The Gates of Sleep Page 22

  “It honestly didn’t occur to me until I was in the middle of that conversation with her,” Arachne admitted. “But the child is so utterly unmagical—and seems to have been brought up that way—that when she was describing the letters her mother sent her about the Elemental creatures in the garden I suddenly realized how insane such tales would seem to someone who was not a mage.” Her hand unconsciously caressed the chocolate-colored velvet of her chair. “Ah, that reminds me—you have cleared out the miserable little fauns and such from the grounds, haven’t you?”

  Reggie snorted. “A lamb sacrificed at each cardinal point drove them out quickly enough. All sweetness and light, was your Hugh’s precious Alanna—the Earth Elementals she had around here couldn’t bear the first touch of blood on the soil.”

  Arachne smiled. “When we make this place ours, we shall have to use something more potent than lambs. And speaking of lambs—”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “I have two replacements safe enough, both with the magic in them, both just turned ten.”

  “Two?” She eyed him askance.

  He sighed. “Besides the one that I took off to die, I lost a second that was carried off by a relative. Pity, that. She had just come to realize what was going to happen to her with that much lead in her. Her hands were starting to go. But the ones I’ve got to replace them are orphans off the parish rolls, and both are Earth, which should bolster our power immensely in that element.”

  Arachne smiled. “Lovely,” she purred. “You are a wonderful pupil, dear.” She raised her cup of chocolate to her lips and sipped, savoring the sting of brandy in it.

  “You are a wonderful teacher, Mater,” he replied slyly, and her smile broadened. “Fancy learning that you could steal the magic from those who haven’t come into their powers. I wouldn’t have thought of that—” He raised his glass of wine to her in a toast.

  “It was others who thought of it before I did,” Arachne admitted, but with a feeling of great satisfaction. “Even if none of them were as efficient as I am.”

  “That’s my mater; a model of modern efficiency. You took one ramshackle old pottery and made it into four that are making money so fast you’d think we were coining it.” He chuckled. “And in another six months?”

  “There is a fine deposit of porcelain clay on this property, access to rail and water, near enough to Barnstaple for cheap sea shipping, plenty of water…” She flexed her fingers slightly as if they were closing around something she wanted very much. “And cheap labor.”

  “And it is so very quiet here,” Reggie prompted slyly. “Well, Mater, I’m doing my part. I’m playing court to the little thing, and I expect I’ll have her one way or another by the summer, if your side doesn’t come in. Have you discovered anything? Just between the two of us, I’d as soon not find myself leg-shackled; it does cut down on a fellow’s fun, no matter how quiet the little wife is.” He shrugged at her sardonic expression. “There’s the social connections to think about, don’t you know. They don’t mind winking at a bit of jiggery-pokery when a fellow’s single, but once he’s married, he daren’t let ‘em find out about it, or they’ll cut him.”

  She smiled, but sourly. “Ah, society. Well, once married, you needn’t stay married to her long.”

  He frowned at that; the sulky frown he had whenever he was balked. “I’d still rather you found a way to make that curse of yours work,” he told her crossly. “Folk start to talk if a fellow’s wife dies right after the wedding. And this isn’t the middle ages, you know. There’s inquests, coroners’ juries, chemical tests—”

  “That will do, Reggie,” she said sharply. “At the moment, we have a number of options, which include you remaining married to the girl. She doesn’t have to die to suit our purposes. She only needs to sicken and take to her bed.” She allowed a smile to cross her lips. “And no one would censure you very strongly for a little peccadilloes if you were known to have an invalid wife.”

  “Hmm. And if I had an—institutionalized wife?” he ventured brightening. “A wife who followed—but perhaps, more dangerously—in the footsteps of her mother?”

  She blinked. “Why Reggie—that is not a bad notion at all! What if we allowed some rumors about Alanna to spread down into the village? What would Marina think, having heard of her own mother’s fantasies, if she began seeing things?”

  “A mix of illusions created by magic and those created by stage-magic?” he prompted further, a malicious smile on his lips. “Your expertise—and mine? Why, she might even be driven to suicide!”

  She laughed aloud, something she did so rarely that she startled herself with the sound. “Ah, Reggie! What a team we make!”

  “That we do, Mater,” he agreed, a smile spreading over his handsome face. “That we do. Now—I believe I have every detail set for tonight, but just go over the plans with me once again.”

  The mare, whose unimaginative name was Brownie, was probably the steadiest beast that Marina had ever seen. And she knew these lanes and paths far, far better than Marina did. At the moment, they were on the lane that ran along the side of another great estate called Briareley Hall, a pounded—dirt track studded with rocks like the raisins in a cake, wide enough for a hay wain pulled by two horses, with banks and hedgerows on either side that went well above Marina’s head even when she was in the saddle. The bank itself, knobby with the roots of the hedge planted on it, came as high as Marina’s own knee. The road was in shadow most of the day because of the hedgerows, and snow lingered in the roots of the hedgerow and the edges of the road no matter how bright the sun elsewhere. Brownie knew that she was on her way home, back to stable and oats and perhaps an apple, so her usual shambling walk had turned into a brisk one—nearly, but not quite, a trot. Marina was thinking of a hot cup of strong tea in the kitchen to fortify herself against the insipid tea she would get with Madam. She had ridden this route often enough to know that there was nothing particularly interesting on it, as well. So when Brownie suddenly threw up her head and shied sideways, she was taken completely by surprise.

  Fortunately, the little mare was too fat and too indolent by nature to do anything, even shy, quickly or violently. It was more like a sideways stumble, a couple of bumbling steps in which all four feet got tangled up. Marina was startled, but too good a rider to be thrown, though she had to grab the pommel of the sidesaddle and drop the reins, holding on for dear life and throwing all of her weight onto the stirrup to brace herself against the sidesaddle. Her stomach lurched, and her heart raced, but she didn’t lose her head, and fortunately, neither did Brownie.

  When Brownie’s feet found purchase again, the mare slung her head around and snorted indignantly at the thing that had frightened her.

  Sweet heaven—it’s a person—it’s a girl!

  A girl, huddled into the roots and frozen earth at the foot of the hedgerow. And one glance at the white, terrified face of that girl huddled at the side of the road sent Marina flying out of the saddle that Brownie’s antics hadn’t been able to budge her from.

  The girl, dressed in nothing more than a nightgown and dressing-gown, with oversized slippers half falling off her feet, had scrambled backward and wedged herself in among the roots and the frozen dirt and weeds of the bank. Marina had never seen a human so utterly terrified in her life—

  If her mouth hadn’t been twisted up in a silent scream, if her eyes hadn’t been so widened with fear that the whites showed all around them, she would have been pretty.

  But she was thin, so very thin, and her skin was so pale the blue veins showed through. Too thin to be pretty anymore, unless your taste ran to the waiflike and skeletal.

  All of that was secondary to the girl’s terror, and instinctively, as she would have with a frightened animal, Marina got down on her knees and held out one hand, making soothing sounds at her She heard Brownie snort behind her, then the unmistakable sound of the horse nosing at the sere grasses and weeds among the roots.

  Good, she won’t be going anywh
ere for a while, greedy pig.

  “It’s all right, dear. It is. I’m a friend.” she said softly, trying to win past that terror to some kernel of sanity. If one existed.

  From the way the girl’s eyes were fixed on something off to Marina’s right, Marina had a notion that the child wasn’t seeing her, but something else. A tiny thread of sound, a strangled keening, came out of her throat; the sound of a soul certain that it was on the verge of destruction.

  Except, of course, there was nothing there. At least, Marina thought there was nothing there.

  Just to be sure, Marina stole a glance in the direction that the girl was looking, and made sure there was nothing of an occult nature there. Just in case. It was always possible that the girl herself had a touch—or more than a touch—of Elemental Magery about her and could see such things.

  But there wasn’t; nothing more alarming than sparrows in the hedges, no magic, not even a breath of power. Whatever this poor creature saw existed only in her own mind.

  Marina crept forward a little; even through the thick wool of her skirt and three petticoats, she felt the cold of the frozen ground and the pebbles embedded in it biting into her knees and the palm of the hand that supported her. “It’s all right, dear. I’ll help you. I’ll protect you.” Her breath puffed out whitely with each word, but the girl still didn’t seem to notice she was there.

  Then—all at once, she did. Her eyes rolled like a frightened horse’s, and the girl moved her head a little; it was a jerky, not-quite-controlled movement. And at the same time, her right hand flailed out sideways and hit a root, hard, hard enough to scrape it open. Marina gasped and bit her lip at the thought of how it should hurt.

  The girl didn’t react, not even with a wince. Exactly as if she hadn’t even felt it.

  There’s more wrong with her than I thought. There’s something physically wrong with her. As if it’s not bad enough that she’s seeing monsters that aren’t there!

  She heard a horse trotting briskly along the lane, coming from the direction in which she’d been riding. Purposeful sounds; whoever was riding or driving knew where he was going.

  Good—maybe that’s help.

  A light breeze whipped a strand of hair across her eyes and chilled her cheeks. She didn’t take her eyes off the girl, though. There was no telling whether or not the poor thing was going to bolt, or try to, any moment now. And dressed as she was, if she ran off somewhere and succeeded in hiding, she wouldn’t last out the night. Not in no more than a nightgown, dressing gown and slippers.

  The hoofbeats stopped; Marina risked a glance to the side to see who, or what, had arrived. Even if it isn’t help—surely if I call out for assistance, whoever it is will help me try to catch her.

  A horse and cart waited there, just on Marina’s side of the next curve in the road. A tall, muscular gentleman, hatless, but wearing a suit, was walking slowly toward them, looking entirely at the girl. But the words he spoke, in a casual, cheerful voice, were addressed to Marina.

  “Thank you, miss, you’re doing exactly the right thing. Keep talking to her. Her name is Ellen, and she’s a patient of mine. I’m Dr. Pike.”

  Marina nodded, and crooned to the girl, edging toward her as Pike approached from the other side. As long as they kept her between them, she didn’t have a clean escape route.

  Marina tried to catch the girl’s eye again. “Ellen. Ellen, look at me—”

  The wandering eye fell on her, briefly. Marina tried to hold it. “Listen, Ellen, some help has come for you, but you mustn’t run away. Stay where you are, Ellen, and everything will be all right.”

  The newcomer added his voice. “Ellen! Ellen, child, it’s Doctor Andrew—I’ve come to take you back—” the man said. Marina risked a longer look at him; he was rather… square. Square face square jaw, blocky shoulders. He’d have looked intimidating, if it hadn’t been that his expression, his eyes, were full of kindness and compassion. He made the “tch-ing” sound one makes to a horse to get its attention, rounded his shoulders to look less intimidating, and finally the girl stopped staring at her invisible threat. Her head wavered in a trembling arc until she was looking at him instead of her hobgoblins. He smiled with encouragement. “Ellen! I’ve come to take you back, back where it’s safe!”

  Now at this point, Marina was ready for the girl to screech and attempt to flee. By all rights, that “I’ve come to take you back” coupled with the appearance of her own doctor should make her panic. “I’ve come to take you back” was the sign that one was going to go “back” into captivity. And in Marina’s limited experience, the doctors of those incarcerated in such places were not regarded as saviors by their patients. She braced herself, and prepared to try to tackle the girl when she attempted to run.

  But evidently that was not the case this time.

  With a little mew, the girl lurched out of her position wedged against the roots and stumbled, weeping, straight toward the newcomer.

  It was more apparent than ever that there was something physically wrong with her as she tried to run to him, and could only manage a shambling parody of the graceful movements she should have had. But the thing that struck Marina dumb was that the girl did regard her doctor as a sort of savior.

  She tumbled into the doctor’s arms, and hid there, moaning, as if she was certain that he and he alone could shelter her from whatever it was she feared.

  Marina could only stare, eyebrows raised. Good gad, she thought. Good gad.

  As gracefully as she could, Marina got back up to her feet and walked—slowly, so as not to frighten the girl all over again—toward the two of them.

  The girl hid her face in the doctor’s coat. The doctor’s attention was fully on his patient; Marina got the distinct impression that an anarchist could have thrown a bomb at him and at the moment he would have only batted it absently away. She was impressed all over again by the manner in which he soothed the girl, exactly as any sensible person would soothe a small child.

  He looked up, finally, as she got within a few feet of the two of them, and smiled at her without a trace of self-consciousness. “Thank you for your help, miss,” he said easily, quite as if this sort of thing happened every day.

  She sincerely hoped that was not the case.

  “I don’t know how I could have helped you,” she replied, with a shrug. “All I did was stop when my horse shied, and try to keep her from running off down the lane. I was afraid that if she found a stile to get over, she’d be off and hiding, and catch her death.”

  “You didn’t ride on and ignore her, you didn’t rush at her and frighten her further, you actually stopped and got off your horse, you even went down on your knees in the road and talked to her carefully. If that’s not helping, I don’t know what is. So thank you, miss. You did exactly as one of my own people would have done; you couldn’t have done better than that if I’d trained you myself.” He smiled warmly at her, with gratitude that was not at all servile. She couldn’t help smiling back at him, as he wrapped his own coat around the girl. “I’m Andrew Pike, by the way. Dr. Andrew Pike. I own Briareley Sanitarium just up the road.”

  Now she recognized who and what he was—her mother had written something about the young doctor the summer before last—how he had spent every penny he owned to buy old Briareley Hall when it came up for sale, and as much of the surrounding land as he could afford from young Lord Creighton, of whom there was gossip of high living in London, and perhaps gambling debts.

  So this was the doctor who had benefited by Lord Creighton’s folly. His intention—which he had fulfilled within the month of taking possession—had been to establish his sanatarium for the treatment of mostly mental ills. He apparently hadn’t been able to afford most of the farmland, which had been parceled out; he still had the grounds and the gardens, but that was all that was left of the original estate.

  According to her mother, Dr. Pike, unlike too many of his ilk who established sanitariums as warehouses for the ill and the inconve
nient, actually attempted to cure people entrusted to his care. And it seemed that he had had some success at curing his patients. Not all, but at least some of the people put in his hands walked out of his gates prepared to resume their normal lives after a stint behind his walls.

  “I have heard of you, Dr. Pike,” she said, as these thoughts passed through her mind in an eye blink. “And I have heard well of you, from my late mother’s letters.” She gave him a look of speculation, wondering what his reaction was going to be to her identity. “Since there’s no one here to introduce me, I trust you’ll forgive my breach of etiquette, even if my aunt wouldn’t. I am Marina Roeswood.”

  She watched as recognition and something else passed across his face. Sympathy, she thought. “Miss Roeswood, of course—may I express my condolences, then? I did not know your parents beyond a nodding acquaintance.”

  Somehow, she didn’t want his sympathy, or at least, not on false pretenses. “Then you knew them better than I did, Doctor Pike,” she said forthrightly, sensing that this man would be better served with the truth rather than polite fiction. “As you must be aware, or at least, as you would learn if you make even casual inquiries in the village, I was raised from infancy by friends of my parents, and I knew them only through letters. To me, they were no more real than—” She groped for the appropriate simile.

  “—than creations of fiction?” he suggested, surprising her with his acuity and quick comprehension. “Nevertheless, Miss Roeswood, as John Donne said in his poem, ‘No man is an island, complete in himself—’“

  “And ‘Every man’s death diminishes me.’ Very true, Dr. Pike, and well put,” she bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement.