STILL trying to think her way past the shocks of the last hour, Maya made her way around the periphery of the house, reinforcing her magics, trailed by the mongooses and Charan. It seemed to her that tonight there was more power there, behind her own, perhaps coming from her little friends. The walls glowed brighter to her inner sight than they ever had before, and there was a strong taste of honey and sandalwood in her mouth as she worked. When she was finished, she went to her bedroom in a daze, and although she was bone-tired, she checked and rechecked her protections before she dared try to sleep.
But when she did sleep, it was a restless sleep, as mind and memory worked together to try to identify, out of the half-remembered tales of her childhood, the beings who walked in the guise of pets. Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva—Laksmi, Kama—surely not Ganesh— Skanda was obvious, and Hanuman, but the others—
The multi-limbed, multi-faced, multi-faceted deities
of India whirled in a complicated dance of confusion in her dreams. Only Kali, with her protruding tongue and her necklace of skulls, held aloof; watching, waiting, singularly uncaring. I am a healer, a physician! she wanted to cry to them. I am a Christian! I want no part of your quarrels, no part of your plans! But it was like arguing with a thunderstorm; you could shout all you liked, but you were still going to get wet.
And possibly struck down by lightning, unless you were careful, careful, and kept meek and still.
But even if you keep meek and still, the storm can wash you away. . . .
It was late when her mind finally gave up the struggle and her restless tossing became the oblivion of true sleep. And when she woke, she was no wiser than she had been when she went to bed.
For some, the light of day might have dispelled the fears of last night, and the strange revelations would have dissolved like frost on a sunny window. How could a stolid Englishman, full of port and beef and the assurance of his own special superiority, ever have taken seriously a monkey that spoke, let alone some nebulous threat from a female votary of a god he didn't believe in, whose power could not even exist by the laws of creation as he knew them?
But that surety was not for her. In India, real magic blossomed in sunlight and moonlight alike. Wonders happened in the full of day, and she had seen too many of them to ever doubt that what had happened by night would not be as real in the daylight. I am a physician, and English. But I am also Hindu, of Brahmin blood. I know that there are more things than can be observed in the lens of a microscope, weighed, and measured. I know that the world is not as we would have it, but as it is, and that is not always as an Englishman sees it.
She made her preparations and dressed, preoccupied with the events of last night, so preoccupied that she didn't bother with more than the simplest of French braids for her hair. She drifted downstairs in a fugue, rather than a fog, of thought. It was clear what she needed to do—but how to do it?
But she had completely forgotten the letter left for her last night, until it turned up on the tea tray in the conservatory where she usually took her breakfast.
Once again, she turned it over in her hands, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar handwriting. The stationery was ordinary enough, and there was no seal, only a formless blob of sealing wax holding the flap shut.
She opened it, separating the wax from the paper, and pulled out the single folded sheet, covered with neat, evenly spaced lines of precise handwriting.
Dear Doctor Witherspoon, it began. I believe that I have made and torn up a full dozen letters in attempting to couch what I would like to tell you in vague or indirect terms. Such an attempt is folly; I will be direct. When we met in your surgery today, we both recognized each other for what we were, and I do not believe that you will deny this. You and I are alike, for we are both magicians.
That last sentence arrested her eyes, and she had to read it over three times before she truly understood it, in all its bald simplicity. She put one hand to the arm of her chair to steady herself, feeling as if the earth trembled, or at least, should have trembled. For a moment, the letter lay in her lap as she collected her wits.
Then she picked it back up and began again at that extraordinary sentence. Yes; you and I recognized each other . . . for we are both magicians. Sorcerers, if you would rather. I am what is known as an Elemental Master; my mastery, such as it is, holds over the arcane creatures of water. I was trained and schooled, long and hard, to attain my Mastery, and there are others with whom I associate and sometimes work, Masters of other Elements, of creatures and magic that few Englishmen realize even exist side by side with their cozy bed sitters, their railways, and their cream teas.
This brings me to my confession. I was sent by others of my kind to discover what it was that had made such unexpected stirrings in the occult world, stirrings that none of them recognized or could effectively trace. Because of what and who I am, because I can travel streets in London where they would be set upon in moments, they asked me to find the source of this strange and unfamiliar magic. For this, I apologize; I was sent as a spy to find you and there is no polite way to confess this. For my defense, I can only offer that the Unseen World holds many perils, as I believe you know, and my fellows dare not let something they cannot recognize remain uninvestigated.
The bald, bold words reassured her, oddly enough. There was no doubt who the letter was from now. She did not even need to turn the page over to see the signature. And she agreed with him; in his position, she would have done the same.
Oh, yes. I would, indeed. If only I were able to sense the possible peril in the first place. . . . He had investigated, and finding her harmless, had honorably confessed the reason he had invaded her domain. What was more, had she been a man, he would probably have phrased his apology exactly the same way. She felt a tingle of pleasure, and her mouth curved in a slight smile. Here, at last, was a man and an Englishman willing to admit that her strength, wit, and intelligence were equal to his in all ways—and matter-of-factly made no effort to shield her from "unpleasantness," assuming that she would deal with unpleasantness in her own time and method.
Now, please forgive me if I presume, or if I have misjudged—but although I saw your defenses were strong, as strong as any that a Master could produce, I felt they were—there is no kind way to put this either—untutored.
Her cheeks heated, but she could not be honest with herself if she didn't agree with him. She knew her protections were clumsy, cobbled together.
If this is the case, I do not know why you have had no schooling, although I can hazard some guesses. Neither do I care why this is so, to be honest, for that is none of my business unless you choose to make it so. I may be very wrong, and if I am, I can only humbly beg your forgiveness. If I am not wrong, I may have a solution for you. You have every right to ignore this—more right to tell me to go to Hades with my presumptions! If you choose to see me, you may also choose to tell me what you will of your past—or not. Your secrets may remain your secrets.
If she chose to see him? Her eyes raced across the lines of neat script avidly, suddenly impatient to find the meat of the matter.
If you wish, I venture to offer my services, to tutor you in the basic schooling that all of the Elemental Masters receive. For the knowledge particular to your own Element—Earth, if I am not mistaken—I can and will pass you to one far more qualified than I when you have achieved the basics. But I can give you what you need to make sense of what may, at the moment, be of confusion to you. I offer this because if you have erected defenses, you must have enemies. In my own self-interest and that of my colleagues, I feel I must see to it that you can meet those enemies and defeat them, before they become a peril to the rest of us.
Her heart beat faster and she felt light-headed with relief. Was this not what she had prayed for? Was this not what her mother, what Hanuman himself had told her she must find?
If you are not utterly insulted by this letter, if you wish to accept my offer, you have but to reply to this address. I will come to y
our office at any day and hour you specify, or you may send to make an appointment at any other venue you choose. This is not an offer made out of pity or contempt, Doctor Witherspoon. You have not become what you are and achieved your current status without being an admirable and formidable person, and as a woman, you must surely have faced longer odds and stiffer opposition in your endeavors than any mere male. This offer is made from one craftsman to another, who sees one who is struggling with inferior tools, and has the means to remedy that lack.
Sincerely, Peter Scott
A tugging at her skirt interrupted her before she got to the signature at the end of the letter. She looked down; there was Charan, his eyes fixed on hers, an inkwell and pen clutched carefully in one of his hands. Beside him were the mongooses, each with their sharp teeth piercing a corner of a piece of her mono-grammed stationary, Sia with a flat sheet of notepaper, Singhe with an envelope, held high above the floor to avoid treading on it.
Torn between tears of relief and laughter, Maya gently took the writing instruments from them. There was no doubt how they thought she should reply.
Sia and Singhe had left neat little puncture marks in the corners of the stationery. She wondered what he would make of that, but put pen to paper, using the little table her breakfast had stood on as an impromptu desk. She wrote swiftly, without thinking, for she knew if she thought about what she must say, she would lose the courage to say it.
Dear Sir; I accept your generous offer. Please come to my surgery tonight, at eight o'clock, when the last of my patients will be seen to. There; short and to the point. She signed it, Doctor M. Witherspoon, and fanned the paper to dry the ink quickly. In moments, it was folded, tucked into the envelope and sealed with one of the gummed wafers she always kept in each envelope to avoid having to search for them. She didn't recognize the area of the address, but then again, she didn't know a great deal of London.
I've scarcely had time or opportunity to look about.
I haven't even seen any of my theatrical patients at their jobs, and heaven knows they've offered me enough tickets, she thought wistfully as she searched in the hall closet for a hat with a veil. She donned the first that came to hand, pulling the concealing web down over her features. This was another Fleet day; she would have to hurry to get there in good time.
She stopped just long enough in her office for a stamp, making her decision to see Peter Scott irrevocable. No one, having put a stamp to a letter, has ever been known to change his mind about sending it, she thought wryly, gathering up her umbrella and her medical bag and going out the door. She was tempted to use a touch of magic to make the eyes of passersby avoid her, for she felt ridiculously conspicuous in the veil, but no one, not even people on her own street who knew her, seemed to take any notice of the change in her appearance. And now that she noticed, she was not the only lady to go veiled in the street. There was dust to consider, and the gaze of unwelcome strangers. The dust in particular was getting distinctly unhealthy. It hadn't rained in several days, the air warmed with the first hints of summer, and the "dust" was mostly dried and powdered horse dung. She would have to make certain to brush off at the door of the clinic, and insist that everyone tending patients wear clean boiled aprons and smocks.
There was a postbox on the corner; the letter went in, and she moved on. It was done, and she felt the letter leave her hand with a sense of having put something in motion that it was not in her power to stop. She sighed and quickened her pace. One thing was certain. If this was a typical day at the Fleet, she wouldn't have time to think about the meeting tonight, much less worry about it.
"Hello, old man—what are you brooding about? That's a perfectly delightful bit of lamb you've been frowning at for the past minute, and I'm sure it hasn't done anything to you."
Peter Scott looked up from his luncheon with a start. Almsley stood just beside his table, looking at him with a particularly knowing expression. As usual, Lord Peter was impeccably attired in a neat morning suit of gray flannel, his cravat conservatively tied. He must have checked his hat with his coat at the entrance to the club, since he was bareheaded. Sunlight full of dust motes streamed in through the nearest window and glinted off his pale hair, giving him a kind of specious halo. Lord Peter Almsley was an excellent fellow, but no one would ever accuse him of being angelic.
Peter Scott had decided to eat at the club today, rather than one of the pubs or eateries local to his shop. He was out of the mood for bustle and noise, and there certainly wasn't any of that here. If anything, the atmosphere was positively drowsy. No one had spoken above a murmur since he sat down.
"Almsley, I didn't know you were in town!" he said, rather inanely, since it hadn't been more than two days since the meeting they had all attended. Lord Peter took that as an invitation to join him, and folded his thin limbs down onto the substantial mahogany chair across the round table, a table which was far too large for a single diner. A waiter appeared immediately, waiting attentively on Lord Peter's wishes. Where did they come from? Scott had never been able to catch one hovering, but the moment one wanted something, there was the waiter, at one's elbow. It was a trifle unnerving.
"Exactly what he's having, but I'll give it proper attention," Almsley said. The waiter nodded, and betook himself off, vanishing into that limbo in which the Exeter Club waiters existed when they were neither taking orders nor bringing food. "Now, what has that poor bit of meat done to make you so annoyed at it?" Almsley asked, taking a roll from among the folds of the linen napkin lining the breadbasket between them, breaking it apart with long fingers, and buttering it, somehow turning the simple act into a pantomime the equal of a Japanese tea ceremony, though with none of the solemnity.
Peter chuckled. "It's what I've done that worries me," he replied, rather glad to have someone to talk to. Once the letter had gone out, he'd been taken with mixed feelings. What if she replied? What if she didn't? "And I'm afraid that there's a distinct possibility that the other—members—will be more than merely annoyed at me if they find out." He explained what he had discovered about Doctor Witherspoon as succinctly as possible, although he had to catch himself once or twice when he realized he was dwelling on the lady's virtues a little more enthusiastically than the short acquaintance would warrant. Lord Peter's face remained an absolute blank the entire tune, telling Scott little or nothing about what the other was thinking.
When he had finished, Almsley examined his half-eaten roll with every sign of interest, but his pale blue eyes had that look in them that told Peter that his "twin" had absorbed and was now considering every word he said. He finished just as Almsley's luncheon arrived, but although the plate steamed invitingly when the waiter uncovered it and vanished again, Lord Peter made no move to take up his implements. Instead, he put both elbows on the table, steepled his fingers together, and stared intently at Peter Scott across them. The intelligent eyes took on a sharpness that few people ever saw in them.
"I think, Twin, that you had better not tell anyone about these plans of yours, at least not for a little while," Almsley said. "But I also think that this is the only possible thing you could do. In your place I'd have done exactly the same, and devil take the hindmost." His eyes gleamed with suppressed enthusiasm.
"Even this moment, I'd make the offer to help her, if I wasn't a total stranger. I'd do it if you hadn't already, that is. She sounds completely fascinating, this paragon of yours."
"I think she'll be suspicious, and rightly," Scott said thoughtfully. "The trouble is, so far as what I've done is concerned, and the way the club is likely to think about it, you're far more likely to—to—"
"To get away with it!" Almsley laughed, loud enough to attract a curious glance or two before the other diners glanced away. Laughter seldom broke the sonorous murmuring of the club dining room. "I will help if you think you need an extra set of hands and talents. We can't just leave her the way she is; the magic will break out, one way or another, and it's just a jolly good thing that so far it's o
nly broken out in healing and self-defense with her. My grandmother's told me stories—well, if I need to convince her, this doctor of yours, I'll trot them out, no need to bore you with them now."
Magic had skipped a generation in Lord Peter's family, and he was the only one of the four siblings in his own generation to have it. I wonder if some of those stories are about Young Peter? He could very well have been an unholy terror as a child. Scott kept his smiles to himself, but he was pretty sure that whatever else he'd been like, Peter Almsley had never been a timid or reticent child.
"I may hold you to that promise," Peter Scott replied. "You don't erect a defensive barrier unless there's something to defend against; you don't use magic that confuses other mages as to where you are unless you expect to find another mage looking for you."
"Agreed, to all of it," Lord Peter said, now moving to attack his meal. He sobered just a moment, then lightened again, as if he didn't want to voice his own unease. "Do get the trick of that last bit from her, if you can, won't you? I can think of any number of useful purposes a bit of 'don't look at me' could be put to. Better than being invisible, that."
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