The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters)

by Mercedes Lackey

  A tiny smile flitted across the firm lips of the elder Holmes. “I see I have challenged the lioness and she has shown her fangs,” he said, mildly. “No, my dear lady. I promise you that I will not fling you and your husband willy-nilly at whatever perplexing occult problem rears its ugly head. Alderscroft has an entire Hunting Lodge for that sort of thing. I will come to you and ask, ask, I repeat, for your aid only when it is clear that only your peculiar combination of talents will do. Does that satisfy you?”

  Mary relaxed a little. “Yes, Mycroft, it does.”

  “And we will serve Her Majesty to the best of our abilities,” added John. Nan thought he might be both a bit aghast at Mary’s boldness, and a bit grateful for it.

  Mycroft just looked like a satisfied cat.

  * * *

  Instead of going straight home, Nan and Sarah and the birds hailed a hansom and went on to Chelsea, but not to the strange little tea shop where Beatrice and her artist friends usually were in winter time. This was summer, and if Nan knew anything about artists, she knew they would all be outside, painting, taking advantage of the weather and the light until it was too dark to tell one color from another. The poets would be searching for some small scrap of nature to commune with. The musicians would either be performing in outdoor concerts, busking for pennies, or practicing with all their doors and windows flung open. Only the actors were likely to be in the tea shop . . . and then, not so many as you might think. This was the holiday season, and plenty of them had thrown their aspirations of High Art and Drama aside to pick up much needed money in seaside pierrot or concert-party groups, or touring companies providing resorts with something like thespian entertainment. So Beatrice would not be there either.

  So they had the cabby take them to Beatrice’s home, one of a row of identical, white terraced houses, where Nan hopped down and knocked on Beatrice’s door. Something like this ordinary, middle-class terraced house could not have been more unlike Beatrice Leek, and yet, here she was, and not in some witchy little thatched cottage nestled among trees.

  The door opened immediately, and Beatrice greeted Nan with “I’ve been expecting you, ducks. Come in, and bring the birdies with you.” Nan turned and waved to Sarah, who paid the cabby and jumped out herself, bringing the birds’ carriers with her.

  Beatrice was a plump, comfortable looking woman of late middle age, with a round face, pink cheeks that owed nothing to rouge, a mad mop of gray hair, and eyes that seemed to look right into your soul. When she visited the tea shop she habitually dressed in Artistic Reform style, but today she really looked like the witch she claimed she was, in a colorful, patchwork skirt, flowing blouse of bright green, and a shawl as colorful as her skirt. The house they walked into was just as colorful. The hall was not fashionably papered; it had been hand-painted, possibly by one of Beatrice’s artist friends, in an imitation of a medieval tapestry. The scene was of a forest meadow, dotted with flowers and full of animals and birds both real and mythical, the centerpiece of which was a unicorn. There were three coatracks, all of them burdened by shawls, coats, and hats. There were two umbrella stands, full of walking sticks and staffs, all of them fancifully carved. Some of the staffs were surmounted by glass globes or odd little sculptures.

  Beatrice’s enormous black cat, Caprice—or “Cappy”—met them at the door, and sniffed curiously at the carriers.

  “Hallo ducks,” Neville said, from inside.

  Grey growled a little warning.

  Beatrice ignored it all and led them into the parlor.

  The theme of the walls of the parlor was more of the same as in the hall. Here, tall, elegant women in flowing gowns danced, disported, or dozed amid the flowers and the animals. There were no pictures on the walls, but pictures would have been superfluous. The floor was covered in thick rugs layered on top of one another. The one nearest the hearth had a circle woven into it, and what appeared to be flowers were actually symbols, as Nan knew from previous visits.

  The parlor was small, just big enough for three comfortable chairs and a couple of tables. Nan took the chair that showed the least wear, assuming the one with the most wear was Beatrice’s favorite. Sarah took the one next to it.

  “Let your birdies out, the raven first, and let them make their peace with Cappy,” Beatrice directed. Nan flipped the clasp on the door to the carrier, and Neville stalked out, neck feathers slightly, aggressively ruffed.

  But Cappy regarded him calmly, approached slowly, and carefully extended his neck until he had bumped Neville’s beak with his nose. They stood there like that for several moments, until Neville raised his head, roused his feathers, and pronounced, “You’re a bit of all right.”

  Then it was Grey’s turn. Grey emerged with all her feathers up, looking a lot like an enormous pinecone. This time Cappy moved even slower, as if he understood that Grey was seriously alarmed and completely uncertain of all of this. But once they were beak-to-nose, Grey smoothed her feathers down, stopped pinning her eyes, and finally, reached out herself and gave a little bit of a groom to Cappy’s right ear.

  Then both birds went to the backs of their respective chairs, as Cappy settled down on the hearthrug, purring like a clockwork.

  Beatrice listened carefully to everything they told her, starting from the moment when Lestrade had called them in to examine the first body to when they had left the Exeter Club. When they finished, she tsked and sat there thinking for a moment.

  “Well, I think the Lion’s right, ducks,” she said. “There’s been something dark a-stirring and it matches a necromancer, right enough. But Sarah, deary, do you really think you’re ready for what the Lion wants you to do?”

  “You think I can do such a thing?” Sarah asked in return. “Memsa’b never mentioned any such possibility when she was teaching me.”

  “Your Memsa’b is a canny wench, but she doesn’t know everything, ducks,” Beatrice admonished. “Particularly not about mediums. My family has had this sort of talent in it since Hector was a pup. It’s not something I do, but I know how to teach you. But it’s not for the faint-hearted.”

  Now Sarah raised an eyebrow at the old woman. “Whatever gave you the notion that I was faint-hearted?” she demanded.

  Beatrice regarded her soberly for a moment more. “All right, then. Now . . . the Lion got something wrong, and you should know about this before you go any further. You can’t just see into the spirit plane, my love. It doesn’t work that way. The only way the living can interact with the spirit plane is for your soul to leave your body and go there.”

  “Oh . . . like astral travel?” Sarah asked. “Memsa’b told us about that, but she said unless it was a dire emergency, it wasn’t worth the risk.”

  “Memsa’b was right. There’s things waiting for the unwary once you leave your body, things that’ll gobble you right up. And travel on the spirit plane is something like astral travel. Except instead of traveling in the real world, you cross the border, into the plane where ghosts that haven’t crossed over lurk. And I wouldn’t advise you do anything but cross the border, at least at first. It’s very easy to lose your head, and when you lose your head, you’ll lose your way.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Now . . . some people do this with drugs. It’s easier with drugs, but I don’t hold with drugs,” Beatrice continued.

  “I don’t either,” Sarah and Nan said together, then looked at each other, and smiled a little. “The easy way is seldom the best way,” Sarah added. “I’d rather do this the best way.”

  “All right then.” She glanced at Nan. “You could learn this too.”

  “I can?” She blinked a little at that.

  “No reason why not. You two are practically twinned souls, and—”

  But just then, Cappy raised his head, and made a little mrrow? of inquiry, as a soft whisper asked, “Can I help?”

  Beatrice jumped, then peered just past Sarah’s right shoulder. “Bless my soul!” she exclaimed. “You have a spirit guide, Sarah?”


  “I forgot I was wearing the locket!” Sarah replied, with a start. “Beatrice, this is Caro. I don’t know if she’s a spirit guide, exactly, but she says she’s not ready to move on until she’s actually accomplished something in the world.”

  That led to an explanation, half by Caro, half by Sarah, of who the spirit was, and why she was with Sarah now. As for how Caro had managed to manifest by daylight, well—

  “My house is guarded and warded and as full of energies as that teapot is of tea,” Beatrice explained. “A simple old witch like me welcomes any creature of good intent, and the power here lets them manifest. More or less . . .”

  She said that, because Caro was scarcely more than a whisper and a shimmer in the air next to Sarah.

  “But now that we’ve got all that settled, aye, Missy, you can be of great help. Having a guide like you is exactly what we need to speed things up. Do you want to try right now?”

  Nan and Sarah looked at each other. “I’m ready enough,” Nan declared.

  “Did either of you indulge in anything stronger at luncheon than tea? No? Then let’s go up to my workroom proper. And take those cushions with you—” she pointed at two plump feather pillows covered in embroidery that the girls had taken out of the chairs before they sat down. The birds flew to their shoulders, and upstairs they all went.

  Beatrice’s house was a two-up, two-down, with the sitting room and kitchen on the ground floor, two bedrooms on the second floor, and presumably an attic and a cellar. The door to one of the bedrooms was slightly ajar, and Nan caught sight of an exceedingly comfortable-looking old-fashioned bed with a wooden canopy and bedcurtains all around. Beatrice turned to the front bedroom and opened the door.

  The first thing she did was pull down the shades of the two windows and shut the drapes firmly. The second was to begin lighting candles all around. Then she gestured to the girls, who moved gingerly into the room.

  There was something like an altar at one end—north, Nan thought—which had a lovely statue in the Art Nouveau style of a half-draped woman sitting in a crescent moon, with a man wearing stag’s antlers and nothing else standing beside her. Nan was a little startled to see the resemblance to the Huntsman from the Wild Hunt in the man’s features. Nan tried not to stare; although it wasn’t as if she didn’t know what a gent looked like with no clothing, it was a little disconcerting having that particular aspect so casually displayed.

  She would have thought that Sarah would have been even more embarrassed, but Sarah barely gave the statue a glance before turning her attention back to Beatrice. And that was when Nan remembered—the African natives where Sarah’s parents worked as doctors and missionaries were inclined to wear as little clothing as the occasion called for—and given the heat of their homeland, Nan didn’t blame them. Without a doubt Sarah was much more accustomed to nude males than Nan was.

  “Lie down here on the floor, ducks, with your head to the altar,” Beatrice directed. “Birdies, settle down at their heads.” Feeling quite grateful that she hadn’t put on a corset this morning, trusting to the contours of Ladies Rational Dress to hide that little elimination, Nan obeyed. She already knew that Sarah was uncorseted; Sarah generally had to be coaxed into stays with the assertion that the lines of whatever gorgeous gown Lord Alderscroft had spoiled her with demanded that particular garment.

  “Now, close your eyes, and see your friend Caro. When you can see her, reach out with your hand, only don’t use the real one.”

  Nan got the trick of that first, more than likely because she realized that the “Nan” that was wanted was the Celtic Warrior she once had been. When she could see herself as the Warrior, she found she could see Caro too. Only this time Caro was very much stronger, more like a living person, and not at all transparent.

  She “reached” out her hand. Beside her, she sensed that Sarah was doing the same. Caro seized her hand and pulled, and with a feeling as if she had somehow popped out of a shell, Nan found herself standing next to Caro, Neville on her shoulder, and Sarah and Grey beside her.

  “By Jove, we did it!” she “said,” somehow without moving her lips. And then she realized that she was projecting telepathically.

  Sarah grinned at her. “We did, didn’t we?” And they both looked about themselves.

  The first thing that Nan noticed was the dome of light that covered them all; it was slightly smaller than the room itself. The second was the altar and the statues; they glowed with a gentle golden light, not unlike that of a full Harvest Moon.

  The third was that where they were was a sort of grayed-out version of the real world. Certain things, like the altar and the tools on it, looked solid and even more “real” than they had in the physical world. Others had scarcely a hint of color, and seemed insubstantial.

  Their bodies lay peacefully beside them, the “silver cords” Nan had heard so much about connecting them to their bodies at the navels. She tugged on it experimentally. It seemed elastic, but incredibly strong, as if one could suspend an entire building from it easily.

  Standing next to Sarah was Beatrice; curiously while Beatrice was as grayed-out as the rest of the room, she seemed to have a pulsing core of golden light in the middle of her. And as Nan peered at her, she saw Beatrice’s lips were moving.

  She concentrated hard on trying to hear her.

  Finally she made it out, as if Beatrice spoke from a vast distance away. “Come back and try again,”

  “Beatrice wants us to come back and do it again,” she told Sarah, who nodded.

  They let go of Caro’s hands and laid back down again. Nan felt her body this time, as if it was a suit of clothing she was trying to put on again. All right, she told herself, willing herself to do exactly that. Time to wake up.

  There was a moment of resistance, and then—she opened her eyes on Beatrice’s workroom. Beatrice nodded in satisfaction. “I thought you girls would take to this,” she said.

  Nan lifted her hand to her forehead and rubbed it. “I feel all heavy and clumsy,” she complained.

  “Well, you will,” Beatrice said, with sympathy. “You can see why larking off like this is tempting.”

  “Except for the fact that nothing looks real,” Sarah complained. “I have the funny feeling I’ve done this before, though.”

  “You might have done, you might have done,” Beatrice agreed. “In another life, maybe or when you were a wee one, instead of dreaming. Or both! You’d have had your African magic man looking out after you if you had gone spirit-walking as a child, no doubt.”

  “And me,” said Grey.

  “I’m not forgetting you, ducks,” Beatrice chuckled. “But back to work! Let’s try this twice more with Caro helping, for three times is luck, and then three times without.”

  The second time went as well as the first, and the third better than the second.

  Beatrice called for a rest before they tried it without any help, and Nan had to agree that she was feeling as if she had walked a brisk five miles or more. “Beatrice,” she asked, as she sat up with her legs curled under her, while Neville picked at the edge of her sleeve, amusing himself. “Why does the spirit plane look like a washed-out version of the physical world?”

  “Because that’s our world bleeding through into theirs,” Beatrice replied. “Their world is like a sheet of tracing paper laid over ours, which is a good, bright picture. They’re not meant to stay there. It’s a halfway place. All the other, spirits, the Elemental ones, have their own homes too. The spirit plane is meant to be like a—a railway station. You either get on your train and get to where you’re going, or you come out into the material plane, as if you were coming out of the station into the city. Nobody stays in a railway station. Nobody is meant to stay in the spirit plane. That’s why spirits that do overstay there often grow mad.”

  “Caro’s not,” Sarah observed, lying flat with her hands under her head.

  “Caro’s got a lot of will, and she has a purpose. Most spirits that overstay have neit
her. They’re either afraid to go on, desperately want to be alive again, or don’t know what happened to them.” Beatrice nodded as Sarah agreed. “Or so my grand-mam told me. She was the medium. I’ve only seen ghosts when they’ve come across into the physical world. That’s not often, here. These are new houses, and haven’t anything to haunt them.” She chucked. “That’s why I bought one. The auld cottage might have been in the family for centuries, but it was on land that was thick with unquiet spirits, and they’ll seek out a witch just like they seek you out, ducks. I like my peace and quiet o’nights, and now the only thing that disturbs my rest is when Cappy goes courting on the tiles.” She flexed her fingers. “Now, let’s try it three times without your guide helping, and I’ll say you’re ready to venture out on your own.”

  They took their leave of Beatrice just as the sun was nearing the horizon, but not before all three of them, birds in their carriers, walked down to the tea room and replenished their strength with a good supper. The tea room had seen odder things than a raven and a grey parrot, so the birds came out long enough to have treats themselves—Neville’s look of ecstasy at his first taste of clotted cream had them all in stitches—and they caught a cab just as the artists began trickling in, sunburnt and disheveled and dreamy-eyed.

  Beatrice hadn’t let them go empty-handed either; she’d given them her grandmother’s handwritten guide for “walking the spirit plane,” and as soon as they turned the birds loose, they both put their heads together to read it on the sofa.

  “I don’t think Beatrice ever read this,” Sarah said, after the first dozen pages. She pursed her lips.

  “Oh I think she did. Remember, she said it’s dangerous to do this. But I think she wanted us to have the words on it all firsthand.” Nan tapped the pages of the book, where it described some of the kinds of half-mad spirits that Sarah had told her of as well. “The main difference between what you have encountered as a medium in the past, and what we’ll encounter in the spirit plane, is that in the spirit plane these crazed ghosts actually can harm us. But!” she held up a finger. “We can do just as much harm to them. Maureen Leek went spirit-walking without a Caro, without a Neville or a Grey, and without weapons. The next time we try this, I think we should try making ourselves into our fighting selves. I suspect the sight of a sword in my hand will give pause even to the maddest of spirits.”