The Gates of Sleep em-3 Read online

  And I hope that Madam doesn’t contradict that plan.

  “Have you any preferences as to what I deliver first, miss?” the modiste asked at last, packing up their selections with care.

  “Unless Madam says differently, the riding habit, please,” Marina begged. “I’m dying for some exercise.”

  The dressmaker smiled wanly. “Indeed, miss?” she responded, just as Mary Anne returned. The maid gathered the poor little woman in without a single word, polite or otherwise, to Marina, and took her off, leaving Marina alone.

  This was her chance; she walked across the room to a door she had noticed behind a swag of ornamental drapery, and tried the knob. The door swung open easily.

  The room revealed was, indeed, another bedroom, this one with all the furnishings under sheets. But the sheets didn’t hide the carpet, walls, or the curtains on the bed, which were even more flamboyantly scarlet than in Marina’s sitting room. Not a feminine decorating scheme, either; this was a distinctly masculine room. And now that she thought about it, the sitting room and her own room had been given ruffles and flourishes that, taken away, also left a distinctly masculine appearance in the room.

  This single glance told her what she had wanted to know. If ever there was a room utterly suited to a young male Fire Master, this was it. So these rooms must have once been the home of her uncles Sebastian and Thomas!

  She closed the door, and let the swag of drapery fall back to hide it with a feeling of satisfaction. And if the surroundings she found herself in were at odds with her own preferences and her Element—now she no longer felt so stifled and overheated by them. How could she? Here, more than anywhere else (unless she discovered her Aunt Margherita’s room) she was closer to the people she’d known than she had been since she’d been taken away from them.

  Until, that is, I see if Sally can manage to smuggle letters out for me. With friends among the lower servants, what had seemed impossible yesterday was no longer. There was still the matter of obtaining postage, but if she got her hands on some money…

  Well, meanwhile, she needed to make concerted efforts to please Madam Arachne; the sooner it appeared to her new guardian that Marina was settling in and being obedient, the sooner opportunities to act on her own would appear.

  After some hunting, she found her instruments, her music, her needlework, and her books tucked away in a cupboard in the sitting room, no longer in the boxes or baskets that they had been packed into. While she waited for the odious Mary Anne to come fetch her for another luncheon ordeal, she began shelving her books among the ones she had purloined from the library.

  As she did so, she couldn’t help but notice that some books she would have expected to have with her were not there.

  The missing books were an odd assortment; Greek and Latin philosophers, essays by some of the Suffragrists that Elizabeth admired, and some weighty history books. The problem was, since Marina had not seen these books packed, she could not say for certain that she’d actually had them with her—Jenny and Sarah had been overwrought, and there was no telling what they had and had not packed. The books had been in her room and should have been boxed—but those horrid lawyers had been in a great hurry, and they might not have waited for everything.

  Still… novels and poetry were there, including the scandalous poetry of Byron and sensational books by other notorious authors, and some rather daring, if frivolous, works in French. What was missing were books that were—well—serious in tone.

  She didn’t quite know what to make of that. Why take away serious literature and leave the frivolous, even the demi-scandalous?

  On the other hand, it wasn’t as if there was anything among them, except the essays, that she probably couldn’t find in the Oakhurst library.

  Still, if someone had gone through her books, discarding some just as her entire wardrobe had been discarded, it was very likely that someone would continue to monitor her reading. Which meant that perhaps she had better hide her etiquette books a little better. Maybe no one would take them—but Mary Anne seemed determined to see her humiliated.

  Why? Well, there was a very obvious reason—as long as Marina remained a naive and socially inept bumpkin, Mary Anne was guaranteed a position. Trained as a lady’s maid she might be, but Marina could not imagine any real lady putting up with the woman’s airs for very long. If novels were to be believed, a proper lady’s maid was silent, invisible, and kept any opinions she might have to herself.

  If Marina ever got to the point where Madam Arachne was satisfied with her, Mary Anne would probably find herself out of a position.

  And she certainly will when I am twenty-one!

  Unless, of course, she could sufficiently cow her charge to make her think that Mary Anne could not possibly be dispensed with.

  So—the removal of the “serious” books might be on Madam’s orders, to ensure that Marina concentrated on learning social graces and didn’t bury her nose in a book. But Mary Anne would find it in her best interests to remove anything that would help Marina do without her. Having confiscated books once, she certainly wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

  Definitely, Marina had better hide her latest acquisitions.

  Where? Not in among her clothing—Mary Anne would be sure to find them there. And the first place anyone would look for hidden treasures would be under the bed or the mattress.

  In my room—

  The thought was parent to the deed; within a moment, she had gathered up her purloined books and whisked them into Sebastian’s old room. She shoved them under the mattress, smoothed over the dust-cloth, and hurried back to the sitting room. When Mary Anne returned, she was putting her instruments and music away.

  “Do you suppose there would be a music stand I could have here?” she asked the maid diffidently.

  “You should practice in the music room, miss,” Mary Anne replied with a frown. “That’s what it’s for. You wouldn’t want to disturb people with your practicing.”

  So, music practice was among the permitted activities—though who she was going to disturb was a mystery, since she hadn’t seen anyone but servants except Madam since she arrived, and this wasn’t the servants’ wing.

  Well, perhaps Madam was planning to entertain soon, which would put guests in this wing. Hmm. She must have taken my parents’ suite. It would, of course, be the largest and best-appointed. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Madam settling for anything less.

  And I certainly wouldn’t want that suite. This is cavernous enough for me, thank you.

  “Yes, but changing temperatures are very bad for lutes,” Marina replied. “The necks crack very easily. It shouldn’t be in a room that doesn’t have a constant fire in it in winter.” This, of course, was not true—but Mary Anne wouldn’t know that.

  The maid sniffed. “I’ll have someone find a stand,” she said, as if conferring a great favor. “In the meantime, miss, it’s time for luncheon.”

  Marina followed the maid to the dining room again; she was glad to see Peter there, but even happier that she’d had a chance to study one of those etiquette books last night. The number of supercilious coughs was far fewer, and if the food was just as bland and tasteless as before, at least she got a bit more of it this time.

  Madam joined her at luncheon as well; Marina could only watch her covertly, marveling that she actually seemed to enjoy what was set before her—as much as Madam Arachne ever appeared to enjoy anything.

  Halfway through, Madam cleared her throat delicately, “I should like you to meet my son Reginald this afternoon,” she said, as Marina looked up quickly. “He can help immeasurably in instructing you in polite conversation. And as we have a grama-phone, he can also teach you to dance properly. I am assuming you have never learned?”

  She shook her head. “Only country dances, Madam,” she replied truthfully. “And not often.”

  “Well, you’re not completely ungraceful; I think he can manage,” Madam Arachne said coolly. “Mary Anne, please show mis
s to the music room when luncheon is over.”

  “Of course, Madam,” the maid said, with a servility she had not demonstrated until this moment.

  Luncheon was very soon deemed to be over, with the arrival of a blancmange; since Marina detested blancmange, she toyed with her portion and was not displeased to have it taken away when Madam rose and left to go back to whatever it was that she was doing. Work, presumably. Something to do with the estate, perhaps. Accounts. Whoever reigned over Oakhurst would have to be an estate manager as well as the head of the household; there were the tenant farms to manage as well as the home farm, and the household accounts to run.

  Or perhaps she was dealing with her own businesses—after all, hadn’t she said that she had three pottery manufactories? Or was it four? Marina could not imagine Madam leaving the details of her businesses to anyone other than herself.

  Another trek through the house brought them to the door of the music room, which had a fire in the fireplace, but which, by the chill still in the air, had not had one there for long. There was a harp, shrouded in a cover and probably out of tune, and a piano in the corner, a grouping of sofas and chairs about the fireplace, and an expanse of clear floor for dancing. There was also, more prominently, an expensive gramophone on a table of its own, and records shelved beside it.

  Mary Anne simply left her there to her own devices; she thought about examining the recordings for the gramophone, but if the device was Reginald’s rather than belonging to the house, the young man might resent her touching it. So instead, she examined the harp. As she had expected, it had been de-tuned, but by the amount of wear on it, someone had been used to playing it often.

  Mother, probably. Marina didn’t really remember if Uncle Thomas had ever said anything about her mother playing the harp, but it was the instrument of choice for young women of her mother’s generation.

  “Not a bad instrument, but I’d rather play the gramophone,” said a careless-sounding male voice from the door. She turned.

  And there he was, leaning indolently against the doorframe. Posed, in fact. There was no doubt that Reginald was Madam Arachne’s son; he had her pale coloring, black hair, and finely chiseled features—but where it was impossible to decide what Madam Arachne felt about anything, Reginald wore a look of sardonic amusement and an air of general superiority as casually as he wore his impeccably tailored suit. “Hello, cuz,” he continued, sauntering across the room and holding out his hand. “I’m Reggie.”

  “Marina,” she replied, not particularly wanting to offer her hand, but constrained to by politeness. He’s going to kiss it instead of shaking it, she thought grimly. He’ll make a flourish out of it, to impress me with how Continental he is.

  And he did exactly that, taking the half-extended hand and kissing the back of it, letting it go with a mocking little click of bootheels.

  “So, the mater thinks we ought to have a turn or two around the ballroom,” he continued. “I understand you don’t dance?”

  “Only country dances,” she repeated reluctantly, as he cranked the gramophone and selected a recording, then mounted it on the machine, dropped the needle in the groove, and held out his hand to her imperiously as a waltz sounded from the horn.

  “You don’t dance,” he repeated, dismissively. “Well, I’m reckoned handy at it; you need have no fear, fair cuz. Just do what I do, only opposite and backwards.” His eyebrow raised, drawing her attention to his cleverness.

  Annoyingly enough, he was a good dancer, and didn’t make her feel as if she had no more grace than a young calf. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the not-altogether-hidden smirk of superiority he wore, she might have enjoyed herself. He was not only a good dancer, he was a good instructor. She was good at country dances, and her skill carried over into the popular and ballroom dances that he showed her.

  Fortunately, the other half of the program—that polite conversation he was supposed to be teaching her—didn’t require much on her part except to listen attentively and murmur vague agreement while he talked.

  And how he talked—she had to wonder how much of it was true and how much boasting.

  Not that it mattered much; whichever it was, so far as she was concerned, his general attitude was so detestable that she was hard put to conceal it from him—and she did so in the only way she could think of. She stared fixedly at him as if she hung on his every word, while all the time trying to work out how she could get away from him.

  In the end, she didn’t have to; Mary Anne arrived to announce the advent of teatime, and Reggie sprang to his feet with an oath that wasn’t quite muffled enough.

  “You won’t catch me sipping that cursed stuff!” he laughed rudely. “Well, cuz, I’ll be off; I’ll have my tea down in the village pub. I expect this will be a regular meeting for us from now on. Mater wants you to be ready for the gay old social whirl as soon as you’re out of mourning, don’t you know. So, I’ll be giving you my coaching for a while.” He laughed. “Now, don’t you go pretending you haven’t learned anything just so you can keep the lessons going! The mater isn’t fooled that easily.”

  She dropped her eyes to hide the contempt she felt for his assumption that she would do anything just to be in his company. “I won’t,” she murmured.

  “There’s a good gel,” he said, patting the back of her hand. “Well then, I’ll be pushing off, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And as Marina followed Mary Anne to wherever her aunt was holding court among the teapots, she found herself resolving to learn these new dances in record time. The sooner she learned them, the sooner she’d be rid of Reggie, and by her way of thinking that could not possibly be soon enough.

  Chapter Eleven

  MADAM Arachne, I’ll be going to church tomorrow,” Marina announced over dinner, as the soup was cleared away. By the second day, she had begun calling her aunt by that name, and since the woman didn’t object—

  I can’t call her Aunt, I just can’t. Aunts were nothing like this cold woman, who held the household at Oakhurst in such an iron grip that the servants leaped to obey her. Aunts were warm and loving, and were more likely to indulge a niece than correct her.

  “I suppose I’ll need a carriage? It seems rather far to walk—I could, easily enough, but it’s an hour to the village at least. I don’t suppose I could ride—I’d have to stable the horse, and I’m not sure where in the village I could do that…” The riding-habit had just been delivered today, too late for her to go out for a ride. So far, she’d been out of the house itself only twice, both times for a walk in the gardens. She supposed that they were lovely—and she certainly detected the now-fading magic of an Earth Master in the robust health of all of the plantings. But the gardens weren’t her half-wild orchard, and the only water in them was a tame—and at the moment, inactive—fountain. It was all very lush, but very planned and mannered—reflective of the woman of all those letters.

  None of this was much like Margherita; Margherita’s magic was cozier, more domestic, and at the same time, wilder—Alanna’s broad and wide, and controlled. Marina could only compare her mother’s magic to that of the goddess Demeter, a thing of ordered, rich harvests and settled fields.

  And her own? She didn’t know—except that it wasn’t tame.

  She wasn’t sure why, but she felt very uneasy about using any magic of her own here at Oakhurst.

  What was it about this place here, Oakhurst, that made her so afraid—yes, afraid—and made her hide her power behind those masking shields that Elizabeth had taught her?

  She glanced at Arachne from under her lashes, waiting for a response to her announcement, and realized that it wasn’t Oakhurst that made her feel as if she dared not work magic—after all, it was plain enough that magic had been worked in plenty here. No, her unease was centered around using magic near her aunt. Not that Arachne showed any signs of magic herself, nor did Reggie, nor the supercilious Mary Anne. But Elizabeth had taught her when to trust her instincts, and her instincts told he
r that any magic use should be kept under heavy shields and never, ever, where Arachne or her people were.

  Which was everywhere, it seemed, within the walls of Oakhurst.

  Tonight, not only was Madam Arachne present at dinner, so was Reginald. At Marina’s announcement, which he evidently found surprising, his eyebrows rose.

  “It is too far to walk, and it would be in poor taste to display yourself at a church service in a riding habit,” Madam admitted, without betraying any expression. “But is this really necessary?”

  Marina’s chin rose, and she looked her aunt directly in the eyes. A confrontation of sorts—a testing. “Yes, Madam, it is,” she said, and did not elaborate on why. Let Arachne assume it was because she was religious. That might even confuse her a bit, for she surely wouldn’t expect a religious upbringing out of pack of wild artists!

  It was just an excuse to get out of the house and grounds, and she knew it, although in Killatree she and the other inhabitants of Blackbird Cottage had been regulars at the village church, except when the weather was particularly foul. She was curious about the village from which Oakhurst took its name; as much to the point, the people of the village were probably curious about her, the daughter that no one had ever seen. She might as well go to church where they could look their fill at her. It would be better and more comfortable to have her first encounter with them in the church than in the village street. And besides—there was one inhabitant of the village that Madam could not possibly object to. The vicar was the one man in a village whose position allowed him to cross class lines. He was as welcome a guest at dinner in a great house as he was at tea in the smallest, lowliest farmer’s cottage. Once Marina actually introduced herself to him, he would have to pay a visit. And at the moment, she didn’t care if he was the most boring old snob imaginable, he would at least keep Madam’s corrections to a minimum just by his presence.

  “Well, you might as well go if you really want to, and let all the gossips and clatter-tongues look their fill at you,” said Madam dismissively, in an unconscious echo of Marina’s own reasoning. “At least they will know that you haven’t got two heads, or devil’s hooves, or any of the other nonsense that has probably been mooted about in the teashop and the pub. I will order the carriage for you.”