Dark Mirror

by M. J. Putney

  Miss Wheaton handed a straw bonnet and a blue knit shawl to Tory and they set off. The day was pleasant, with more sun than clouds. A good day for walking.

  A footpath led across the grounds to the main gate. When they reached that, Miss Wheaton said, “It’s time to remove the block I put on you yesterday.” She closed her eyes and briefly touched the heel of her palm to Tory’s forehead.

  Then they walked through the gate. Tory gasped at the flood of sensations. In the day since her arrival, she’d started to adapt to the abbey’s suffocating atmosphere. Now she felt as if she were waking after heavy sleep. She turned in a circle, reveling in the vitality of the normal world. “Everything feels so alive.”

  “You’re now restored to your full self.” Miss Wheaton led the way across the road to a public footpath that ran between two barley fields. “Having been deprived of your magical senses for a time, you should be extra aware now.”

  Tory winced. “So I’ll feel even worse when I return to the school?”

  “The more aware you are of your abilities, the more you’ll miss them when they’re blocked,” the teacher said. “But today is a day for learning and understanding. You can ask me anything you want about magic, and if I know the answer, I’ll be happy to explain it.”

  What Tory really wanted to ask was Why me? but that wasn’t a question Miss Wheaton could answer. “Do students who have their magic locked down ever regret having that done?”

  “No one has ever asked me that.” The teacher’s brows furrowed. “Not that I know of, but of course I don’t see students after they leave Lackland. In the nature of things, there must be a few who later regret denying that part of their nature.”

  Tory didn’t find that comforting. “I will miss this intense awareness of nature. I’ve always had it, but it’s stronger now that my magic has awakened.”

  “Can you describe how you feel?”

  Tory searched for the right words. “Everything around me pulses with life, even the grass. Or … it’s like a subtle hum that adds richness to being alive.”

  “Well said. Can you tell the difference between grass and a tree?”

  Tory tried for a dozen steps. She sensed a slow living current of … of greenness, but nothing more specific. “No. Should I?”

  Miss Wheaton grinned. “No, it’s just a test of sensitivity. If you could distinguish between tree, grass, and shrub so soon after awakening to your magical ability, you’d probably have strong healing ability. But in itself, identifying plants isn’t particularly useful. The difference between plants and animals can be handy, though. What can you tell me about that bramble bush ahead?”

  Tory turned her attention to the brambles, consciously looking for different energy patterns. Frowning with concentration, she said, “The bramble is quietly alive, but there are sparks of a brighter energy within it. Rabbits?”

  “Blackbirds, but you do well to sense the difference.”

  Tory felt pleased, until she remembered that she didn’t want Miss Wheaton to think Tory had strong magical power. A sudden suspicion struck her. “Do you use magic to persuade girls to talk to you freely?”

  Miss Wheaton made a face. “Yes, though students seldom realize that.”

  “It isn’t enough to control our bodies!” Tory blurted out, feeling betrayed. “You want our minds as well. If we say the wrong thing, do we have to stay here longer?”

  “No!” Miss Wheaton said sharply. “I dislike using magic in this way, but I need to know a student’s true thoughts about her magical gifts so I can help her choose the path that is best for her. Nothing you say will be used against you.”

  “You say ‘gifts,’ but for most of us, magic is a curse,” Tory retorted. “That’s why we’re in this prison!”

  The teacher was silent for the space of dozen steps. “The difference between a gift and a curse can be how one feels about it. Most magelings feel that magical power enriches their lives, so for them, magic is a gift. Many would envy your ability.”

  Tory thought of her maid, Molly, who’d wished she had magic. “That may be true for the lower orders, but for those of us who are wellborn, magic is a disaster.”

  “The damage comes from society, not magic itself,” Miss Wheaton pointed out. “Though the price of magic is high for aristocrats, embracing one’s talents can be deeply rewarding. That is why I choose to teach at Lackland—so I can help girls decide what they truly want.”

  “Are you trying to persuade me to embrace magic?” Tory asked incredulously. “You’re supposed to cure me!”

  “Refusing magic is as costly as embracing it.” There was deep sadness in Miss Wheaton’s voice. “My job is not to persuade, but to inform my students so they fully understand the consequences before they choose which path to take.”

  Tory’s anger faded. “Were the consequences dire for you?”

  “Magic brings me great joy and rewards,” the teacher replied. “But I wish I hadn’t had to choose between my abilities and my family.”

  “I don’t want to have to make that choice,” Tory said flatly. “I want my family and normal life. How is magic locked down? Or is that a secret?”

  Miss Wheaton’s expression suggested that Tory didn’t yet know what she wanted, but she merely said, “All students study magical control. Think of those controls as chains. When the chains are strong enough, a mage can use them to tie up magical ability like the bonds that secure a bull.”

  That made sense, but Tory frowned. “So after I’m cured, I’ll always feel as dull and heavy as I do at Lackland.”

  “You will adapt and feel the same as most people feel their whole lives,” the teacher reassured her. “That’s not a tragedy. But remember that having one’s power locked down isn’t a true cure since magical talent can still be passed to one’s children.”

  “Which is a disadvantage in the marriage mart.” Though Tory had learned at Lackland that she didn’t like losing her magical perceptions, it would be wonderful to return home even if she could no longer expect to find a husband of high rank. A husband she could love meant more than a title. “How long does it take to develop enough control to have one’s power locked down?”

  “I don’t believe anyone has been cured in less than a year.” They reached a fence, and Miss Wheaton used the ladderlike steps of a stile to climb over. “Unusually powerful students generally need more time to develop sufficient control.”

  “I don’t have much power! Hardly any at all.” Tory climbed over the stile, wryly aware that she was echoing what her mother and sister had said. “It’s the merest chance I was publicly seen doing something magical.”

  “Your father’s letter said you could fly. That is major power.”

  “Not fly,” Tory said uncomfortably. “I just … float a bit.”

  Miss Wheaton smiled. “Show me.” Seeing Tory’s hesitation, she added, “There’s no need to conceal your abilities from me. You are what you are. I hope you believe that I want to help you.”

  “I do.” Tory’s voice was edged. “But are you using magic to make me trust you?”

  “No.” Miss Wheaton held Tory’s gaze. “Magic can’t induce real trust, nor would I do such a contemptible thing if I could.”

  The teacher’s words were convincing, but even if she was lying, what could Tory do about it? She was trapped at Lackland until Miss Wheaton allowed her to leave. Cooperation was the only choice.

  She closed her eyes. Cleared her churning mind. Thought about fluttering in her midriff, the click …

  “Good heavens!” Miss Wheaton gasped.

  Tory’s eyes shot open as she swooped upward. She gave a squeak of surprise at her swift ascent and grabbed wildly at a tree branch. She didn’t want to find out how high she could go, but she felt exhilarated as she clung to the bobbing branch.

  “I’ve never had a student who could do that before.” Miss Wheaton sounded envious. “Are you all right up there?”

  “I’m still not used to this!” Tory peered
between the branches and saw two young owls staring from a hole in the trunk. Mentally she told the owls she meant no harm, hoping they understood. They blinked at her but didn’t vanish into the hole.

  She turned her attention to the countryside. Lackland Abbey lay behind, its massive walls forbidding. Ahead she saw the spire of the parish church in Lackland village. The sea was a silvery shimmer to her left while fields and hills unrolled in other directions. She felt gloriously free. Though if she took up flying regularly, she would need to wear something more modest than skirts and petticoats!

  But, of course, she wouldn’t fly again. This was only for Miss Wheaton’s evaluation. Excitement gone, she chose a spot on the ground and concentrated on gliding down safely. She stumbled as she landed, but she was improving with practice.

  Miss Wheaton caught Tory’s arm to steady her. “Your control is surprisingly good for a new mage. Did you take lessons?”

  Tory shook her head. “There was a book in my father’s library, Controlling Magic by An Anonymous Lady. It talked about pulling one’s energy to one’s center in order to find balance. Are you familiar with that book?”

  The teacher laughed. “I wrote it. The exercises are very similar to what you will study in my classes, though I’ve learned some new techniques since I wrote the book.”

  Tory blinked. Miss Wheaton had unexpected depths. She studied her teacher, using all her senses. “You have many secrets.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Miss Wheaton changed the subject. “How did you discover you could fly?”

  “I woke up from a dream floating over my bed,” Tory said. “I thought I’d be able to conceal my ability and carry on as usual, but … that wasn’t possible.”

  “Your father’s letter described how you saved your nephew.” Miss Wheaton resumed walking along the path. “You showed great courage, Miss Mansfield.”

  Tory shrugged as she fell into step with her companion. “Not really. I was terrified, but I couldn’t just stand there and watch Jamie die.”

  “That is the definition of true courage,” the teacher said quietly. “Being frightened, yet still doing what is right.”

  Being brave hadn’t prevented her father from sending her away. Tory hoped she’d get her reward for saving Jamie in heaven, since it hadn’t happened on earth.

  CHAPTER 10

  Lackland was a pretty fishing village built around the mouth of the Lack, a small river that cut through the chalk cliffs to empty into the English Channel. A few houses were scattered along the cliffs above, but most of the village was stepped down the hillside that led to sea level.

  The narrow streets lined with narrow houses reminded Tory of the village near Fairmount Hall, though the cliffs were much whiter here. As they passed the parish church, she remarked, “I see the church is Saint Peter’s by the Sea. I suppose that’s because Saint Peter was the patron saint of fishermen?”

  “Yes, and it’s a pretty place. Would you like to go inside?” When Tory nodded, Miss Wheaton led the way in.

  Tory sighed with relaxation. The church was indeed lovely, and they had it to themselves. Unlike the school’s chapel, there was no unpleasant vicar to ruin the peace. As they drifted about the church, admiring the stained glass and the bouquets of flowers and leaves, Tory asked, “What kind of magic is the most common?”

  Miss Wheaton considered. “Most magelings have at least a little healing ability, but intuition is even more common. That’s the ability to know something without rational knowledge. Many people who don’t consider themselves magical have intuition, though they don’t always use it.”

  Tory frowned. “How does one tell intuition from simple emotions? Wouldn’t wanting something a lot get in the way of a mystical feeling?”

  “Like anything else, it takes practice,” the teacher replied. “The next time you need to decide something, clear your mind and see which choice feels right. The more you do it, the more accurate you become.”

  Still skeptical, Tory asked, “Is your intuition always accurate?”

  “Sometimes my emotions get in the way,” Miss Wheaton admitted. “But if I take the time to really clear away thoughts and feelings, what is left is usually true.”

  “I’ll try that.” Tory closed her eyes. “Let’s see … I’m hungry, and now that I clear my mind—I have a powerful intuition that somewhere near the harbor, there is a tea shop that will cure the problem.”

  The teacher laughed. “What excellent intuition! I do believe there is just such a tea shop. Shall we go find it?”

  Smiling, they continued down the hill, Miss Wheaton describing different kinds of magical ability. The tea shop was very pleasant, with excellent sausage rolls and iced cakes. Tory was pleased when they were seated by a window with a view of the small harbor. She was happier than at any time since she woke up floating over her bed.

  As they left the tearoom, she asked, “Have I been sufficiently tested?”

  Miss Wheaton nodded. “You have a good deal of power, and have a decent start on controlling it. I’ll put you in my intermediate class.”

  At least Tory didn’t have to start with the beginners, but she’d still be imprisoned at Lackland Abbey for at least a year, probably more. She looked wistfully at the harbor. Several piers jutted out into the water, small boats moored alongside. The larger boats would be fishing in the channel now. “Do you bring students here often?”

  “Regularly, but not as often as they’d like.” As they turned to retrace their steps, Miss Wheaton halted, surprise on her face. “That gentleman at the corner is one of the teachers from the boys’ school, Mr. Stephens.”

  Tory’s eyes narrowed. The male teacher had a compact build and a quick, forceful way of moving. “He’s a mage, isn’t he? Does he teach control classes like you?”

  “You have a definite talent for reading people, Miss Mansfield.” Miss Wheaton hesitated. “I need to speak with him. Would you mind going off on your own to visit the waterfront? I’ll collect you when I’ve finished my discussion with Mr. Stephens.”

  To wander freely, even if only for a few minutes! “I’d like that.” Since Miss Wheaton still looked doubtful, Tory added, “I don’t see how anyone could get into trouble in a village this small.”

  “No doubt you’re right. Very well, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Miss Wheaton headed down the street toward Mr. Stephens. Tory saw the male teacher’s energy flare when he saw Miss Wheaton approaching.

  Curious, she watched as they met. They didn’t touch or do anything improper, but as Miss Wheaton looked up at Mr. Stephens, they glowed at each other. So Miss Wheaton had a beau. And they had Lackland’s high stone wall between them and probably few opportunities to meet.

  Finding the thought perversely satisfying, Tory walked down the hill to the waterfront with long, swinging steps. She enjoyed the illusion of freedom. There was nothing to stop her running away from Lackland, except common sense.

  She walked out on the longest pier, breathing in the mingled seaside scents of seaweed and salt air. The breeze fluttered her skirts and bonnet, so she pulled off the bonnet so she could feel the wind in her hair.

  A gull glided down to perch on the nearest piling, its expression hopeful. Since Tory had saved a ginger biscuit from the tearoom, she broke off a corner and tossed it toward the piling.

  The gull swooped down and snatched the tidbit from the air and returned to its piling. Other gulls appeared. Tory shook her head. “Sorry, the rest is for me.”

  An amused voice behind her said, “Do the gulls talk back?”

  Startled, she swung around to see a young man about her age. He had lovely thick blond hair and a mischievous smile.

  “I don’t speak gull,” she replied, “but I imagine they’re saying ‘More, more!’”

  “That’s a safe guess.” He looked her up and down with unabashed curiosity. “Since you’re one of the poor fools from the abbey, maybe you really can speak to birds.”

  Tory bristled. “No gentleman would c
all a lady he’s just met a fool.”

  “You’re likely a lady, but I’m no gentleman,” he said cheerfully.

  “That’s obvious,” she said tartly. “Anyone trapped in Lackland Abbey deserves sympathy, but why do you call us fools?”

  “Because you have the grandest talents anyone can ask for, and you’re trying to destroy them.”

  She narrowed her eyes and studied him on all levels. His clothes and accent were decent, if not out of the top drawer, but his broad shoulders were splendid. She guessed that he might be the son of a prosperous local merchant or professional man. More than that … “You have magic yourself,” she said flatly.

  “Aye, and proud to be a mage. I’m Jack Rainford, and the best weather worker in Britain.” Seeing Tory’s brows arch, he grinned. “Well, the best in Kent, anyhow. There have always been weather mages in my family and my mother says I cut my baby teeth on clouds. This nice sunny day you’re enjoying? You can thank me for it.”

  She laughed. “And here I thought God made the weather.”

  “He makes it, but I can alter it.” Jack gestured to the south. “See that dark line of rain clouds moving out into the channel? They would have been raining here, but we’ve had enough rain, so I pushed the clouds south, where it’s been dryer.”

  Remembering that her mother had some weather ability, Tory asked, “How is weather controlled?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” His brow furrowed. “You have to have the weather talent, of course. Then it’s a matter of reaching out and feeling the air. I can sense winds and storms far away. Over the Atlantic, on the Continent. I can’t conjure a storm out of still air, but I can herd storms a long way and build them up as they come closer. It’s easier to push clouds away if I want some sunshine.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “It’s a waste of power,” he said, “but since you have such pretty blue eyes…”