Damien chose to ignore the discomfiting portents of her last phrase for the moment. “We are discussing Miranda, Mama.”
“So we are,” Lady Wodesby said with a deep sigh. “Your sister is eight and twenty, Damien. In case you have not noticed, there are no young mages begging for her hand.”
“Impossible, she is a Wodesby,” Damien said, rising from his chair to look out the window once again, but he could see nothing more than scenery. There were no visions, just a sense of dread. Something was about to happen, but he dared not reveal that vague unease to his mother. Too much strain was already upon her and with her cards forbidden there was naught that she could do to alleviate the situation. “Miranda should have been handfasted long ago. I have neglected my duty and now, I will see to it.”
“Do you think I have not tried?” Lady Wodesby asked sadly. “There is not one man willing to take the risk, not when there are so many other eligible witches to choose from. Miranda has no magic. But she may yet marry. Your aunt has seen signs of a wedding in her visions.”
“Surely, then, there must be someone,” Damien said, passing the sons of the Covens in mental review.
“Is that the measure of what you want for your sister? Someone? Anyone, so long as the Blood runs in their veins? Is that what we have come to, Damien?” she asked, her bitterness coming to the fore. “Is this power that we prize worth so high a cost? In seeking that piece of the divine, we have come to deny that which makes us human. Breeding like prize mares and stallions, destroying those that are not an asset to the herd by letting them wither away in celibate solitude or forcing them to choose a man like Martin Allworth in desperation.”
“Allworth? Surely she would not have turned to Allworth?” Damien said in disbelief.
“She wants what every woman seeks, mortal or witch and we cannot fulfill that need for her within the Covens, my son. If Miranda was seeking for her doom last night, then we are to blame.”
“That was what Brand said,” Damien murmured, suppressing a pang of guilt. To be The Mage, brother and son all at once was nigh on impossible. Where did Miranda’s best interests lie? And what was the choice most suited to maintaining the welfare of the Covens? And his own mother, speaking of an Outsider with that dreaming gaze? Even though Damien found himself liking the man, such an alliance seemed unconscionable, especially for the Mistress of Witches. “We must find her a husband.”
“Aye, I know that as Mage of Albion it is your right to force some young man to take her to wife. Your sister knows her duty and she will wed him. But in doing so, would you deny her the sole chance she may have to experience the only Gift of true magic that all mortals may share?” Lady Wodesby asked, her eyes misting. “Would you have your sister tied to a husband who may well hate her for what she is not? You know full well that it could only have been Brand who called her back from the brink.”
“Still, he may not love her, even if that is where Miranda’s affections lie,” Damien pointed out, attempting to deny the obvious truth.”
“I can determine that,” his mother said eagerly. “If you return my cards to me.”
“Why is it that the Wodesby women are so eager to throw themselves into oblivion?” Damien asked more in irritation than facetiousness.
“The Wodesby men!” Lady Wodesby answered without missing a beat. “By the Merlin, you are just like your father, stubborn as an oak. My Tarot, if you please.”
“I will never be half of what Father was, for all we might wish it,” Damien said quietly. “But I will not allow you to destroy yourself trying to foresee the details of Brand’s fate, for I know you will not content yourself with knowing his heart. My powers, such as they are, will have to suffice for now.” He went to the door.
“Damien, you must not blame—" Lady Wodesby began, but it was too late, her son had gone from the room. Even if he had remained, she doubted that the boy would hear her anyway. He was too much like his father in that respect as well, taking upon himself burdens too great for one man to bear. “Have I failed them both, Thorpe?” she asked sadly, pondering old pain and half-healed wounds.
But for once, her familiar had no comfort to offer her. The exhausted feline was asleep by the fire, dreaming of catnip fields.
Chapter 10
“Mirandaaaaa. . . !”
Adam’s scream echoed in the darkened chamber as he sat bolt upright, his chest matted with the sheen of cold sweat. Gulping air like a half-drowned man, he untangled the sheets that, but a few moments before, had been ghostly fingers attempting to strangle him. It had been naught but a dream, but never before could he recall a dream so vivid.
He slipped into a robe and pulled the curtains wide. The sun was nearing its nadir, the afternoon almost spent. According to the gilded hands of the cloisonné clock on the mantle, the hour of five was half done. He had slept for nearly eleven hours, yet he did not feel the least bit rested.
Odd snatches of dreams drifted into his recall, visions of Miranda, lost in a dark tunnel, the shade of Augustus Pelton tugging her along by the hand. Before them was a blinding glare, like a summer sun reflecting on the water and the ghost was walking them both straight into the inferno. Even now, with eyes open wide, Adam’s heart began to pound like a tinsmith’s hammer and the metallic taste of fear rose acid on his tongue. It had seemed so real, so very real. But then, his dreams had become entirely too vivid of late, disturbingly so. Though she claimed to have no part of the Wodesby heritage, Miranda had ensorcelled all of his nights since their first meeting.
Of late, it seemed that the line of separation between illusion and reality had become perilously thin. The Wodesby insanity seemed to be seeping into his well-ordered world of logic. Indoor breezes on a still night, shades that chilled the bone and warmed an old heart, cats and dogs having words with each other, messages sent through the ether by mind. Barely a week before, he would have laughed, dismissed it all as the absurd fabrications of a liar or a Bedlamite. But now, he could neither mock nor ignore that which he could not explain.
Even more disturbing was this odd constriction in his chest every time his thoughts turned toward Miranda. He found himself worrying about her, consumed with a fever of apprehension that was well beyond natural friendly concern. Never before had a single kiss become so fixed in his mind and he found himself reviewing every minute sensation, from the feel of her skin, to the feathery tickle of her breath upon his cheek.
The Caliban in him ran rampant, imagination transforming those brief moments into elaborate fantasy. But this elemental hunger clearly exceeded mere erotic need. Adam wanted more than the taste of her lips. Somehow, the sound of her laugh, the sight of her smile, the smell of her sweet scent had attained the disturbing status of near necessities. It was shocking to realize that the beast that raging inside of him would be content just to hold her in his arms, to hear her voice, to be with her.
Common sense demanded that he put as much distance as possible between himself and the Wodesbys. However, there was nothing rational about these strange emotions that defied all laws of logic. As Adam stared out the window at the setting sun, trying to reconcile his contradictory collection of feelings, the familiar odd tingling began at the back of his neck.
Down he searched into the gathering shadows of the mews, almost expecting to see Thorpe’s cat’s eyes staring back up at him. But there was not a feline in sight, no wonder with that huge dog prowling in the alleyway. A mastiff . . . a mastiff black as onyx. It would seem that his marmalade nursery maid had retired to be replaced by a guardian Angel.
He tore the window open. “Go home!” he roared. “Go tell your master I will not be hounded! Do you hear me?”
But the dog just stood and stared upwards at him, with a look suspiciously like laughter.
Adam belted his robe as he pelted down the stairs, running like a madman, his bare toes stubbing on the stones as he opened the garden gate to face the dog. “I am not a sheep to be tended, do you understand? Do you understand?
/> The mastiff wagged his tail and panting in a perfect imitation of a dumb canine.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Adam said with a shake of his fist. “You do not fool me in the least. Tell Wodesby I have had enough, you hear? Enough!”
“What on earth are you doing?”
Adam turned to find his uncle staring at him with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. “I . . . I . . .” he stuttered.
“It seemed as if you were having a bit of a tiff with that dog over there,” Lawrence observed leaning on the doorpost casually. “However, it would seem to me that the canine’s comportment is superior. She, as you may observe, is fully dressed in the manner of her kind. However you . . .” his gaze took in the barely decent concealment of Adam’s dressing gown, “you would do well for a few more fig leaves, dear boy. My, my, I had never suspected that a blush might extend so far.”
“I am going mad,” Adam murmured.
“About time it happened.” Lawrence laughed watching as his nephew turned and fled into the house. “Sanity is not all that it is cracked up to be, eh, Angel?”
The mastiff wagged her tail in agreement.
“Your master thanks you for your vigilance and asks that you return home for a well-deserved rest.” Lawrence said, tipping his hat in salute. “I will accompany him back to Wodesby House.”
With a tired bark of acknowledgement, Angel set off for her place by the hearth.
. . .
Lady Wodesby reached out, gently touching her sleeping daughter’s cheek.
“Adam?” Miranda murmured, her eyes flickering open.
“I did not wish to wake you, my dear, but midnight is nigh,” her mother said. “You really ought not to be asleep when the heart of the night comes. ‘Tis doubtful that the Light will beckon now, but far better to be sure than to risk losing you again.”
“The Light,” Miranda whispered, feeling an ineffable sorrow.
“You will return one day, Miranda,” Lady Wodesby said, putting a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “But at the proper time, when your days are full in number. It was fortunate, indeed that Lord Brand was present.”
“So you know,” Miranda said, closing her eyes so her mother could not see the full extent of her sorrow. “I almost wish that he had not called me back. For now, I cannot face the thought of a farce of a marriage to Martin Allworth any more than I can deal with the prospects of a life without Adam.”
“Damien will come to accept a liaison with an Outsider,” Lady Wodesby said, a stubborn set to her chin as she clasped Miranda’s hand. “He will have to.”
“If that were only all,” Miranda said, bitterness rising like bile. She pulled herself up to a sitting position. “The Mage waves his hand and voila! Everything is in order. Well, the world out there is not governed by your magic these days, Mama. The Marquess of Brand has a bevy of eligible young women to choose from, the least of them far more acceptable in the eyes of society than a daughter of the House of Wodesby.”
“Unless he loves you, as I believe he does,” Lady Wodesby said.
“How could he?” Miranda asked, disbelief turning rapidly to suspicion. “Unless . . . Mama, you have not given him one of your potions, have you?”
“Ah, my dear!” Lady Wodesby breathed a sigh at the agony in her daughter’s eyes. “Our family has done you ill indeed, if you can believe that you would need a philter to capture a man’s fancy. You may assure yourself, what Brand feels for you is not born from anything that I have brewed. He has been waiting for you to waken.”
“Adam is here?” Miranda asked, the last traces of sleepiness vanishing to be replaced by trepidation. What would he think of her now? “Tell him that I am still asleep, Mama.”
Lady Wodesby’s brow furrowed. “Child, you may lack magic, but I had never before thought you in want of courage. Brand has nearly worn a path through the library carpet with his pacing, though both your brother and I have assured him that rest was the only requirement for a complete recovery. He saved your life, my girl, though he does not fully know it. At the least, you owe him your thanks. Now I will help you dress. You ought to be up to it, since you made your journey under power of the ghost’s magic and not your own.”
From her mother’s determined look, it was clear that Miranda would be dragged from the bed if necessary. Cautiously, she set her feet upon the floor.
“No dizziness? No weakness?” her mother asked, keeping a steadying hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”
“Ravenous,” Miranda replied.
“A good omen,” Lady Wodesby said, with a relieved look. “If you are hungry, ‘tis clear that you have both feet back in this world. Damien and I have already dined, however, Lord Brand barely touched a morsel. I shall tell Tante Reina that the two of you are ready to sup.”
“He is only being kind,” Miranda murmured.
“I have never known kindness to interfere with a man’s appetite,” Lady Wodesby said, pulling a gown from the wardrobe and eying it critically. “This blue should do nicely. Nor would mere concern warrant reading your brother a sermon upon your virtues as Brand did just a few moments ago. I vow, I was certain that the roar would rouse you.”
“Adam dared to deliver a lecture to Damien?” Miranda shook her head in astonishment as she slipped into her shift.
Lady Wodesby chuckled as she pulled a simple blue round gown down over her daughter’s head. “I vow, I have not heard the like since your Papa’s passing. According to Thorpe, Damien sat meek as a pup who has mauled his master’s slipper, while your Adam took him to task. Angel was growling under her breath.”
“He is not my Adam,” Miranda said, flushing from her brow to her collarbone. “And likely never will be.”
“It takes no wizardry to bewitch a man,” her mother observed, fastening up the row of buttons. “However, if you are determined to despair, you entirely correct; you will never play the role of his Eve.” She turned Miranda around to face her. “Do not hold yourself lightly, my dear, or fear to take a chance. There is naught worse than living with the knowledge that love might have been yours, if only you had reached out to grasp it.”
“What if he comes to fear us when he realizes the truth of the Wodesby blood?” Miranda whispered, hardly daring to voice her worry. “Or worse still what if he disbelieves, and despises me for taking part in a farcical séance?”
“Then he is not worthy of you,” Lady Wodesby said, staunchly, drawing her daughter close. “But I think you underestimate him, just as you underestimate yourself.”
. . .
The clock on the mantle struck the midnight hour as Damien rose and gestured toward the shelves of the enormous Wodesby library. “So you see, Lord Brand, the practice of magic is something of a science, with its own set of governing rules, as logical in their own order as any of Newton’s theorems. But just as one must have Leyden Jars to store the force of electricity, one must have the proper vessel to handle magic.”
“The Blood?” Adam asked, wondering how young Wodesby was managing to keep himself upright. As far as he could determine, the man had not yet slept and exhaustion was taking its toll. Still, there was too much at stake to do the pretty and let the fellow take to his pillow.
Damien nodded. “And knowledge. An untutored witch can be a dangerous force, milord. But knowledge without the Blood—"
“Like Miranda,” Adam ventured.
“Make no mistake milord,” Damien said, his eyes flashing with sudden fire. “Though she has no Gift, my sister is of Blood as pure as my own, in direct lines from The Merlin himself.”
Intimations had been strewn throughout the conversation, but the challenge in Wodesby’s expression made his meaning clear. “I do not deny her place in your magical peerage, Wodesby,” Adam said cautiously. “I only seek to understand. In the normal course of events, what would happen to a woman of your people who shared your sister’s circumstances?”
“A match is arranged,” Damien declared, deliber
ately making it sound like a fait accompli.
Though Miranda had mentioned that there was a suitor waiting in the wings, it was somehow different to hear her brother state it outright. “So, you would not entertain Ropwell’s suit?”
“It did not take long to ascertain his true purpose,” Damien said, his lips thinning to an angry line as he recalled the interview. “It was as you said. He is seeking the jewels that his wife hid away. Offered me a share if Miranda could find the cache, as if I would deign to take money from a murderer. I saw blood on his hands.”
From the fury raging in the mage’s eyes, Adam found himself close to believing that Wodesby’s claim was literally true. “Would that the authorities have such discerning sight. Unfortunately, it seems that the missing Ropwell treasures will be his only punishment.” Then, suddenly, the green of the younger man’s eyes deepened to the color of an unfathomable sea.
“No, there will be retribution,” Damien said slowly, the familiar shimmer of the Vision coming upon him as the dim shadows of future events began to take shape in his mind’s eye. Foreboding filled him and he struggled to see more distinctly into the time of Will Be. But weariness was too heavy upon him for clarity of focus. Only Ropwell, transfixed by some unknown terror was discernable, but there were others with him, innocents who somehow shared his danger. Damien closed his eyes against the horror, the recurring sense of helplessness. No matter that he had been a Seer since the age of thirteen. Twenty years of visions had not inured him to that terrible feeling of impotence.
Wodesby opened his eyes and the deep sadness in the young man’s expression filled Adam with sympathy and an uneasy feeling. Had the mage discerned some fragment of the future? “Do you see anything regarding Miranda?” Adam asked.
Damien shook his head, steeling himself against the first flash of searing agony. Never before had he experienced a Vision in such a state and now, he was about to pay in pain. He had to lie down before the full onslaught, yet at the least, he felt obliged to calm the obvious worry in Brand’s eyes. “I did not see her,” he said evasively, struck by a pang of guilt. It said much that Miranda had been Brand’s first concern. “But it appears that Ropwell is destined to receive his just due.”
The Would-Be Witch Page 19
