice froze as Blaic’s caution came back into her mind.
“There is one way to tell whether someone is of the People or not. If you touch one, they are obliged to obey you in your next request, no matter what it may be.”
If Mr. Knight were not a human being, he would have responded to Morgain’s handshake with an offer to do his bidding. Even without her fear of Mr. Knight, this seemed a terrible prospect. Her mind reeled at the thought of the damage Morgain could do with even one wish, let alone the traditional three!
However, rather than appear ready for wish-granting, Mr. Knight had become distracted by some crumbs clinging to his breeches. He brushed them off, while Clarice wondered if this law of which Blaic had spoken only worked for human beings. Morgain, after all, was half-Fay.
She recalled her promise, so lightly given. “I shall make it a point to touch every stranger I meet. “
She considered touching Mr. Knight herself. A brush of the fingers might tell her everything she needed to know. She took her seat again behind the tea tray, plotting.
Morgain was seated crosswise on the opposite settee, asking Mr. Knight questions about his books while eating preserved meat sandwiches at a great rate, despite his already maltreated stomach.
“Legends?” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I’ve heard a few. The maid at Tallyford Orphanage is a great hand at stories. She used to work for my mother before I was born.”
Mr. Knight nodded solemnly. “I would very much like to meet her.”
“She might talk to you. Mary doesn’t care for strangers as a rule but she’s always said ‘a man may do as he likes with me ... within reason.’ “ Unlike most boys, Morgain didn’t speak too high or flutter his lashes when he imitated a woman. Yet for an instant his imp’s face took on the character of a maid who’d achieved middle age without losing any of her charm or vivacity.
“Morgain, you’ll give Mr. Knight the wrong impression,” Clarice chided him gently. “Mary is a treasure,” she said, turning toward the man. “Though the sister of our local physician is nominally in charge at the orphanage, I believe Mary truly runs the school. Morgain’s mother began as directress there before her marriage and Mary went with her. Felicia left; Mary stayed on. I don’t know how we should get along without her.”
“This orphanage is a charity of yours, Lady Stavely?”
“Of my father’s, rather. I continue his good work.” She glanced up at the small clock upon the mantel as it awoke to sprinkle small silver notes over them. “Where is Camber?” she asked. “I rang for him quite ten minutes ago.”
A moment later, he came in. “I beg pardon, my lady. Some Gypsies came to the back door and I found it necessary to deal with them myself.”
“Gypsies? How odd. Well, never mind. Some macaroons, if you please. Camber. Oh, and pray bring another cup for Master Morgain.”
“Yes, please. Camber,” Morgain said, twisting around to look at the young butler, always one of his favored people. “Would you bring me a pot of stout Indian tea? I can’t abide this smoky stuff. I don’t think he likes it much cither,” he added, jerking his thumb toward his aunt’s guest.
“On the contrary,” Mr. Knight said, for which politeness Clarice honored him, even if he wasn’t human. He took another sip, only his second. “I’m beginning to acquire a taste for it.”
Clarice smiled at him and saw him blink with surprise at her sudden increase of warmth. “You shall have Indian, if you prefer. See to it. Camber.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She left it to Morgain to carry the conversation, something well within his powers. He too loved the vastness of the moor, the sense of centuries bearing down upon one, and also knew a surprising amount about the sheep that wandered the hills and dales. Whether Mr. Knight had any such interest, Clarice could not tell. Certainly he was polite when Morgain veered off into a monologue regarding the various merits of one kind of fleece over another.
She noticed, however, that Mr. Knight’s smile had lost that patronizing quality that she had objected to. Obviously Mr. Knight only thought little of women. Anything male was worthy of his respect.
When Camber carried in the second round
of refreshments, she broke in. “I think you’ll quite like these. I can’t tell you how many times my neighbors have tried to wrest the recipe from my cook. Isn’t that right, Camber?”
“Yes, my lady. She stands proof against them all. Even bribery has failed.”
Clarice put several of the browned puffs on a plate and offered it to Mr. Knight. When he reached out for it, she quite blatantly allowed her fingers to brush his as he took the plate.
His skin was warm against her own. It was the most fleeting of touches, yet the impression lingered so that she wrapped her left hand over her right to banish the sensation.
He stared down at the macaroons, his brows twitched together. Just as he had when she’d given him his first cup of tea, he seemed to take a moment to judge, to measure, and to ask deep questions of himself.
Then his dark-lashed lids lifted and he subjected her to the same look. He studied her carefully and at length, his eyes both dark and clear like smoky quartz. Clarice felt the hot color mount to her cheeks but she could not look away. She felt that he knew what she’d attempted by her touch and why.
But that was madness. If he were only what he seemed, then he could not know. Certainly he’d not leapt to offer his services in accordance with any faery Law.
At last, he turned again to listen to Morgain. Clarice let out her breath in a silent sigh, satisfied that he was no more than a man. She couldn’t help, however, looking at him again, reappraising his person.
“But how foolish!” Morgain said, like a man of fifty reproving a youngster. Before she could chide him, he turned to her. “Now, Aunt, isn’t it the height of folly to travel ten miles or more every day when a simple arrangement can be made to stay here?”
“I’m sorry, Morgain, I don’t follow you.”
“Mr. Knight intends to put up at the Magpie in Tallyford, seeing as the Ram’s Head is full. Why shouldn’t he stay here?”
“Here?”
“My father would have him to stay, I know he would.”
“Undoubtedly, but.. .” She didn’t quite know how to explain propriety to Morgain. After all, Mr. Knight was a stranger. To have an unknown man stay in her house, where she had only a boy and servants to chaperon, was not to be considered for an instant. On the other hand, he was an acquaintance of Blaic’s and surety her credit was high enough to withstand any rumors that might fly about her. Best to make the offer and leave it to him refuse as no doubt he was eager to do.
“Mr. Knight is welcome to stay, of course. I should have thought of it myself.”
Now was his opportunity to decline with thanks. Instead, he said, “Is Tallyford truly ten miles off?”
“Yes, it is. Vile bad roads too,” Morgain said.
“I don’t mind that. I came on horseback.”
Clarice stiffened. “A dark bay?”
“Yes.”
She wanted to ask if it was he who had chased her and why, but not in front of Morgain. Mr. Knight watched her curiously. Clarice did not meet his eyes again, though she was very much aware of their regard.
Morgain said, “There’s half a dozen remnants of early civilization not half a mile from the gate here at Hamdry. I know every one of ‘em and can take you to ‘em.”
“Your good aunt has already offered me the help of one of her tenants.” Clarice thought this designation made her sound sixty years old if a day.
“Oh, she means Collie,” Morgain said. “He’s good. But not even he knows as much as me.”
“ ‘As I,’ “ Clarice corrected.
“That’s right,” Morgain said. “She knows even more than I do. I’ve only been allowed to go alone on the moor in the last few years. She’s been up there hundreds of times.”
“I manage to totter up there once in a great while now I’m in my dotage,” Clarice said, laughing at the boy.
At last, Mr. Knight said what politeness demanded. “I cannot impose on your aunt, kind though she is to offer.”
“It’s hardly an imposition,” she answered, having had a moment to consider. “I have more than enough room, and Morgain is right. Lodging in Tallyford will leave you to spend half the day coming and going. You should stay here, I am persuaded my brother-in-law expected me to offer you hospitality else he would not have introduced you to me at all.”
“I assure you ...”
“Cease to wriggle, Mr. Knight, I’ll have Camber show you to your room.”
Once again, she tugged the bell-pull. Mr. Knight rose to his feet and took her hand. “You’re very kind, Lady Stavely. I feel quite at home already.”
He raised her hand and bowed over it, a strangely courtly gesture from so ungallant a man. Yet that was not quite fair. He had an impassive countenance which made it nearly impossible to read what he was thinking. For one moment, though, she’d felt so strongly that he’d wanted to kiss her hand that it was almost as if he had done it. Certainly she was as flustered as though he had. She hardly had enough sense to direct Camber appropriately.
The moment the door closed behind the butler and her guest, she turned on Morgain. “You wretch!” she said, half-laughing.
“I, Aunt?”
“Don’t look so innocent! What are you about, inviting a complete stranger to make himself at home in my house?”
“Don’t you want Mr. Knight to stay? Why didn’t you say so?”
“In front of him? That would have been prodigiously polite!”
“Oh, were you just doing the pretty with him?”
“Doing the what?”
“You know ... saying what you don’t mean to—er— jolly him along?”
“Where do you learn these terrible phrases? Never mind; don’t tell me. Does your mother know you speak like this?”
“No. Besides, I’ve heard you say worse things when you’re at the stables.”
“That’s because ... never mind!” She knew how fatally easy it was to let Morgain take command of a conversation and steer it all over creation. “You had no right to make so free an invitation to a man about whom I know nothing.”
"I like him. He’s an honest man. Besides, my father wrote you a letter about him. He doesn’t make mistakes about people.”
“No, he doesn’t.” She turned her head, looking around. “Where is that letter? I thought I put it down on my desk, but it’s not there now.”
Crossing the room, she looked under the mahogany desk that had been her father’s. She even pushed back the sage green velvet drapes that hung in the double-height windows to see if it had flown off to lodge behind one. The letter had gone as utterly as if it had been dropped onto the fire.
“How odd.”
“It’ll turn up,” Morgain said, completely uninterested. A moment later, he burped discreetly. He tucked his hand between two buttons of his waistcoat and put the other to his forehead. “Oh, Aunt Clarice . ..”
“I knew those sandwiches boded ill! Come along to your room. I’ll find Pringle.”
“Not more oil of walnuts, please . ..”
The long summer twilight hung like a shimmering veil across the sky. With an hour before him until supper, Mr. Knight walked in Hamdry’s justifiably well-reputed garden. His hostess had intended to show it to him herself, but the renewed illness of her nephew had detained her. Dominic was just as well pleased to be alone.
He knew the names of none of the flowers that bloomed in merry profusion in the neat beds, and had no aesthete’s eye for the sculptures that stood among the tall green hedges. Botany and art had never come much in his way. Yet something about the combination of cool stone and joyous color did seem to summon some appreciation from the depths of a soul uncultivated. If he had not had vital business in the grotto, he would have passed a happy hour there.
But his duty summoned him to the grotto at the bottom of the garden, not far from where a laughing streamlet flowed. He glanced around him to be certain he was unobserved. All his carefully trained senses were on the alert. He went into the grotto, satisfied that no one watched him.
The grotto was built of manmade stone, cunningly crafted to look quite real. Inside, it was snug enough, but only about eight feet deep, though twice as wide, with a high ceiling and a sanded floor. The opening allowed plenty of light to enter. The air inside felt pleasantly cool on his cheek. He was quite alone.
“I am here.”
A queer echo brought his voice back to him almost as soon as he’d spoken. For a moment, nothing happened.
Dominic said again, “I am here.”
This time, there came no echo. His words were snatched from his lips by a sudden wind that sprang up within the grotto. It sent his cravat flying into his face, flapped the tails of his coat about his sides, and brought with it a fragrance that shamed the scents of the Hamdry garden.
The back wall of the grotto vanished and a light as opulent and brilliant as the reflection from pure gold shone in. A shadow moved against this light, coming nearer. Dominic went down on one knee, his head bowed. A pair of velvet boots, the same soft brown that covered stag antlers in the spring, stood beside him.
“My king,” he said humbly. “All is well. The mortal woman has taken me into her house. She does not suspect me.”
“Excellent. You have done well.”
Dominic could not accept praise that was not his due. “I have done nothing. She would not hear of my residing elsewhere.”
“She is kind?”
“Most kind. Yet I think the false letter I showed her did more for me than even her kindness.”
King Forgall sighed. “Yes, it was a ruse unworthy of us, useful though it may have proved.”
“The boy too spoke for me. He is half-Fay, is he not?”
“I am certain I told you so.”
“Never a word, my king.”
Forgall’s foot moved restlessly. “No? Well, ‘tis true enough. His father was a prince among us and surrendered everything sooner than lose a woman. This woman you guard is at feast halfway in love with him herself.”
“I have seen no sign of this.”
“But you have learned so much of war that the lessons of love have passed you by.” The Fay-King’s laugh was a whisper. “She is fair as well as kind, this Clarice Stavely?”
Magic by Daylight Page 4