This was the boy she had adored for three years? This was the boy over whom she had hesitated to accept Gaius’s offer to be her boyfriend? Her cheeks burned so hot they ached.
One thought cheered her up. John Darling was not a girl. That meant Siggy would have no compunction about taking him on. The hair-on-fire look might suit Mr. Darling. Or maybe Siggy could conjure another skunk. The soaked-with-flaming-skunk-spray-and-stinks-to-high-heaven style might suit him, too.
• • •
Rachel sat on the table in the abandoned upper hallway that was her private study place. Beside her was the rock she used for spell practice. Across from her was the suit of armor that stood beneath the high round window. Through this window, she could barely make out, in the thick fog, one of the many towers rising above Roanoke Hall. Normally, a whole forest of spires and belfries were visible. The only other object in the hallway was a trash can she had brought up so that she would have a large object to manipulate with her spells.
The air was stuffy, but not as dusty as it had been a month ago. Her numerous wind blasts had put an end to that. Still, she wished she could open the window.
As she sat waiting, Rachel contemplated: what might Gaius want her to do?
Her initial jubilation at being asked to help slowly drained to a more reasonable curiosity. When he first asked her, she assumed he meant help filling his wand—the project he had been working on non-stop for the last three weeks. But it probably wasn’t that. He probably had some simple question, or wanted her take on what to wear to a party, which was a question boys asked girls in books. Frankly, if she were to be brutally honest, whatever happened next was likely to be a disappointment.
She wanted so much to tell Gaius everything that had occurred recently; to wow him; to dazzle him; to watch his eyes fill with wonder as she revealed her marvelous secrets. But something would surely interrupt them. Something always did. Either he would have to go. Or she would have to go. Or, worst of all, he would listen but not care.
She doubted it would be that. Still, it was wise to be philosophical. So very little had gone right for her of late. It would hurt less if she kept her expectations low.
It was not that her life had been so bad. Wonderful things had happened. But most of them she could not share with anyone. Like meeting an Elf. Or discovering she was immune to the Spell of True Recitation and geases. Or choosing to sacrifice her life to save the world and then being spared.
Things nobody else knew.
Except, of course, the Raven.
Rachel slipped from the table and began to pace. She stalked out into the main hall and leaned against one of the windows overlooking the reflecting lake. The glass was cool against her forehead and nose, especially on the spot where the bruise had been, though now only a faint tingle remained. Normally, the whole campus would have lain before her, but all she could see now was mist.
Standing there, Rachel again stared into the fog. She thought of her friends: the princess who could not see obvious connections; Sigfried who lived in the present, unconcerned with even the largest threats; Joy and Zoë, who looked to Nastasia, as if she were the font of all wisdom. Even Valerie, who was so clever about practical things, seemed lost when it came to tracking and comprehending the significance of magical events. Rachel recalled again what had happened in the infirmary, how she and Valerie had carefully laid out the next steps for their nameless group to take, and everyone had praised the princess.
Was she truly too young to be at Roanoke? Should she have stayed home until next year and come with students her own age? Was she really just the freaky dwarf genius Sigfried had so humorously named her?
Staring into the fog, she was reminded of another misty day. As with all her memories, her recollection of it was as crisp and clear as if it had only just occurred. She had stood on the balcony of her room at Gryphon Park. Behind her had been her enormous dark wood-paneled bedroom with its walk-in fireplace and its pink canopy bed with lacy curtains and collection of favorite plush animals. To her right, as she looked off the balcony, had risen the Old Castle. Before her, over the moat and across the lawns, had stretched the fanciful shapes of the topiary gardens, beyond which lay the boxwood maze, the lake, the forest, and, high above, about half a mile away, the ruins on Gryphon Tor. That day, however, she could see none of this. The fog lay so thick over moors that she could hardly see as far as the yew figures of elephants and winged horse on the other side of the moat or the stone statue of a giant carrying a child that was directly below her.
Beside her had stood her grandmother, The Duchess of Devon. She was a tall, severe woman who wore her steel gray hair in a tight bun and still dressed in the Victorian gowns that had been popular in her youth. They had been talking of inconsequential matters, and Rachel had innocently corrected her grandmother on some point that the older woman had forgotten.
“You are far too clever for your own good,” her grandmother had snapped.
Rachel, who had only ever been praised for her cleverness by her parents and grandfather, had gazed at her grandmother in puzzlement.
The Duchess had frowned down at her diminutive granddaughter. Her voice had barked like a drill sergeant. “Cleverness is the curse of women, grandchild. Nobody wants a woman to demonstrate intelligence. You will learn this when you are grown. They will not thank you for your insights. They will not cherish your achievements. They will not praise you, as His Grace and your father do. This gift that blooms like a precious flower—” Her clenched hand lifted, unfolding, and then shot forward as if snatching something from the air. “One day you will wish you could pluck it from you and trample it underfoot.”
Rachel had not known what to say. The two of them had stared into the mist. The skin of her grandmother’s hands had been a bloodless white. Rachel had been too young to realize this was because she held her fists so tightly that her nails were biting into her palms, but she recognized it now.
Armed with this realization, she saw the entire incident with new eyes. It had never occurred to her six-year-old self that her grandmother could have been talking about her own life. That the life of an intelligent and talented sorceress—who had lived through the Victorian Age, through the Depression, through both World Wars—might have been fraught with difficulty. Rachel had not known at the time that Amelia Griffin had abandoned her vows as a Vestal Virgin, weakening the Sacred Flame over which she had stood guard, out of love for Rachel’s grandfather—after Blaise Griffin’s first family had been slaughtered. She had not even understood that the death of her father’s younger brother Emrys, who had died right here at Roanoke, fighting the Terrible Five at the age of seventeen, meant that her grandmother had lost one of her two children. Little Rachel had only understood that, once again, her exacting and prickly grandparent disapproved of her for reasons that she could not understand.
There on the balcony in the fog, her ordinarily-standoffish grandmother had dropped to one knee. She had seized Rachel by both shoulders, her normally-distant eyes blazing. “But don’t you ever give in, Lady Rachel Jade Griffin! Intelligence is a gift, no matter how often life tries to teach you otherwise. Don’t you ever give in and let the forces of ignorance win!”
“I won’t, Grandmother,” whispered thirteen-year-old Rachel hoarsely, her forehead still pressed against the cold glass. “I won’t give in.”
Out there before her now, invisible behind the fog, lay the memorial garden with its many shrines, where offerings could be made to numerous gods. Rachel wished, not for the first time since she came to school, that her family had chosen a household god—someone she could pray to for guidance, for strength. She wished recklessly that some deity would manifest, as in the tales of old, and offer her comfort in return for loyalty.
No figure appeared amidst thunder and lightning. The only moving thing visible on the lawn below was Kitten Fabian’s familiar, padding its way across the damp grass. The little Comfort Lion, a golden-maned feline the size of a house cat, stopped
and turned its head. Its golden eyes seemed to stare straight up at Rachel. It was probably a coincidence, but an eerie horripilation ran across Rachel’s body.
She thought back three seconds.
In her memory, the Lion was gigantic—bigger than elephants, bigger than houses, bigger than trees. It looked down from the sky, its expression reminding Rachel of Mistletoe, when he sat watching a hole from which he expected a mouse to emerge.
There was no mistaking it.
Its great golden eyes were focused directly upon Rachel.
Chapter Eleven:
Uncommon Commoners and Kings
Footsteps echoed in the main hallway. Rachel turned her head. When she looked back, the Lion in the sky was gone. Below, the tiny feline vanished into the fog.
Gaius came running around the corner, slightly out of breath. He looked utterly adorable. He seemed more like his normal self than he had outside. He had regained his air of nonchalance and his wry grin. Slowing to a walk, he gave her a warm smile. Rachel wanted to rush forward and hug him, but she felt too shy. Then, something in her rebelled. She had waited all this time for him to hug her. She was not returning to hugless limbo.
Dashing forward, she threw her arms around his waist. He returned her embrace, looking quite pleased.
Rachel lowering her lashes demurely to hide her eagerness. “What can I help you with?”
Gaius spoke with his customary British drawl. “You remember that enchantment I helped you learn, the paralysis hex?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t help notice that you’re rather good at it.”
Rachel beamed shyly.
“I was wondering if you might consider casting it, so I could store a few in my wand.”
He did want help with his wand.
“I would be honored,” she replied simply. “When would be convenient?”
“It’s Saturday morning. I have no plans.” He grinned. Leaning toward her, he added mischievously, “Except to spend time with my girlfriend.”
Rachel lit up like a lantern. “Now would be fine!”
They walked back to their hallway, hand-in-hand. As she came to the table, Rachel paused, frowning. “I am rather good with the spell, but I don’t succeed every time. What if I mess up? Won’t it go awry when you fire it?”
“Ah! That’s what this little brilliant device is for.” Gaius pulled out a small object and put it on the table. A small brass base supported five folded petals of golden foil. Below them, a little bar stuck out from the stand, ending in a feathery gold tip.
“A cinqfoil!”
“You know it?” Gaius made an expansive gesture. “Good!”
“Only sort of,” she admitted. “My father uses one when he refills his staff. I don’t know what they do, but I must admit to being ever so curious.”
“Then, we must satisfy your curiosity. After all, the desire to know is the origin of all scientific pursuit. Behold!” Gaius placed the device on the table top. “See this little feathery bit here? It’s sensitive to sorcery. The stronger the spell, the more it reacts, causing these gold foil petals to open. If the cinqfoil starts looking like a flower—opens beyond half way—the spell is good. Shall we try it?”
Rachel gazed at the curious little device in wonder. Then, she took a deep breath and whistled. A rush of magical energy rushed through her body and out of her mouth. Blue sparkles danced through the air perfuming the hallway with the scent of evergreen. The gold-foil petals opened to about two-thirds of their full extent. The device formed a delicate gold blossom.
With a deft gesture—the same fingertips pressed together into a beak that was used for the Word of Bridging and conjurations—Gaius directed the spell into the sapphire at the tip of his fulgurator’s wand. Swirling like a tiny whirlwind, the cobalt sparkles sank into the gem.
• • •
They worked in concert, concentrating upon the task. Neither of them paused to chat. Rachel whistled. The cinqfoil bloomed. Gaius caught the spell. They repeated this again and then over and over again. Underneath her extreme focus, Rachel was aware of how close he stood; of how cute he looked as he bent in concentration; of the fierce, pure joy that thrilled through her, caused by working together so harmoniously.
She could not imagine any place she would rather be.
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, the petals of the cinqfoil would no longer unfold far enough to make catching the spell worthwhile. Rachel’s lips had gone numb from the sheer amount of raw sorcerous power. Her head spun. She feared she might swoon. Noticing her distress, Gaius insisted she squat down and put her head between her knees. He knelt beside her with one hand on her shoulder, a comforting presence.
Rachel felt unpleasantly lightheaded. She wanted to lean against him, but an image rose from her memory of Vladimir Von Dread, his black-gloved fist resting on the table at the Knights meeting, his voice icy with disdain as he denounced weakness. Gaius admired Vlad tremendously. He might distain weakness, too. She dare not let him know how weak she was.
Forcing her chest to rise and fall normally, she insisted upon standing. Gaius helped her rise, his hand on her elbow, smiling kindly.
“That was amazing!” Gaius gazed at Rachel, his dark eyes filled with appreciation. “If my count is right, you did that four hundred and two times! And they were rather good spells, too! I’m going to be unbeatable!” He assumed a dueling stance, flicking the teak and brass length of his wand. “Beware my paralysis! Blue Sparkle’s light!”
Rachel giggled with sheer delight. “My pleasure!”
Still grinning triumphantly, Gaius grabbed her and hugged her tightly. Rachel melted against him and sighed contently.
“Do you know any other enchantments?” he asked, letting her go. His hand shot up. “Not today, of course.”
“A wind blast, but it’s truly pathetic. I plan to work on the Spell of Bedazzlement. It is a hex in the Aeolian mode, same as the paralysis spell. Maybe I’ll turn out to have a proper talent for hexes.”
“If you master it, I’d love to be the first to know.” Gaius grinned fiercely. “Do you…” he looked around, as if only now noticing that something was missing, “…ever use an instrument?”
Rachel’s eyes flickered downward, suddenly embarrassed.
“Because, you know,” he drawled, gesturing airily, “all the other Enchanters I know can’t perform spells by just whistling. They are stuck playing a tuba or a nose flute or something.”
“Yeah.” Rachel chewed on her lip again. “I have a flute. I just don’t like playing it.”
“Oh. That’s…”
“Inconvenient? Bizarre?” Rachel sighed.
“Rather cool?” Gaius said. “No one else I know can do that!”
“I learned it from my mother. She can do it, too,” said Rachel, not explaining that it was a side effect of their secret dissembling technique. She wondered obscurely if Cassandra March could whistle enchantments, too. “As to the instrument…I told you I didn’t want to be in Dare.”
“I didn’t realize the matter was so serious! Why don’t you move?” he asked. Then, he answered his own question. “Of course. Your brother and sister. I’m sure Laurel and Peter want their little sister near them.” His grin grew wider. “Especially if you’re dating some awful older boy, who is a thaumaturge to boot! And now, apparently, the princess doesn’t like me either. Good grief!”
“I’m not sure she doesn’t like you. She doesn’t trust Vlad, so she doesn’t trust his people. Also, she doesn’t think I should be dating a commoner.”
“A commoner?” He blinked a few times. “Didn’t expect to hear that at school. People here don’t usually stand on ceremony. Not the decent ones, anyhow. But enough about that. Thank you! You have no idea what this means to me.” He clutched his wand to his chest. “I filled my old wand over a period of three years. Two years ago, we had two Enchanters working with us. One…” he peered at her carefully, “…graduated last year. The other
lost his memory in an industrial accident.”
There could not have been two such students.
“You mean Blackie Moth?” Rachel asked.
“You know him?”
“He’s my second cousin.” Rachel paused. “That nearly happened to me two days ago.”
“You nearly lost your memory in an industrial accident?” Gaius asked, amused but puzzled. “Or you almost became a second cousin?”
“Not an accident,” Rachel said seriously, “but I nearly had my memory taken away. I wonder if I would have ended up like Blackie.”
“What do you mean?”
Rachel leaned out in the main hallway, but no one was around. Coming back, she said in a low voice, “I was told I might tell only one person. I would like that person to be you. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. Not even Vlad.”
“Rachel, I haven’t repeated anything you asked me to keep private! I swear!” Gaius insisted. “But only one person? Are you certain it should be me?”
“If I picked Siggy or Nastasia, I would have to choose between them.”
“I wasn’t thinking of them,” said Gaius. “Shouldn’t you tell your father?”
Rachel blanched. “I…can’t.”
“Why not? They say he’s a famous Agent. He’s one of the best, right?”
“Of course!” Rachel cried loyally. “But…”
“Don’t the Wisecraft need to know what you found out?”
“Gaius, you trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And if I say: ‘I can only tell you this much and no more’?”
“I trust you have a good reason.”
“There are parts I cannot tell—not even to you. When I say this, you believe me.” Rachel struggled to explain. “My father would not trust that I knew enough to decide what to tell him and what to leave out. He would expect me to make him my first loyalty.”
“Shouldn’t you?” frowned Gaius.
“What if he didn’t believe me when I said I couldn’t tell him—or that he should not tell anyone else—until it was too late?”
Rachel and the Many-Splendored Dreamland (The Books of Unexpected Enlightenment Book 3) Page 13