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  The magic itself here was all very minor stuff, by her standards. Spells to soothe beasts and keep water fresh and food from spoiling. Cook had little spells she used on her cooking. The gardeners all had their own to keep the plants flourishing, blight from the roses, insects at bay. It was not so much a matter of making the place into an Eden of plenty as it was to keep things from going wrong.

  This was, of course, the right way to use magic if you weren’t a Master, and often if you were. “Take care,” Robin used to say. “Suppose you were to make it rain here, and over in Devon you made a drought?” So, when you used magic, you used it in little ways, to keep things healthy, not to change them, to cleanse, but not to stimulate.

  “Think about growing things,” Robin had said. “Growing is good, but not if it makes one thing choke out another. Stick to healing, keeping the land healthy and the poisons out of it, and you can’t go far wrong.”

  Of course, there was another factor. An Elemental Master could get the help of the Elementals, which meant he didn’t depend on his own strength for his spells. But people who worked smaller magics took all of that strength out of themselves. That tended to make you husband your power for when you needed it or to find ways to make a little do a lot.

  “Well, tha’s fair pleased ’bout somethin’,” Polly observed, interrupting her thoughts.

  “I’m happy here,” she said, giving Polly part of the truth.

  “Eh! There’s a good deal t’be happy about!” Polly agreed. “With two o’ us doin’ the dairy, there’s nowt too much work, nowt too little. Good victuals, fair wages an’ all. Body could do worse’n serve at Branwell Hall.”

  “A lot worse,” she agreed. Polly regarded her thoughtfully, but she said nothing. Perhaps she was trying to read something into her brief answer.

  A history of bad treatment at the hands of Susanne’s imaginary employer, perhaps?

  Well, Polly was going to have to be disappointed. One lie about her origin was actually one lie too many; the problem with lying was that the more elaborate a lie became, the harder it was to keep track of and keep straight. Susanne was not going to compound trouble by telling too many lies. The less she told, the less she would have to remember.

  Today had been a cheese-making day, so there was some extra work. The milk had been made into curds, the whey drained, the curds cheddared, then cut into pea-sized pieces, salted and packed into their molds for pressing. Tomorrow afternoon the cheeses would be turned out of the molds, wrapped loosely in cheesecloth, and stacked on their racks to dry. The cheeses from the last cheese making, which had developed their rind, were wrapped in bandages and moved to the ripening racks. These were carefully marked with the date. The longer the cheese aged, the sharper it would be. A cheese aged for a year was very sharp indeed, and a great favorite on the gentry’s table.

  Ah, there it was—the change in “feel” that meant the butter had finally started to come together. Polly cocked her head and nodded. “Soon,” she said.

  Susanne nodded agreement. “’Tis been a good day’s work,” she said happily, glad to take her mind off the pleasant, but vexing, subject of Charles Kerridge.

  An hour later, the two of them were washing and scalding the steel milk-pans used for cooking the curds as their last chore before supper.

  “Missus Elizabeth is wantin’ cheese for gamekeeper’s cottage,” Polly said. “Two, she said. Three month an’ six month. Seems Marster Michael hired gamekeeper.”

  For a fleeting moment, Susanne wondered if this could be Robin Goodfellow, taking on the same role he had back at Whitestone. But—surely not. Not even Robin would be bold enough to present himself to a human and try to deceive the man into hiring him on. Especially not in a household where there were so very many Earth magicians! If it were Robin, most of the people here would know what he was within two days of his turning up in person.

  “Gamekeeper has half-brother,” Polly continued, smiling, as she read Susanne’s expression as astonishment. “Scholar, ’tis said. They be stayin’ i’ cottage. Reckon nowt much call for scholarin’, so ’tis his brother what puts victuals on table.” She chuckled. “Anyway, ’tis a fair lovely walk, tha’ll take one, I’ll take t’other, then we can get our supper.”

  Since Susanne hadn’t seen much of the estate since she arrived, she readily agreed. The cheeses each weighed a good ten pounds, heavy enough to justify two girls for the single errand. They finished their washing, put everything back in its proper place, and went to select the cheeses. Polly had some way of telling which were the best that Susanne hadn’t yet deciphered. The very best were kept for the gentry, of course, so Polly spent a good several minutes muttering to herself, tapping and sniffing, until she found two that met her criteria of “good enough for the gamekeeper and his daft brother,” but not of such inferior quality that it would shame her and her skill to give them to the new hirelings. Polly always kept back what she considered “failed” cheeses to give to Cook to use in the cooking, rather than the serving or to be sent off to the poor.

  With the cheeses wrapped in cloth in their arms, they made their way through the parkland that surrounded the Hall. The path they followed soon brought them into real forest, left to tend to itself, although the path was well tended and groomed. Susanne breathed in the forest air with sensual joy, and Polly showed no sign of nerves, simply looking around with pleasure. Which was lovely; Susanne didn’t have much use for a girl who was looking for apocryphal wolves and bears behind each bush and jumping with fear every time a branch broke. “Eh! There’ll be wild strawberries soon,” Polly said. “We should come of a Sunday t’pick ’em. They be ever so much better than tame.”

  Susanne’s mouth watered at the thought. There were no “tame” strawberries at Whitestone, unless they came from one of the tenant farms, so all the strawberries she’d had either came from the market or were ones she had picked herself in the woods. And she agreed with Polly; the wild ones might be much smaller, but they were much better. “Strawberries and cream,” she sighed. “Eh, ’tis a fine part of summer! Better still with a scone or cake . . .” She hadn’t had them with cake more than once or twice, but the memory was sheer bliss.

  “Better nor plain cream. I know th’ way of makin’ Devon cream.” Polly licked her lips and her eyes sparkled. “Tha’s never tasted th’ like. Like cream, but thick as butter, only softer.”

  Devon cream? Susanne had read of such a delight, but only in papers, when stories were written about the fabulous tables that the wealthy set. “Is there anything in a dairy you don’t know how to do?” Susanne asked, her eyes going round.

  “Nowt much,” Polly replied, and laughed. “But I canna milk a cow. Cheeky beggars kick over pail, every time!”

  At that point, they arrived at their goal. The gamekeeper’s cottage was a tidy little place, and although according to Polly, it had been empty as long as she had been keeping the dairy, it hadn’t been permitted to fall into disrepair. It was partly of stone, partly of whitewashed plaster and black beams, with a thatched roof. The thatch was in very good condition and was home to several bird nests. When they pushed open the door, it was obvious that others had been here already.

  There were three rooms: one main room that served as kitchen, dining room and sitting room—and probably workroom, too—and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was much smaller than the other and might have served some other purpose before the bed had been—barely!—fitted into it. A narrow wooden staircase went up to a low second story that could probably serve for more sleeping space or for storage. It had its own well, as evidenced by a sink in the kitchen with a hand-pump, which was as good as the one at the Hall. An enormous stone fireplace took up most of one of the end walls, with a settle next to it, but a modern iron stove had been installed inside the fireplace for cooking and heating. That was just as well; the fireplace was surely big enough to roast an entire pig in, and you would be either too hot or too cold, or the chimney wouldn’t draft right. The place had
been opened up and aired out, the shutters flung back, and the glass windows opened to let in air.

  As for furnishing the place, well, whoever had directed just what was to be done here had not scrimped. The table was covered with a clean linen tablecloth, and from what Susanne could see of one of the bedrooms, the beds were as nice as the ones in the room her father had assigned to her. There were even bits of carpet on the stone floor. The whitewashed walls must have just been refreshed; it was much brighter inside than you would have guessed from the exterior, for all that the ceiling was so low a tall man would need to be careful he didn’t knock his head on the beams.

  “Eh! I’d be glad to live here, that I would!” Polly said with surprise. “Marster must set great store by this gamekeeper. Well, let’s put cheese up.”

  She marched straight to the big cupboard that must serve as a larder and found space in it for their cheeses. She examined the doors before shutting them and nodded with satisfaction. “No mouse be gettin’ in there,” she pronounced, as she set the latch in place.

  They both looked around a little more, and Polly sighed. “On’y one thing for it. Gamekeeper’s brother, he be scholar. Likely from Oxford. So gamekeeper’s brother mus’ be friend of Marster Charles from school,” she said.

  Susanne nodded. “That would explain—all this.” She waved her hand at the careful preparations and the high degree of comfort. “And ’twould explain hiring a gamekeeper when there wasn’t need.”

  “Aye.” Polly nodded sagely. “Could be they fell on hard times. Or maybe Marster foun’ out that they was doin’ poorly an’ felt he had to do for ’em.”

  Susanne was thinking very hard now. If that was the case, then the “daft” and scholarly brother might be a way to get closer to Charles . . .

  “Well, nowt more to see, an’ supper’ll be over if we don’ run,” Polly said, breaking into her thoughts. “We’ll find out when gamekeeper gets here.”

  “Eh, true,” Susanne replied, as they left the cottage and shut the door firmly behind them; her stomach growled to emphasize that, and she grinned. “Last one there forfeits extra tart!” she added, and dashed up the path.

  “Oh, tha’ do think!” Polly squealed in outrage, and sprinted after her.

  Susanne let her win at the last minute. Friendship was worth so much more than a second helping of treacle tart.

  “And what have we learned, Garrick?” asked Peter, as they settled the last of the gear that the farm cart had hauled out to the cottage for them.

  He was ridiculously pleased with the cozy little cottage. He had certainly lived in much worse surroundings. He and Garrick could take it in turns to cook on that little stove, which was infinitely superior to the many fires and fire pits he had been forced to use in the past.

  I wouldn’t mind being the gamekeeper here in truth, actually. Then he had to laugh at himself. Of course he would mind, after a while. He was at heart a London man. He’d miss it eventually. More than miss it; he’d come to pine for it. Not to mention that there were many other things he would miss. Be honest my lad. You love your luxuries. One week without your Harrods hamper and you’d be whimperin’ with deprivation. Still . . . it didn’t take being an Earth Master to want desperately to be away when the choking peasoup fogs of winter descended. When that happened . . . well the wild winter winds of Yorkshire would be a blessed relief. It wouldn’t matter if they “wuthered” so long as they were “wuthering” about walls as stout as these.

  Perhaps I will take Garrick and escape here for a bit in the winter. The shooting should be grand, too.

  “We have learned, m’lord, that I am presumed to be Charles Kerridge’s friend from school and that you and I are either the sons of an impoverished vicar upon whom Master Charles took pity or have fallen on hard times.” Garrick stowed the bounty of the hamper from Harrods in the cupboard with great care; Elizabeth’s generosity had not left him much room.

  “I like the ‘sons of an impoverished vicar.’ It has a nice soundness to it, and vicar’s sons are presumed to be either impractical scholars or relative black sheep.” Peter sighted along the rifle he was holding, then stowed it in the rack they had brought with them. “If we take on those personas, I shall retain a touch of the Yorkshire dialect, but I needn’t try to pass myself off as a deep native. It will be presumed that our joint father either beat or prayed the greater part of the accent out of me.”

  “Very good, m’lord.” Garrick tucked in the last jar of marmalade and shut the larder door. “Might I suggest, m’lord, an air of thoughtful silence for the most part? And perhaps not a black sheep as such. Rakes are often found to be attractive by young ladies. Some are attracted to the danger and some to the possibility of ‘saving’ them. That could be very inconvenient, not to say distracting.”

  Peter blinked. “Good Lord, you’re right. All right, not a black sheep. Well then, we had better work out our mutual history.”

  “Very good, m’lord,” Garrick replied, his head half inside the mammoth fireplace as he lit the cast iron stove. “I suggest you are the elder, the product of an impetuous marriage that resulted in early widowhood, and I am the offspring of the second marriage. The impoverished vicar would be an excellent choice. And in that way we can have different surnames. Said parent being an excessively stern father, determined that we follow in his footsteps, even though you were not of his blood. You, being of a more rebellious nature, occupied your youth with woodland studies to the detriment of your books and departed at the age of sixteen to take up a position as under-gamekeeper for Lord Alderscroft, who will be certain to corroborate this ruse. I, on the other hand, took to my books but refused to study anything resembling divinity—but dissembled so that our father was unaware I was not obedient to his wishes. He died, leaving me completely unable to support myself in any way, including tutoring; my friend Charles, however, came to the rescue with this position for you on learning of my desperate plight. You, of course, were glad of the opportunity, since you were unlikely to rise to full gamekeeper for at least ten years, and were completely unable in your current position to support me.”

  The sound of applause from the door made them both turn. “My word, Garrick, you should be a writer! That’s both a satisfactory story and one that will be easy enough to bring off.”

  Peter had come instantly to his feet, and now made a stiff little bow. “It’ll do, Marster Charles,” he said, already in his gamekeeper persona.

  “I should think. It’s quite solid.” Charles turned to Garrick. “So how woolly-headed and timid were you, Garrick?”

  “Quite, sir,” Garrick replied without losing his composure a bit.

  “Good. Then you were my fag your first year and were more or less under my protection for the two years I had remaining. I had a reputation for protecting the easily overwhelmed by appropriating them before anyone with a cruel streak could.” Charles grinned a little.

  “So you did, Charles, so you did.” Peter put the servile manner aside and sprawled in one of the three chairs. “And no one here will know the names of your fags; the only reason I still recall them is because my memory seldom lets go of anything, however trivial. I must say, your mother has done the deed proper here. I expected to be camping rough, and here I find the rustic equivalent of a luxurious hotel!”

  “It’s occurred to both of us that this might prove to be a good retreat for a mage with rattled nerves, or one who wouldn’t feel comfortable as a guest up at the Hall but would be at home in a cottage,” Charles replied, taking another chair. “How do you intend to approach the girl?”

  “Strawberry season, Master Charles,” Garrick replied, still fiddling with the stove. “And please tell your good mother that her choice of stoves was excellent. I don’t expect to have any trouble with this one at all.”

  “I’ll tell her. What the deuce do you mean by strawberry season?” Charles demanded, looking at Garrick’s back as if he thought that the man had gone mad.

  “For that, I must d
efer to Lord Peter,” Garrick said with great dignity. “Regardless of my familiarity with stoves, I am a man of the city at bottom.”

  Peter laughed. “And for that, old fellow, I am indebted to my first nanny, who was a bright little country lass and a protégé of my grandmother. She taught me that wild strawberries are infinitely tastier than the ones from the garden, and, furthermore, there are no gardeners guarding them like Cerberus at the gates of Hades. M’mater would have been horrified to know that we would go rompin’ through the fields in the season, and I’d stuff myself until I was sticky. You can lay money on it that every one of your servants who doesn’t think it beneath him—or her—is going to be huntin’ berries in the next few days. I’ve got some choice patches spotted, thanks to some cross-Elemental gossip, and I’ll be waiting for our quarry to either find them herself or be led to them. Or at need, I’ll lead her to them myself.”

  “And thus,” said Garrick, straightening up from the stove, “the deed is done.”

  Charles shook his head. “It’s clever, but deuced if I can see how you come up with these schemes. I’ll leave you to your supper. I suppose it’s poached,” he added, with cheerful resignation. “Oh, what are your names, anyway?”

  “Clive Garrick and Peter Devlin,” Peter said instantly. “Devlin is my middle name, and Clive is Garrick’s.”

  “Good, easy to remember. Well, on that note, I bid you good night, oh feeder on the bounty of my land.” He stood up and let himself out. Peter chuckled.