Does Mother really understand that there is something greater at stake here? Miranda asked herself as she stared in vain across the empty gardens. How can she when I can only half believe it sometimes and I’ve been living it for days?
Just as the clock was chiming six, and just as Miranda was certain she would begin tearing her hair out, she heard a door open and close.
Miranda flew across her room and pounded on the connecting door.
“Good heavens, Miranda!” exclaimed Mother from the other side. “What is the matter?”
Miranda stood there panting as if she’d just run a mile. A lock rattled and snapped, and Mother pulled the door open. But there was Mother, perfectly composed, except for the tiny vertical line between her brows.
“I was afraid ...” Miranda gulped air, suddenly ashamed of being so dramatic. “I thought ...”
“Well, you needn’t have.” Mother turned away and settled at her dressing table. “The deed is done.”
“But you were gone so long.” Miranda stepped into Mother’s room. Its furnishings were nearly identical to her own, except done in shades of rose rather than green, and the bed was larger. A subtle gibe at Daphne Quicke’s reputation?
“Lord Tapscott was most interested in showing me every inch of the gardens.” Mother studied her face in the mirror. Miranda couldn’t help looking as well, and for the first time in her life, she noted how tired her mother looked. “I had a time keeping him from doing something Lady Tapscott would make him regret. Still.” She drew herself up. “We are here, it is done, and now, my dear, I must ask you to withdraw. If I don’t have a nap before the festivities this evening, I will be quite useless.”
“Of course,” murmured Miranda. “And ... thank you.”
Her mother smiled, an oddly wistful expression. “When all this is over, Miranda, I think you and I are going to have a very long talk.”
“I think I’d like that.”
Again Mother smiled, and unfamiliar emotion squeezed Miranda’s heart. “Now, get along. You also need to look your best tonight.”
Miranda closed the door softly and drifted into her room. She sat on the edge of the chair by the window and stared out at the darkening gardens until Louise knocked at the door.
“Excuse me, miss,” said her maid as she bustled into the room. “But it’s time to get you ready for the party.”
“Yes, of course.” Miranda got to her feet. “The show’s about to begin.”
Twenty-two
Twilight was just deepening to full dark when Darius and Corwin arrived at the stout hedge that marked the boundary of Hallowgate Park. The ward slid against Darius’s skin like the flat of a knife, telling him plainly that if he turned the wrong way, he would be cut open.
“Here’s the gap.” Corwin was crouched well down beside the hedge. They were both dressed as countrymen, in tweed trousers and stout boots with rough caps on their heads. Anyone seeing them now would take them for gardeners.
Or poachers. Darius knelt beside Corwin, who was eyeing the low tunnel in the living wall. They could have made themselves invisible with ease, of course, but not without risking detection by Lady Thayer and her accomplices. There was also the question of the effort. Until they rejoined Miranda, he and Corwin had only the reserves they carried within them, and they needed to husband those against genuine need.
“Can you sense the breach?” he asked Corwin.
“Give me a minute,” muttered Corwin.
Darius sat back on his haunches and tried to rein in his impatience. He did not like having to depend on Daphne Quicke. The woman was a mercenary, pure and simple, and her treatment of Miranda was reprehensible. Certainly, Corwin had offered to permanently end her financial worries, but a person who could be bribed by one side could be bribed by the other, and they had absolutely no assurance that Mrs. Quicke truly understood the seriousness of situation.
“There,” murmured Corwin, extending his hand into the tunnel. Darius felt the ward ripple briefly and still.
Without a moment’s pause, Corwin dropped to his belly and slithered through the low gap. Darius followed after as quickly as he could. Twigs poked and scratched his face and knocked his hat askew. But he came out unscathed on the other side. He could sense the ward behind him now, as solid and menacing as it had been just moments before.
Corwin rooted around in the grass for a moment and came up with Smith’s silver disk. “Well-done, Mrs. Quicke.” He grinned as he slipped the amulet into his pocket.
“Strange,” said a low voice. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
Corwin and Darius were on their feet in a flash. In front of their startled gazes, a dark-cloaked figure stepped out of a grove of trees. The deep hood and voluminous folds of cloth made it impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. The only details that could be seen were a gleam of white teeth and a dangerous flash in dark eyes.
Two gigantic wolves flanked the figure, as patient as trained hounds, their attention fully focused on Darius and Corwin.
The cloaked figure’s mouth curled into a cruel smile. “And this is England’s final defense, the pride of her hidden powers: two little men, sneaking through hedges in the dark.”
“Who are you?” demanded Corwin.
The figure shook its head. “Oh, no. You’ll have no name to work on me with. I just came to decide what I should do with you, since I find you here without your so charming Catalyst.”
Anger flooded Darius, throwing open the doors inside him. Power surged into his blood and he leapt forward. His limbs and back lengthened, his head dropped, the bones of his face reformed and, before he had moved a yard, he was man no longer, but a charging stag, his sharp crown of antlers lowered toward the stranger who threatened his own.
The right-hand wolf sprang toward him. Darius did not slow at all, but met the creature head-on. The wolf’s belly caught on his powerful antlers and, with a single flick of his head, Darius tossed it aside.
“That was mine!” cried the figure.
As Darius wheeled, the figure raised a gloved hand. Power glowed from the palm. Darius lowered his head, and prepared to charge again.
A human roar split the night and a pale figure launched itself against the cloaked figure, knocking it to the ground. Darius reared up, his forelegs pawing at the darkness, and Corwin rolled, and came up onto his knees, clutching nothing but an empty cloak.
The figure, and the wolves, had vanished.
Corwin stared up at Darius, trembling. Darius felt his anger and focus melt away. His form shortened and softened, becoming human once more. They faced each other, silenced by shock. Then Darius’s legs gave way and Corwin dove forward, catching him the instant before he hit the ground. They stayed like that for a moment, chests pressed together, supporting each other.
“Can you stand?” whispered Corwin. Darius tried to get a leg under him, but his knee buckled and fell, and he cursed. Corwin took a deep breath and, bracing himself against the tree trunk, tried to climb to his feet, but he too fell back. “Damn.” He coughed.
“She betrayed us,” grated Darius. “That witch!”
Corwin said nothing. He just clenched his jaw shut and tried once more to haul himself upright. This time he made it, although the effort left him breathless.
“Come on.” He extended his hand to Darius. “We’ve got to get to Miranda.”
By the time Lady Thayer’s servants threw open the doors to Hallowgate’s great hall, Miranda was well and truly worried.
She’d managed to sit still while Louise dressed her and fussed over her hair. She wore her most dramatic gown: silver silk covered with emerald green netting and gold embroidery, and tied with a gold-and-emerald sash. With pearls at her throat and white plumes in the emerald band in her hair, Miranda was aware she looked quite fine, but she couldn’t bring herself to take any pride in it.
Her attention kept turning outward, straining to sense Corwin and Darius.
But there was nothing.
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br /> They should have been here by now. They should have been here hours ago. She’d wanted to go in search of them, but they’d played their cards too well. Lady Thayer seemed to be everywhere. Probably she had a servant watching Miranda’s room. Miranda did not know the house well enough to find a back way out without a great deal of wandering around. She had no choice but to wait.
They’ll be fine. They are fine. They know what they’re doing. She all but chanted the words to herself as she followed Mother down the corridor.
“Don’t frown so, Miranda; you’ll give yourself a crease,” said her mother as they started down the stairs.
Miranda sighed with exasperation. But halfway down she reflected there was something comforting in the fact that Mother hadn’t really changed. She made a kind of anchor in a rapidly shifting world, and right now Miranda was glad to have her.
Lady Thayer’s glittering ballroom was about half-full when Miranda and her mother arrived. Green and blue hangings lent dramatic color to the ancient carved paneling. Huge vases of fresh flowers stood at regular intervals, filling the room with the scents of midsummer. The musicians poured the lively strains of country tunes down from the gallery.
As usual, Mother had many acquaintances to greet, and many men who came up to claim dances or to try to steal her away for a bit of private conversation. Usually, this was Miranda’s cue to fade discreetly into the background. But not tonight. Tonight, Mother wrapped her arm around Miranda’s, and would not let go. This was part of the facade they were maintaining for Lady Thayer, and Miranda affected an expression of weary tolerance as she strolled the room at Mother’s side. She needed to make it seem as if she was only just enduring the annoyed glances of the men and the suspicious looks of the women, not to mention the peeping of the girls from behind their feathered fans, something inevitably followed by bouts of whispering and giggles, which Miranda was meant to be able to notice.
By the time they completed a full circuit of the hall, Miranda found herself wondering if her newly discovered powers extended to being able to make time stand still so she could run outside without being observed. Again and again she glanced toward the door, hoping in vain that Corwin or Darius would appear. Each time they didn’t, she felt her heart sink a little further. She didn’t dare use her thoughts to try to reach them. Darius had been very clear. They had no idea who would be listening. She had nothing but trust and hope, and Miranda was running short of both.
“Look, there’s our hostess.” Mother tugged on her arm. “And who is that handsome young man with her?”
Lady Thayer was indeed making her way through the crowd toward them. At her side walked a tall, lean man who looked to be about Miranda’s own age.
“Daphne!” exclaimed Lady Thayer as she reached them. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Mrs. Daphne Quicke, may I present my nephew the Honorable Mr. Robin Summerfields?”
“How do you do, Mr. Summerfields?” Mother dropped her best curtsy. “This is my daughter, Miranda Prosper.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Prosper.” Mr. Summerfields bowed low. His light, melodious voice made Miranda look at him more closely. Mr. Summerfields was a striking gentleman; slender and tall with wide-set eyes above high cheekbones. He wore his chestnut hair long enough to brush his collar, but it was refreshingly free of the macassar oil popular with so many of the young blades who affected that style. His coat was a very fine green silk, his linen spotless and his waistcoat figured in silver.
“Mr. Summerfields.” Miranda made her own curtsy.
“They are forming up the allemande, Miss Prosper.” Mr. Summerfields gestured toward the dance floor. “I would deem it a very great favor if you would agree to dance with me.” His full mouth relaxed into an easy smile as he offered her his hand.
Lady Thayer smirked meaningfully at Miranda, and Mother mimicked the expression. The air around Lady Thayer positively crackled. She wanted this, wanted it so badly that Miranda could feel the need beating against her skin. But why?
Miranda swallowed. She could refuse, say she was not dancing. But the whole gathering was watching, and if she turned away now, she might lose her chance to find out anything useful about Lady Thayer, and this convenient nephew she had developed.
“Thank you, Mr. Summerfields.” Miranda laid her hand in his. “That would be lovely.”
Mr. Summerfields bowed over her hand, and led her to the foot of the growing line of couples. He placed her across from him. As he did, she saw that his eyes were the exact shade of green as his coat. The effect was arresting, and Miranda became aware she was close to staring.
Then the musicians struck up their first notes. Miranda dipped a curtsy to honor her partner, and the dance began.
Miranda had to give Mr. Summerfields his due; he was an excellent dancer. He was more slender than Corwin, and a little taller, but he moved through the figures with a rare, confident grace. When they came together so he might take her hands to turn her, or lead her to her corner, his grace seemed to pass into her. Her feet grew lighter as they tripped along the line, and the music felt positively infectious. Mr. Summerfields’s smile lit his eyes when he came close to her, and it was plain to see he was genuinely enjoying himself.
It seemed almost no time at all before the dance was finished and they were applauding the music.
“Thank you, Mr. Summerfields,” said Miranda. “I enjoyed that very much.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. What was even more shocking was that they were absolutely true.
“As did I, Miss Prosper.” Mr. Summerfields bowed again and glanced toward the musician’s gallery. “I believe they are about to play a waltz. I would ask if you might care to dance it with me, if you would not deem that too presumptuous? Or would you prefer to be escorted you back to your mother?”
Miranda’s gaze strayed around the ballroom. Still there was no sign of Corwin.
Mr. Summerfields cocked his head. “Or perhaps you are already engaged?”
Guilt nagged at Miranda, and worry. She still desperately wanted to know where Corwin and Darius were. But surely they were all right. They always had been. They were powerful and well schooled in magic, things that she was not. Surely they were delayed only because they had discovered something useful and had to report it into their mysterious captain. The dance with Mr. Summerfields had been most pleasant. Far more pleasant than squiring Mother about the room would be. One more dance would help her pass the time. It would be only a few minutes, and surely Corwin would arrive by the time it ended.
Miranda turned her attention back to Mr. Summerfields. “I am not engaged at present.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Summerfields’s green eyes glowed with pleasure as he took her hand in his. “Then shall we?”
Miranda had heard girls talk of soaring when they waltzed, but she had always dismissed this as pure exaggeration. Now, however, with Mr. Summerfields guiding her about the floor, she understood it absolutely. With him she flew. Movement was perfection. There was no separation between the dance, the music and herself. It was not the sensual heat she’d felt when she’d allowed Corwin to take her in his arms. This was something different, something clearer and purer, but equally intense. It was amazing. It was intoxicating.
When at last the music ended, she could still feel it thrumming across her skin as she gazed breathlessly into Mr. Summerfields’s eyes.
“May I compliment you, Miss Prosper, on your excellent dancing?” He smiled and Miranda felt her breath catch in her throat.
“Thank you, Mr. Summerfields.” Her breathlessness raised a blush in her cheeks. “But I’m sure it is because I’ve never had such a fine partner.”
“You flatter me,” he said modestly but his eyes gleamed. “Come, let me take you back.”
He gave her his arm and she took it, but she had to admit her feet lagged a little as they left the dance floor. Already she was wondering if he would ask her to dance again. As they crossed to the edge of th
e hall, she felt oddly leaden, as if something vital had drained from her.
“There!” exclaimed Mother. “I was afraid you were going to claim her all night, Mr. Summerfields!” The words were delighted, but there was something brittle underneath them that Miranda couldn’t understand, although she was aware on some level she should.
“Which would be entirely my pleasure, I assure you.” Mr. Summerfields smiled and Mother laughed brightly, and Miranda was aware she should say something, but her mind was suddenly blurry, as if filled with cotton wool.
“I’m sorry.” Miranda opened her fan and tried to raise a breeze for herself. “It is rather warm in here, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps a glass of punch?” suggested Mr. Summerfields.
Which made Miranda aware of how very thirsty she was. It was as if she’d been dancing for hours rather than just a few minutes. “Thank you, yes. That would be most welcome.” There was something wrong, something she had forgotten, or had been warned about. But she couldn’t seize on it. The music was playing again. She didn’t really want the punch. She wanted to dance.
“I have my orders, then.” Mr. Summerfields stood up straight and clicked his heels in the German style. “And I will return as soon as may be.”
“Well!” Mother opened her own fan. “I can hardly blame you for feeling overheated, Miranda, my dear. Such a charming man!” She was glancing around the room, her eyes hard and calculating. Miranda felt Mother willing her to take the hint, but she couldn’t understand what hint or why. There was something in the way ...
“You said he asked to be introduced to me?” Miranda tried to focus on the main doors, and on the wide windows and French doors, flung open to admit the night breeze from the garden. But the music was playing again and her attention kept straying to the dance floor, and as she watched the couples moving through the figures she was acutely aware of a feeling like envy smoldering below her thoughts.
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