Shadow Grail #2: Conspiracies

by Mercedes Lackey; Rosemary Edghill

  Loch slammed the cabinet drawer closed. “So that’s why I don’t like guns.”

  He looked up, and she nodded a little, trying to look as sympathetic as she could. She didn’t feel as if she dared say anything.

  * * *

  They leafed through files and boxes until almost three in the morning, and the only thing that seemed worth looking into was something Spirit found in a box half full of what looked like old receipts. It was a pile of identical leather-bound scrapbooks, each with gold tooling, an elaborate monogram, and a picture of the house inset on the front cover. Just paging through the first couple, Spirit quickly realized that they were older than anything she had ever seen about Oakhurst—that they dated from the time the first stone had been laid here. In fact, as she deciphered a couple of handwritten notes, it looked as if these were scrapbooks put together by the original owner. As far as she could tell, he had documented every step of the construction, and then went on to collect every mention of it he could lay his hands on. In later volumes there were society columns from as far away as Chicago mentioning parties here, and the menus and guest lists from those parties, photographs of people posing stiffly on horseback or with guns or in clunky-looking masquerade costumes.

  “Have you found anything at all?” she asked Loch, after turning the stiff pages of a third volume, and wondering how the women ever got their waists that tiny.

  “Not a single record of a transfer,” Loch replied, sounding a little more normal, if disappointed. “If there is another version of Oakhurst for the Legacies without magic, there’s no record of it here.”

  “So where do they go?” Spirit wondered aloud, and thought, And what happens when they figure out I’m never going to get any magic?

  “Maybe they don’t go anywhere.” She looked up, and Loch shook his head. “I am completely without a clue here.”

  “You don’t suppose…” she gulped, but it had to be said. “You don’t suppose that the ones without magic … die?”

  That possibility had been haunting her ever since she got here; that the only reason that she had lived was because she wasn’t “normal.” And worse … that because she wasn’t “normal,” her family had gotten a big fat target painted on them. So in a way, the reason they were dead was because of her.

  Loch looked her right in the eyes and nodded just a little. “It makes a kind of awful sense, doesn’t it?” he replied.

  She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to think about it. Instead she showed him the pile of scrapbooks. “I found these. I think they belonged to the original owner of the house.”

  He got up and came over to where she was sitting, squatted down on his heels beside her and looked through a few pages of one. “These might have something for Addie in them, and I doubt anyone is going to miss them. We might as well take them upstairs.”

  She nodded, and shoved roughly half of them over to him. He picked them up wordlessly.

  She still felt awkward after his revelation, and the awkwardness didn’t pass once they were out of the Furnace Room. It was only when they got into the hallways near the kitchen that it was broken, when she thought she heard a faint footfall, and they both froze.

  Loch put a hand on her arm, ran it up to her mouth, and tapped her lips, warningly. She nodded. They both held as still as they could, though it seemed to Spirit that her breathing was horribly loud, and surely her heart was beating hard enough for someone to hear it.

  She also had the creepy feeling that there were eyes on her.

  But if it was Ms. Corby, or one of the other teachers, why hadn’t someone jumped out to confront them? They were breaking the rules; they shouldn’t have been out of their rooms this late, and certainly not together.

  Maybe it was another student. Maybe it was someone who was sneaking into the room of a girlfriend—or boyfriend.

  They stood like that, unmoving, for so long her legs started to cramp.

  Loch could have left her, of course. He was a Shadewalker, he was really in no danger of getting caught.

  But he didn’t. He stayed with her, hand warm against her arm, while she stood there getting all knotted up with tension, listening for another sound out in the dark.

  Finally he squeezed her arm again, and tugged it a little before letting go.

  They parted at the divide between the boys’ and girls’ wings; the entire time they’d been making their way back to the dorms, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something or someone following them. But whatever, whoever it was, he, she, or it didn’t make its presence known. She got back to her room and eased the door open and closed again without a feeling of relief. All she could do was find her closet by feel and shove the pile of scrapbooks into the back of it on the floor, behind the shoes and boots. She’d have to find a better place for them later; for now it was enough that they were out of immediate sight.

  Then she got her pajamas back on and huddled in the cold bed, shivering until her body heat warmed it up, and she finally was able to fall asleep.

  * * *

  Elizabeth Walker wrapped her arms around herself in the hallway and stared at the door she had just seen someone enter. There had been two people down in the part of the house past the kitchen. One of them had been a boy, since he’d gone to the boys’ wing. The other—she hoped she had counted the number of doors right; she wouldn’t know who it was until daylight and she could check the nameplates.

  What had they been doing down there? She was pretty sure it wasn’t for making out. Who’d go make out in the storage rooms when everyone had his or her own private room and it would be just as bad to be caught out of bed as in it with someone? She thought she’d seen them carrying something, maybe two piles of books, but why? What could they possibly want that they couldn’t get by daylight? Not student records, those were all kept on the computer, not in notebooks.

  Maybe they knew something, too? Knew just enough, and were looking for more answers, maybe allies, the way she was?

  Could it be two more of Them?

  She didn’t think there were any Shadow Knights among the students.…

  But could she really be sure?

  * * *

  Spirit didn’t get a chance to show Addie her pile of scrapbooks in the morning, because she was awakened by Muirin, who sailed in the door without even a knock, her arms full of—stuff.

  “Up!” Muirin demanded. “I can’t finish this now without fitting it on you.”

  “What?” After last night, Spirit felt as groggy as if she had been drugged, and she couldn’t imagine what on earth Muirin was talking about.

  “Your dress, doofus!” Muirin said. “I have to fit it to you if it’s going to look decent. Up! I won’t be seen with anyone that looks like she got her dress straight out of the storage closet!”

  “Uh—” Spirit didn’t get a chance to say anything else; Muirin ruthlessly pulled the covers off her, hauled her up to stand on a chair, pulled something like an inside-out gown over the top of her pajamas, and then poked and pinned and muttered while Spirit tried to wake up and make sense of what Muirin was doing.

  She hadn’t gotten more than a vague notion of what the dress was—maybe—going to look like, when Muirin finished pinning, yanked it up over her head again, and sailed out the door, muttering, leaving Spirit standing with the door open, barefooted, in a shower of pins, with her pajamas half over her head.

  By the time she’d picked up all the pins so she was sure she wasn’t going to end up with a toe impaled, she knew she was going to have barely enough time to get dressed to get breakfast without getting into trouble.

  Loch, Burke, and Addie were just finishing as she squeaked in the door. Muirin was nowhere to be seen.

  “She ate early,” Loch said, without looking up at her.

  Spirit blinked, and realized that must mean Muirin had gotten up to eat as soon as the dining room opened in order to have stormed into Spirit’s room to fit the dress.

  “She didn’t sleep,” Addie
said, with a wry smile. “She was in a white-hot passion of creation all last night.”

  “Creation or caffeine.” Burke shrugged. “Don’t look at me, I’m a guy, I don’t get all that froufrou stuff.”

  Spirit sat down, silently poured milk over her cereal, and began to eat. Her brain sluggishly began to wake up … and she looked down to hide her sour expression.

  Because it certainly would have been nice if the others could be half as motivated about finding out who was behind the Hunt as they were about that stupid, stupid dress.

  FIVE

  Spirit sat on the edge of her bed in her slip, and reminded herself for the bazillionth time that this was just one night. Nothing was going to get done or undone in just one night. It wasn’t as if this was even a Significant Night like the Equinoxes or Solstices. Not a thing had stirred, for good or bad, since the last night of the Hunt.

  New Year’s Eve was just an arbitrary night on a calendar; there was nothing magically special about it. Keep her guard up, sure, but there was no reason to be paranoid.

  She’d never have gone to a dance, much less a formal dinner and dance like this one, if she was still at home. If she was still at home.…

  It would have, could have, been so exciting. Fancy dress, a dinner right out of a movie? Way to go, Oakhurst, for turning what should have been a dizzying experience into an ordeal, and sucking every bit of joy out of it.

  That was pretty much the way things went around here, though.

  She took a deep breath. Okay, so this was going to be a night of tense misery alternated with pure boredom, but hey, at least there wouldn’t be anything trying to kill her or her friends.

  She was sitting on the edge of her bed in her slip because Muirin hadn’t delivered the dress yet … and if she didn’t hurry up and do so, Spirit was going to have to go to the formal dinner in whatever was left in the Little Closet of Horrors. Or whatever she could make look sort-of formal with her school uniforms.

  And at this point, she wasn’t sure she cared.

  The door burst open and Muirin sailed through it, carrying a black-and-white dress over her head like a banner. Her expression was one of triumph and she looked absolutely fabulous, as if she was ready to step onto the Red Carpet at an awards ceremony.

  “Sorry I took so long, my hair decided to have a mind of its own.” Muirin handed the hanger to Spirit and closed the door. “Oh good, Addie did your hair already.”

  Actually, Spirit had done her own hair—she wasn’t too bad at doing a French braid—but she decided not to say anything. Instead she stood up and held the dress out for a look.

  She felt herself smiling. It was actually—nice! More than nice, it was elegant! It had nice straps—she had lived in terror that Muirin was going to make her go strapless, because she didn’t have any strapless bras. It was kind of like the dress Audrey Hepburn had worn as Eliza Doolittle at the ball, fitted in from the chest to the hips and flaring out from there, except the black had been made into a couple of side panels that would make her look taller and model-slender. “Here,” Muirin said, shoving something else at her, which turned out to be a wrap made of more black satin with white fur on the inside. “You’re going to freeze otherwise. You got them to get you white shoes like I told you, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” Spirit replied, sticking out one foot to show, while she struggled into the dress. Muirin spun her around while she was still struggling, expertly tugged the dress down and into place, and zipped her up, all before she quite knew what was going on.

  “A credit to my design,” Muirin said smugly.

  Spirit turned to look in the mirror and blinked. She looked … well, a lot older. Sophisticated. Not like she’d expected.

  Next to her, Muirin was just amazing, all sleek and styled and a whole lot older than she actually was, with just enough Goth about her to keep her looking like herself instead of someone’s trophy wife. All in black, of course. Even to the tiara in her hair, which was black crystals instead of the usual faux diamonds.

  Then Spirit blinked at the tiara, because it didn’t even remotely have that “fake” look to it, and turned toward Muirin to look more closely at it.

  “Black star sapphires. Man-made. And the setting’s only ten carat.” Muirin smirked. “The Trust isn’t going to let me go that crazy.”

  She’s wearing a gold and star sapphire tiara.…

  Spirit didn’t have any jewelry … but then again, what was the point? Everyone knew she wasn’t rich. Self-consciously she patted her hair, took a last look at her makeup, and reached for the wrap to go.

  “Don’t forget your ring,” Muirin cautioned.

  Spirit blinked. “My—”

  “Ring. Class ring. This is one of the times you have to wear it.” Muirin held out her hand with a look of distaste. On it was her class ring, the stone reflecting golden-yellow. “Even if it doesn’t go with the dress.”

  “Oh. Right.” Spirit opened the drawer she’d tossed the box into the day she got it, and fished it out. She felt a distaste that matched the look on Muirin’s face as she opened it, and a heavy reluctance to put the thing on.

  It seemed to close around her finger as she did, and she fought back an urge to yank it off and throw it back in the drawer. Instead, she picked up her wrap, and waved at Muirin. “Age before beauty,” she quoted wryly.

  “Pearls before swine,” Muirin smirked, finishing the Dorothy Parker quote, as Spirit had known she would. Spirit grinned, and followed her out.

  The dining room looked even more formal than it had at Christmas dinner. Red velvet curtains hid the buffet line, more red velvet curtains closed out the view from the windows. Every table was set with the really, really good china with the school crest in gold, and a dozen different forks and spoons and knives. There were candles in silver holders on each table, the napkins were linen in silver holders, and there was a card at each place setting, in a silver holder. Spirit didn’t have to pick them all up to know they were solid silver, not silver plate. There were four Waterford Crystal goblets for each place—Spirit knew they were Waterford because the instructions for the dinner had mentioned them. The rolls were in silver baskets lined with linen napkins. The butter was sculpted rosettes on ice in a cut-crystal bowl that sparkled and cast rainbow reflections. The salt and pepper shakers were crystal and silver, which did the same. One of the waitstaff, done up in a tux, stopped them at the door. He gravely asked Muirin her name, then consulted a list and conducted her to a table. He did the same for Spirit, who by this time was hideously tense. Who was she going to get stuck with?

  No one awful, it turned out; just the regular gang plus an adult, which was such a relief. The waiter brought her to a table near the windows that held Burke, Muirin, Addie, Loch, and a teacher she only knew vaguely, a Ms. Campion, who taught Chemistry and Alchemy.

  She started to reach for her chair, then remembered just in time to let the waiter pull it out for her. When she was seated, he handed her a menu. One of the glasses was already poured full of water, and with her mouth dry, she reached for it.

  She looked up at the same time, and noticed Burke staring at her as if she was a stranger. She felt her cheeks getting warm, but in a good way.

  “That’s a very attractive gown, Miss White,” said Ms. Campion.

  “Thank you. Muirin made it for me,” she replied, blushing, and Muirin grinned and winked.

  “Muirin’s creative ways with clothing are familiar to the staff,” Ms. Campion responded dryly. Muirin grinned even harder, but managed to make herself look serious before the teacher glanced her way again.

  Polite conversation. We’re supposed to make polite conversation.… Spirit racked her brain for something to say. Not school, that wasn’t sophisticated enough. The weather was too ordinary.

  Addie saved her. “Are you a fan of classical music, Ms. Campion?” she asked politely.

  “Very much so,” the woman said, a little warmth coming into her smile.

  “Ah! Well, I rec
ently was introduced to the works of a composer new to me,” Addie replied brightly, “through a movie Spirit recommended.”

  That managed to get a conversation started that they could all add to, the use of classical music in movies, and from that, to composers who specialized in movie music. Then the waiters delivered the appetizers, except the menu called it “First Course.” It was—snails. She had never, ever thought she would find herself eating snails! But the other choice was raw oysters on the half shell, and at least the snails were cooked. So she dug the snails out of their shells with a special little fork, and managed to get two down by not thinking about what they were. Then “Second Course,” which was soup; she couldn’t tell what it was, except it was creamy, orange, and didn’t taste like tomato. Third was a little portion of fish with a pale yellow sauce on it and cucumber slices. Fourth was a little piece of steak and a couple of teaspoons of stir-fried vegetables, and she would have thought that was going to be the end of it, except the menu said, no, there was a lot more to come … all the portions were tiny, but with all the food that was on that menu, they would have to be, or you could never get through it.

  Next, a slice of … she had to consult the menu … it was duck with orange sauce, some sort of fancy sweet potatoes, and peas. All in doll-tea-party-sized portions, of course.

  Then they brought a cup of something that looked like sherbet. It was, kind of. Not very sweet. Tasted sort of wine-y.

  Then half a little bird. The menu said “quail.” With stuffing. She was terrified they were going to make her eat the bones, too, but no, she watched Addie, and Addie teased the meat off with her knife and fork and just ate that.

  Then cold asparagus with a vinegar-y sauce.

  Then something brown and little rounds of bread to spread it on. Pâté de foie gras. Goose liver paste. Ugh. But the rule was, you had to eat some of every single course and look as though you liked it. They were actually going to be graded on “apparent enjoyment.” Well, not graded, “critiqued,” but it might just as well have been a grade. She managed, somehow, mostly by scraping as little of it on the bread as she could.