by M. J. Putney
Tory sensed that their love had layers she couldn’t yet understand. The shared experiences, the joys and concerns of raising their children, the passion that usually was kept behind closed doors, but which now blazed like the sun at high noon.
Sadly, more separation lay ahead. Even a civilian like Tory knew wars were not won by retreats, even miraculous, heroic ones like the Dunkirk evacuation. Who knew what lay ahead for Britain? But for now, Anne and Tom Rainford were together, being watched with bemusement by Nick and approval by Polly.
As for Tory and her friends—they had done their part. Now they could go home.
CHAPTER 37
It was almost worth going to war in order to feel such peace. Tory lay in the sun, as lazy as Horace, who snoozed an arm’s length away. The dog had kindly guided her to this quiet spot beside a lilac bush in a protected corner of the Rainford property.
If she opened her eyes, she would be able to look across the channel to Nazi-occupied France, but she preferred to ignore that, just as she chose to ignore the occasional distant rumble of war. Far, far better to let her mind drift along on currents of birdsong and sunshine and the exquisite scent of the lilacs blooming beside her.
Four days had passed since Annie’s Dream had sailed into Lackland harbor, the last of the town’s little ships to return. Another boat had arrived home just a little earlier, which was why there had been such a crowd.
The entire world had watched the evacuation, awed by the sight of all Britain working together to save their men. Operation Dynamo had officially ended on June 4, and the total number of men rescued had been almost 340,000. That had included the entire BEF, along with about 110,000 French troops.
Granted, tons of equipment had been abandoned across the Low Countries and northern France. But Britain’s bravery and fierce refusal to surrender had paid off. The American president, Roosevelt, had announced that the United States would send tanks and ships and guns and anything else Britain needed to continue the fight against Hitler.
Not that any of the Irregulars knew that at first. They had all slept for days, getting up only to use the water closet and perhaps drink some tea before staggering back to bed or pallet. They’d all lost weight—the heavy use of magic had literally burned them up. Mrs. Rainford had confided to Tory that she was glad to have lost a few pounds, but Tory needed feeding up.
All of them had been awake by the time Prime Minister Churchill had given an amazing speech to Parliament the day before. The Rainford household had gathered in the kitchen to listen on the wireless.
In his magnificent deep voice, Churchill declaimed, “We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender…!”
Tory had wept openly, and Allarde’s hand had tightened around hers. She suspected he was fighting back tears as well.
Today, the Irregulars would finally go home. It seemed a lifetime since Tory had led her friends through Merlin’s mirror, though it had been less than a fortnight. She exhaled happily. Bliss was lacking only one more element.
A familiar deep power brushed her mind. Then a gossamer touch on her cheek, followed by another and another …
She opened her eyes to see lilac blossoms dancing in the sunshine above her. Swirling gently, they drifted onto her face and throat in a fragile, fragrant rain. Not that she needed to see lilacs dance to know that the last element of bliss was here.
Lazily, she turned her head to watch Allarde approach. Having lost so much blood, he’d been the tiredest of all, but that didn’t make him any less splendid. Like Tory, he was wearing his own clothing from 1803 in preparation for the journey home. Call her prejudiced, but she thought the breeches, boots, and coats of her own time were far more flattering to the male figure than the shapeless garments of 1940.
“You look like a lovely little cat dozing in the sunshine.” Allarde sat beside her on the grass and bent to give her a light, sweet kiss.
She savored the pleasure of his lips on hers. Even when they were apart, there was a thread of energy connecting them, and that intensified when they were together. Even more when they touched. She murmured, “I’m trying to absorb as much sunlight as I can before we return home to gray, wet autumn.”
“Do you think we’ll have any trouble going back to our own time?” he asked seriously. “The process seems rather uncontrolled.”
“I can take us home by concentrating on our destination. I don’t know why I was drawn here the first time, but since Nick knew to look for me, he came right to us. Just as we came here together without a problem.” Tory rolled to her side and rested her head on his thigh, relaxed and happy. “I wouldn’t like to try going to an unknown time, though.”
He stroked her hair, tracing the edge of her ear in a way that made her want to purr like the cat he’d called her. “Strange to think that if all goes well, we’ll be back at Lackland in a few hours,” he murmured. “Mere students again.”
“I’ll be glad for it.” She covered a lazy yawn. “It was an honor to be part of a great and noble undertaking, but I don’t want to do it again! This isn’t our war.”
“Very true. We have a war of our own to worry about.” Allarde rested his hand on Tory’s shoulder. “Hitler and Napoleon both want to conquer the world. And in both eras, it’s Britain that stands alone against the Continental monster.”
“Perhaps that’s why the mirror brought me here the first time,” Tory said, interested enough to open her eyes. “The similarities between our times.”
“I could wish for a different similarity than war,” he said dryly. “I would prefer to die in my own time rather than in a different century.”
Tory sighed, some of the brightness going out of the day. “Is your life still ruled by the certainty of your death?”
“Not like it was, Tory,” he said thoughtfully. “I had my mortal wound, and you saved my life. Apparently Miss Wheaton was right when she said the future isn’t fixed. Now I’m like anyone else. I’ll die someday, but for now, I intend to live life to the fullest.” He bent and kissed her again. “That means enjoying every moment I can with you, my Lady Victoria.”
She slipped her hand around his neck, holding him close so the joyous kiss wouldn’t end. “There is something very special between us,” she whispered. “I’m glad it won’t be wasted.”
Gently he moved her head from his lap and stretched out on the grass beside her. “It won’t.” He smiled teasingly. “I’d be tempted to ruin you, but I’m weak as a kitten from losing so much blood. The doctor who bandaged that scratch on my arm said it would take weeks to get my strength back.”
“Ruination is a wickedly tempting thought,” Tory agreed mischievously. “But what seems possible in a time not our own will look different when we go home.”
“You’re right, of course.” He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “Ruination can wait. What matters is being together.” He sighed. “I suspect it will be difficult to go back to being students in a school that exists to change us. People in this time may not believe in magic, but at least we’re not condemned.”
“That part I like,” Tory agreed. “But I think that when we return to Lackland, we’ll settle back into our usual routine quickly.” She gestured toward France. “All this will seem like a mad dream.”
“The headmasters may lock us all up separately so we’ll never be able to go into the Labyrinth again.” His fingers tightened on hers. “If that happens, we might not see each other for a long time.”
Tory shivered at the thought. “I think I can get us back to the Labyrinth the same night we left. No one will know we’ve left, apart from the fact that we’re all skinny and exhausted.” Except Cynthia, who managed to appear pale and interesting instead of haggard. But she’d worked so hard on the weather magery that Tory couldn’t even resent how beautiful her roommate always looked.
“That will be convenient!” he said, relieved. “Though it will only delay the time when I’m disinherited by my father. Since I’m his only son, he would be happy if he could overlook my magic so I can become Duke of Westover someday.”
“Would he really disinherit you?” Tory asked curiously, thinking that the duke sounded more tolerant than her father had been.
“He won’t if I behave like a proper young gentleman who never had any magic and Lackland was all just a big misunderstanding,” Allarde said wryly. “But we still have a war to win against Napoleon, and I have a feeling that my magic will be needed. It’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to make you a duchess.”
She rolled onto her back, helpless with laughter. “Do you know how many women in the world will never become duchesses? And most of them manage to survive and prosper very well.”
“I want the best for you, Tory.” He smiled into her eyes. “Have I mentioned that my given name is Justin?”
Justin. Her Justin. She savored the name in her mind. A just man. Perfect.
She leaned forward and kissed her foolish darling. “I already have the best.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1803, Napoleon was assembling the Army of Boulogne on the French coast with the intention of invading England. Tunnels to house troops were excavated in the chalk cliffs under Dover Castle as a defense against the expected invasion.
Starting in 1938, the tunnels were extended and modernized and used for a naval headquarters. There were also living quarters and an underground hospital. It is now possible to tour many of the tunnels, but I understand that some are still closed to the public because they contain classified material.
The amazing armada of great and small ships that saved 340,000 men from Dunkirk is one of history’s great stories. Usually the English Channel is rough and stormy in late spring, and the evacuation would not have been possible if not for the amazingly calm weather during those days.
In particular, on Tuesday, May 28, 1940, a storm heading in from the Atlantic miraculously swerved north between Ireland and Britain. (People ask where I get my story ideas. Believe me, history offers lots of great stories!)
There is no record of any teenage girls being part of the armada—but who knows?
Fish and chips were one of the few foods never rationed in Britain during or after World War II. If the attempt had been made, there might have been a revolt!
Read on for a sneak peek of
Dark
Passage
coming in Fall 2011 from St. Martin’s Griffin.
Copyright © 2011 by M. J. Putney
France, Autumn 1940
Tory had almost reached her destination when a machine gun blasted crazily from the farmhouse ahead. As Lady Victoria Mansfield in her own time, she’d been taught to dance and manage a household and embroider, rather badly. As a mageling and a member of Merlin’s Irregulars, she’d learned to dive for cover when she heard gunfire.
She hit the ground hard and took refuge under the hedge on her left, grateful for the darkness. Clamping down on her shock, she peered through the dense branches.
The machine gun was being fired in bursts. Sparks spat from the muzzle that stuck out from a window on the upper floor. The weapon wasn’t aimed in her direction, which was good. But damnably, it was aimed at the small barn that sheltered the people she’d promised to protect.
Another thing she’d learned in 1940 was swearing. She muttered some words that would have shocked her parents, the earl and countess of Fairmount, speechless.
She had to stop that rain of death, and quickly. But how? She was no warrior. She was an undersized sixteen-year-old girl dressed to look even younger. She wouldn’t know what to do with a gun if it was handed to her fully loaded.
But she was a mageling, and she could draw on the magical power and talent of her friends. She studied the small stone house. It was old and simply constructed, two stories tall. Probably just two rooms downstairs and two on the upper floor.
The building was dark except for the room containing the machine gun. Likely the inhabitants of the place had fled when their home had been commandeered.
If she could get inside and come up behind the men with the gun, she should be able to do—something. Exactly what would depend on what she had to work with.
Cautiously she circled the farmhouse, glad she was carrying her stealth stone. It didn’t make her invisible, but it would make the men less likely to notice her. Unfortunately, bullets were mindless and impossible to mislead.
Like most old houses, the windows were few and small. She tested the back door. Locked. Directly above it was a casement window large enough for her to climb through. In case it was locked, she selected a rock the size of a large man’s fist from the stone border around a flower bed. Then she turned her mind inward to focus her magic.
Click! She began to rise, skimming her left hand along the stone wall until she hovered next to the window. She tried unsuccessfully to open it.
Could magic muffle the sound of breaking glass? She hadn’t tried that before, but it should work. Doing magic was mostly a matter of focusing magical power on the desired result—and Tory had a great deal of power.
She concentrated on silencing the sound. For good measure, she waited until the next burst of machine-gun fire. Smashing the rock into the right-hand casement sent shards of glass flying, nicking her wrist.
The breaking glass made very little sound, but she still waited to hear if she’d been noticed. Coarse laughter came from the front of the house and a man spoke in French. So they were collaborators, perhaps police working with the Nazis. Their raucous words suggested that they were drunk and amusing themselves by shooting up the flimsy barn that sheltered helpless people.
One of them made a sneering remark about killing filthy Jews. For a red-rage moment, Tory wished she did have a gun and that she knew how to use it.
But magic was her weapon. She felt inside for the window latch. The latch was badly stuck, so she gave it a little blast of magic. The lock opened but her hovering bobbled as she diverted energy. She was using up power at an alarming rate.
She wrenched the casement open and glided inside the dark room. Then she cautiously created the dimmest possible mage light. The room was a simply furnished bedroom. The bed looked rumpled, as if the sleepers had left in a hurry. That would also explain why the door had been left ajar, enabling Tory to hear the voices.
As she’d guessed from outside, the primitive cottage would have been old in her own time. Gnarled beams ran full-length across the ceiling. Good.
Outside the room was a short corridor that led to the stairs and the front bedroom. That door was wide open, revealing three men in French police uniforms. All three held open bottles. As Tory watched, one took a deep swig and made some joke she couldn’t understand. The deadly machine gun was mounted on a tripod and pointed out the window. Ammunition belts lay on the floor along with empty brass shell casings.
With only the barest of plans, she walked softly toward the front room. She had just reached the doorway when one of the policemen turned and looked right at her. He blinked uncertainly, but the stealth stone wasn’t enough to conceal a direct stare.
“A little girl!” he exclaimed. “Must have hidden when the rest of the family ran.”
A second man turned and smiled nastily. “La belle petite should have run, too.”
He lurched toward Tory. Even from six feet away she smelled alcohol on his breath. Her rage flared again. Narrowing her focus to lethal intensity, she called on the power of her friends. Most of all, she drew on Allarde’s special talent.
Their magic flowed into her, fierce and primal. She made a furious sweeping gesture that blasted her concentrated power at the ceiling beams. “Enough!”
… and she pulled the massive beams in the front half of the cottage down on the men and their horrible gun. Their angry shouts were cut off with lethal suddenness.
Tory instantly threw herself out
the door in a rolling tumble. Even as she hit the floor, she heard the remaining roof beams begin to groan ominously.
Devil take it! The whole cottage was collapsing!
She scrambled to her feet and raced to the back bedroom, diving out the open window before the roof could crush her. Something hard struck her left arm. She barely managed to catch herself before smashing into the ground. With the last of her power, she turned her fall into a bumpy but safe landing. Damp earth had never felt so good.
Gasping for breath, she pulled her shattered nerves together before pushing herself to a sitting position. Her left arm hurt like Hades and blood saturated her sleeve, but at least she’d escaped. Worse was the pain and horror of knowing she’d just killed or maimed three men. They were brutes, but she hadn’t wanted their lives on her conscience.
She drew a shuddering breath. She had sworn that she would never return to the future again. Why the devil was she here?
Because she had no choice.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DARK MIRROR. Copyright © 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Putney, Mary Jo.
Dark mirror / M. J. Putney.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-62284-8
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Boarding schools—England—Fiction. 4. Aristocracy (Social class)—England—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.U83D37 2011