Unnatural Issue Page 38

  “Steady on, old girl,” he said, taking her shoulders to keep her from falling. He looked into the room and released her with a little pat. “Cup of tea?” he suggested.

  “I—” she was going to say “no,” then thought better of it. “I just have time,” she said instead.

  The little hospital tea shop was deserted. They took the farthest table and waited until the serving girl was gone, leaving their orders. Then they both spoke at once.

  “What are you—”

  “Why did you—”

  They looked at each other, and Peter laughed. “Ladies first,” he suggested.

  She compressed her lips into a hard, angry line. “Why didn’t you tell me he’d—he’d—everyone I knew at home! That they were—”

  Dead. Murdered. She still couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  He sighed. “I tried. But you were fretting so over Charles, over the men you were caring for—there never seemed to be the right time—never seemed to be a moment when telling you wouldn’t utterly shatter you.”

  She thought about that and finally, reluctantly, nodded.

  “It’s all yours, you know,” he continued. “Richard’s body was identified today. You inherit the lot.”

  She thought about that and shuddered. “I don’t want it,” she protested. “I don’t want any of it.” Especially not the house . . .

  “If you want, my solicitor can take care of it for you. Once you tell me how to get into that secret room so we can burn those foul books. He can sell it, lease it . . . you can certainly live modestly, but well, on the income.” One of his hands slipped across the table and rested on hers. “You won’t need anything for a while. If you’re serious, that is, about going back to the Front.”

  She looked at his hand. Looked up at his face. Some might have called it rabbity, but that would be wrong. His face was often a mask—the mask of the silly lord, the mask of a fool, the mask that hid all his feelings. Just now, it wasn’t. His face was that of a kind man, a man of great intelligence, with a longing in his eyes that made her breath catch in her throat.

  I care for you, he’d said.

  “I am serious,” she replied. “I—I’d really like to find somewhere that I can use the Earth magic as well as nursing skills.”

  “Do you really mean that?” he asked. At her nod, he continued. “MI13 could certainly use someone like you. I’ve looked over some of your father’s papers. It seems he had help.” Peter’s expression hardened. “From Hun magicians. Hun necromancers.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “So that’s where—”

  “Where and how he got so powerful.” If she were to put a name to the expression in his eyes, it was rage. Then the anger faded. “That is why I think we can use you and your talents. It’s obvious this won’t be the last such attack on those of us who are magicians. It’s obvious, to me at least, we will need someone whom magicians can trust to care for the victims of such attacks. We have Maya, but she obviously cannot leave England.”

  “And I can.” She thought about that, but not for long. “I would like that. I would like that very much.” She made a face. “The Kerridges aren’t making any secret of the fact that they intend to get Charles invalided out.” Her resentment overflowed. “Given what you just told me, can’t they see how he’ll be needed even more, once he’s better? I would have expected more out of them, considering how they go on about taking care of their people!”

  “Don’t be angry with them,” he said softly. “Their . . . they take very good care of the people they know, but they can’t extend that to anything much beyond the boundaries of Branwell. Many people are like that. The world calls to them in need, but they can’t extend themselves to see it. They can’t see past their own walls.”

  Charles couldn’t see past his own walls. And one of those walls was class. She realized now that she would never have been someone he would look at as—

  —as Peter was looking at her now.

  Idiot, she thought, suddenly. I was like a silly thing with a pash for a theater actor. He was kind because it cost him nothing to be kind to me. But Peter is kind, and cares, when it costs him everything.

  “Tell your people I would like that position very much,” she told him, and managed a smile. “After all, I still have a lot to learn. I’d like to stay near my teacher.”

  “Well, you could study with Doctor Scott,” he began, then blinked. “You’re not entirely talking about magic, are you?”

  She turned her hand over so that it was clasping his. “No,” she agreed. “Not entirely.”

  His smile lit up the room.

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  VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:

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  Written with LARRY DIXON:

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  THE WIZARD OF LONDON

  RESERVED FOR THE CAT

  UNNATURAL ISSUE

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  Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little