The Scarlet Dragon (The Witching World Book 5)

by Lucia Ashta

  “You too, Sir Lancelot,” Marcelo said without looking at the owl that was hoping to go unnoticed at the windowsill. Ever the student of the history of magic, he was the most curious of us all. If innovative magic was being performed somewhere, he wanted to witness and record every detail in the impregnable vaults of his mind.

  Reluctant, but without comment, Sir Lancelot flew out the open door.

  I waited. My hand clutched the door handle. I moved a step toward the opening, giving Marcelo every opportunity to say something that would change my world.

  Nothing came. When I turned to look at him, eyes more concerned than anyone else’s had been, he wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were already on Sylvia.

  It was as if a part of him hadn’t returned from the place of slumber, where he fought the darkness alone. Forcing my heart to find calm where I didn’t see any, I slipped out the door.

  When I pulled the latch closed behind me, it felt as if I were closing the door on more than a room.

  Chapter 20

  I sat in the parlor, half listening to a conversation between Mordecai and Grand-mère, gazing out the window past Sir Lancelot while petting Gertrude distractedly. It wasn’t that the topic of conversation wasn’t important. Mordecai and Grand-mère were discussing the latest correspondence from Grand-mère’s brother, Gustave. He was hoping finally to disentangle himself from the situation that was the cause of his delay. It was more that I hadn’t been the same since Marcelo woke, because he hadn’t been the same.

  “My brother says he thinks he can arrive later today.” Grand-mère’s voice rose to a crescendo. “Why, that’s wonderful news.”

  Mordecai nodded and smiled politely.

  “I know you don’t know my brother, darling, but he’s brilliant. If no one else has been able to help with Sylvia, he will. He has a way with magical animals much more powerful than mine.”

  Grand-mère looked at me then and pulled my attention from the dreary day outside, where drizzle splattered the glass of the window. “You’ll see. He’s marvelous.”

  Like Mordecai, I smiled politely, and wondered why it was so important to Grand-mère that we like or admire her brother.

  Finally, Mordecai gave Grand-mère a bit of what she seemed to be looking for. “We look forward to his visit, and his assistance. Any help at this point will be most appreciated. Does he say what time of day he anticipates arriving?”

  “No, but I imagine he’ll be here by dinnertime. Gustave doesn’t like to miss a nice dinner if he can help it. I’ll tell the staff to set an extra place at the table.”

  Again, Mordecai nodded. There wasn’t much left to say, but that was mostly because none of us knew what to say about the real problem—or, at least, one of the real problems. Neither I nor anyone else in the room had forgotten that many unresolved situations still weighed on us with the responsibility to settle them. Carlton’s absence from the castle, for one, was prolonged. But none of us was ready to abandon Sylvia, or Marcelo, to go find him, and it didn’t help that we didn’t know where to start looking. The suspicion that the unfathomable sea was the best place to begin wasn’t an encouraging one.

  Grand-mère swept out of the parlor, presumably to notify the staff to prepare for her brother’s imminent arrival. Sir Lancelot turned his back on the view of the approach up the mountain to exchange a look with me. I didn’t know exactly what the look meant, but I thought that maybe I understood. Mordecai, Sir Lancelot, and I knew Sylvia better than Grand-mère. We also loved Marcelo. The melancholy that infected me also affected them.

  Mordecai also turned in my direction. “What are we to do?” His question was rhetorical yet still hopeful, longing for an elusive resolution to an unprecedented situation. He began to run his hand through his long gray hair, just as Marcelo used to run his hand through his own. Then Mordecai stopped, and shook his head. The beads that capped the braids in his beard jingled just once, but didn’t echo as they usually did.

  I looked back at Mordecai and Sir Lancelot. They’d become trusted friends over the last few years. Then I turned my attention to Gertrude, my dear sister. She was still a cat. I petted her head and scratched behind her ears. What were any of us to do?

  I tilted my head up to meet the questioning and devastated looks of my friends. For the first time in a while, I could tell that Mordecai was remembering his brother. Albacus was another one of many losses caused by the cruel and undead Count. The losses were senseless, and they’d quickly become too many to bear.

  “I don’t know what we can do,” I said. “I feel Marcelo so far away. Do you feel that too? It’s as if he hasn’t fully returned from the darkness.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. The tears had risen to my throat and arrived with the courage—or the need—to speak what was most troubling me. “He hasn’t looked at me once since he woke. He’s been avoiding me.” I tried to keep it together, but losing Marcelo while he was alive, when I could still see all that I’d grown to love about him, seemed much harder than losing him altogether.

  I clutched Gertrude closer, pulling her into my chest. She and I had comforted each other since the time when our greatest concerns were scraped knees and torn dresses that Mother would be furious about. I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking that perhaps the tears would stay where they belonged. Crying didn’t achieve anything—at least, it didn’t accomplish any of the things I wanted desperately to manage.

  When I opened my eyes again, Sir Lancelot was perched on the back of the settee behind me like the little gentleman that he was, with wide sympathetic eyes. Mordecai sat beside me and reached for my hand, but he withdrew his before touching me. It had been a long time since a young woman was a regular part of his life, and then he’d also been young. His sister had died centuries ago, and she was quite different than everyone else. She was no preparation for dealing with me.

  Mordecai seemed at a loss for words, but that was rarely one of Sir Lancelot’s challenges. “Lady Clara,” he said, “give Marcelo time. He has suffered a terrible ordeal. If he hasn’t yet fully returned from the darkness that imprisoned him, it might just be because he needs more time to sort out what happened to him.”

  “He’s right,” Mordecai said. “I’ve known Marcelo since he was a boy. I know him as well as I would a son of my own blood. He loves you. I see how he looks at you. He’s never looked at anyone else that way. When you were trapped in the merworld and he couldn’t find you, he was desperate. He’d realized what you meant to him already then, and he was overcome with the need to find you, to share a life with you. He won’t let that go easily.”

  “I agree, Lord Mordecai. Marcelo cares for Lady Clara, and he’ll come back to himself if for nothing else than to share with her the life he’d hoped for.”

  Mordecai inched a bit closer, hesitated, then put a hand on my arm. “Marcelo doesn’t always show his emotions, but I see through him more than he realizes. You mean very much to him. He’ll come back to you. He’ll fight to do so. He’s stronger than you imagine. He had to be.” Mordecai went someplace else for a minute, and I imagined it had to be to Marcelo’s challenged childhood.

  Thanks to Count Washur, Marcelo had lost his entire family and fled Bundry to learn magic so that he could empower himself to defend against the darkness. Yet Count Washur’s darkness had seemingly won the battle just the same.

  Not for the first time, Mordecai made me question whether he’d learned to read thoughts as well as to prolong life. “We’ve fought a battle, and although we left Washur Castle with those we meant to rescue and no loss of life, I don’t think we can call it a victory. However, a battle is just one part of a war. And the war is far from over. We’re strong. Marcelo is strong. And Sylvia’s strong. We’ll pull through this, and we’ll find the way to subdue Washur so that he can’t harm anyone else as he has in the past.

  “Remember, already Washur’s magic is bound. That’s a big advancement, and a completely devastating one to someone like him who derives his value from
power in general and over others in particular.”

  “Lord Mordecai is right, Lady Clara. Marcelo and Sylvia will come out of this. Then we’ll embark on another adventure where we’ll further set things right and prevail over darkness.”

  Despite myself, I smiled. The little Irish owl had come a long way since I first met him, a prisoner of wood board, oils, and the whim of an ancestress to Mordecai. He had exchanged much of his skittish fear for courage. If he could do it, I wanted to do it with him.

  Mordecai squeezed my arm. “He’ll pull out of this. You’ll see. Just be patient with him.”

  “And love him,” Sir Lancelot piped.

  “Yes, and love him. Ariadne was right when she said that your love could help him.”

  “Love is one of the most powerful forces in this world. Perhaps I could even say that it is its own type of magic,” Sir Lancelot said, and I believed him. He’d lived longer than any one of us, longer than Mordecai and Count Washur put together even. And he remembered everything.

  “Cheer up now, Clara,” Mordecai said, clearly uncomfortable with my overflowing emotions. “All will be better soon.”

  I nodded, wiped my eyes, and smiled for his behalf, even though I had no idea how presently soon would be.

  Chapter 21

  I’d had no idea that Brave had returned to the room Marcelo banished us from or that Marcelo allowed Brave to stay. But it was Brave that delivered the good news.

  Mordecai, Sir Lancelot, and I were back to staring at nothing in particular—the rain, the luxurious wallpaper, the paintings on the parlor walls of ancestors and scenes I didn’t recognize, or Gertrude’s ginger fur—when Brave entered the parlor. He hadn’t yet said a word, but we all felt what he brought with him, and we yearned for it.

  We looked in anticipation at the young man who looked so much like Marcelo, including the deep wounding from a terrible childhood that could never be properly erased. He smiled brilliantly, and I realized that it was the first time I’d seen him smile for real.

  “My uncle did it. Sylvia just woke up.” He grinned. Then he turned from the room, knowing we would be right behind him.

  We didn’t ask how Marcelo did it or what precisely happened. We took the steps two at a time, even Mordecai, revealing not for the last time the trick that age could play. In truth, we were only as old as we thought we were. The body didn’t limit us as we were led to believe it did, especially not where magic was involved.

  We bounded up the stairs together. I continued to hold Gertrude to me, who’d never been held as much in her entire life, not even when she was a baby. But she didn’t seem to mind. She’d endured her own trauma. The comfort I could offer her was as valuable as that which she could offer me.

  We rushed through the open doorway, Mordecai first. Mordecai and Sir Lancelot went straight to Sylvia.

  But not me.

  When I entered the room, I couldn’t even see Sylvia for the blinding smile Marcelo beamed at me. Whatever kept Sylvia in the darkness must have somehow been linked to him. Because now he looked free, all but for his arm that still hung limp at his side.

  He opened one arm to me in invitation. I set Gertrude on a chair and rushed to him. I couldn’t help but cry at the beating of his heart. It was there, just as it had always been, soothing and steady, beginning to beat in rhythm with mine once more.

  “What did I miss?” Grand-mère said, breathless at the door. The excitement was tangible. It had probably trailed down the stairway to broadcast itself loudly throughout the entire voluminous house. “Ah.”

  From my place against Marcelo’s chest, I heard Grand-mère swoosh over to the bed. “My darling Sylvia,” she said as she sat on the edge of the bed, “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. You’re a beautiful creature.” Grand-mère murmured more sweet things, and Mordecai joined in.

  I smiled against a solid chest I had missed more than I thought possible in the short days since we first left Bundry for Washur. Mordecai and Sir Lancelot had been right. Love was powerful magic in its own right. With love on our side, it seemed to me then, not only could we fight, but we could win the war against Count Washur’s darkness. I knew, at the very least, that each one of us there would try.

  Chapter 22

  Once Sylvia woke, she recovered quickly. In fact, her improvement was remarkable. Unlike Marcelo, there were no apparent, lingering physical symptoms of Count Washur’s attack. No more than an hour had passed and already she was out of bed, waddling around the room to the great vocal appreciation of Mordecai and Grand-mère.

  Mathieu walked with her half of the time, offering his companionship. Still nestled into Marcelo’s one-armed embrace, I couldn’t take my eyes from the endearing sight. Here were two magnificent, magical creatures. They were powerful beyond my knowledge; I still knew little about them and their ways. Their bodies were strong—even Sylvia’s—and the tight, small scales that protected their bodies reflected the sunlight that beamed through the open window. The firedrakes waddled back and forth across the chambers—much as I imagined penguins did—in a light show of white and green opalescence. I couldn’t help but smile.

  All eyes were trained on the pair of firedrakes when I whispered to Marcelo, with both of his splits finally fully consolidated into one whole, returned from the darkness completely. “Now that Sylvia is better, can we perhaps slip away for a moment?”

  Marcelo looked down at me, surprised. I shrugged and blushed at the same time, turning my eyes downward. “We haven’t had any time together since—since our ordeal. I thought it would be nice to have a little privacy.

  “In a public area, of course,” I amended quickly. Not even a near encounter with death exempted us from the rigid rules of courtship. A maiden was not to be secluded with a man, away from public scrutiny, unless a chaperone were present. I didn’t want a chaperone. In fact, it seemed a bit ridiculous to require one after what Marcelo and I had endured. With Grand-mère there, however, for the first time since I left Norland Manor, I wanted to preserve my reputation, if for no other reason than it was easy enough to do it.

  Marcelo took my left hand in his right one, and smiled. He led me out the door without a word to anyone.

  When we stepped onto the grand wooden staircase that wound down to the bottom levels of the castle, the ring on my hand came to life. Neither one of us noticed the faint glow of Marcelo’s promise ring around my finger; we were lost to the warmth of each other’s eyes, not even looking down to monitor our footfalls across the treads.

  The ring reflected our growing power, as it had the previous times it glowed. It didn’t matter whether we noticed it or not. Our combined power augmented, because our love for each other grew.

  And, as Sir Lancelot had said with great truth earlier, love was its own kind of magic. Before the sun set for the final time on the life I would share with Marcelo, I would learn just how powerful love truly was.

  Once Marcelo led me to the parlor and we took a seat next to each other on the settee, all the things I had thought to tell him earlier no longer seemed important. Instead, anything I could think to say seemed as if it would only disrupt the peace we shared. After the anguish and nervousness of the last several days, contented tranquility was more valuable than gold.

  I leaned into the arm he draped across my shoulder and watched the raindrops fall gently beyond the window pane, amazed at how different my experience could be depending on where I was. If I were just fifteen feet forward of where I sat, I would be wet and cold.

  At times, life seemed arbitrary, as if we were the victims of chance. If only chance had gifted Marcelo with one more second for his protective shield to fully close around him before the bat impacted against his left arm. Or, if only Mother hadn’t rejected her magical upbringing, then Gertrude’s life and my own would be remarkably different. Gertrude wouldn’t be married to a hideous husband, and who knew what I would be able to do by now if I had been aware of my powers all along?

  These were signif
icant factors, with a major impact upon our lives. But what happened if I walked the same path as I had thus far today, just one step to the left or to the right? Did every choice we made have ramifications? Could we ever truly be in control of our destinies? Or was control a figment borne from the desires of the human mind?

  If Marcelo hadn’t rescued me from Mirvela’s deception far beneath the floor of Irele Castle, how would everyone else’s lives have changed? How far did the influence of what I did—or didn’t do—reach? Did it circle the globe?

  “Where did you go, my darling Clara?”

  “Hmmm.” I rubbed my head contentedly against his chest, red against the heather of his sweater. It had been a long time since I heard him call me “darling.”

  “It seems as if you went far away. What were you thinking?”

  I breathed in his scent. I couldn’t identify what seemed like a mixture of forest trees and maybe a burning fire. Whatever it was, I’d learned to recognize it as him. “Nothing worth talking about. As usual, my mind was taking me on a roundabout path either to something important, or to something entirely unimportant.”

  “Although your mind is still a mystery to me, I’ve seen enough of how it works to suspect that whatever you touch upon is usually well worth the time.”

  I smiled absently, pulling my head away from him only enough to make eye contact. “But let’s not talk about it this time.”

  “All right, my Clara.” He pulled me back into him. I leaned into him further and wrapped an arm around his abdomen. My fingers brushed his injured arm. I sat back up to look at it. I reached my hands to the sleeve of his sweater and waited for his permission. It came with an almost imperceptible nod and a small upturn of his lips, though his eyes suddenly turned heavy.

  Tenderly, I pushed the wool sleeve up, and then folded up that of his shirt. I was careful not to look at him then. Up close, his arm looked worse. I touched his skin very softly. Even my light touch seemed sufficient to collapse it and reveal that there was nothing but the leftovers of putrescence beneath.