The Would-Be Witch

by Boucher, Rita

  Every Gift had its cost, Miranda had told him. What was the price of prophecy? Adam wondered. Somehow, he could not imagine a Seer’s knowledge as anything other than an unbearable burden. Angel rose from his place by the fire and went to nuzzle her master with a low bark of canine anxiety.

  “You will have to excuse me, Brand,” Damien said, rising with effort and walking to open the library door. “I can no longer see or think clearly. Angel will escort you home.”

  “As I explained to you earlier, I see no further need for your protection,” Adam said, wanting to offer his help but knowing that Wodesby would likely refuse it. “If Gutmacher was the ‘Tailor’ that your mother perceived as a threat, then Miranda foiled his plans and the ghostly encounter that Lady Wodesby predicted has seemingly occurred. So it would seem that the dangers have passed.”

  “Indeed,” Damien inclined his head in agreement, feeling inwardly relieved that matters had been simplified. In truth all debts were balanced, Brand’s inadvertent deliverance of Miranda reckoned equal against the rescue that she staged, a life for a life. Moreover, it would be far easier to steer Miranda away from an ill-advised liaison if Brand were not at the end of a Wodesby tether. A shame, it was, that the marquess lacked the Blood. Damien found himself rather liking the Outsider. “Very well then, I will call off our watch, if that is what you wish. However, should you ever be in need of our shield or aid, Brand, you have only to call.”

  Adam’s solemn nod was a barometer of the measure of change in him. Just yesterday, Wodesby’s regal offer might have garnered him a disbelieving smirk if not the outright laughter that had greeted his sister’s promise of protection. Less than two weeks had passed since he had first met with Miranda, eating and talking in the warmth of the kitchen. But it almost seemed as if that had been some other man. “And Miranda? If there is any change, you will notify me?”

  “Of course,” Damien told him, trying to convince himself that separating his sister from the marquess would ultimately be best for both. “She will be fine, Brand.”

  “I can find my own way out,” Adam said, his mind wandering back to a time when he had heard similar promises. Your mother will be fine, Adam, his father’s voice echoed from long ago. There is no need for worry . . . no need . . . Although it was foolish, the marquess wanted to hear that assurance from someone else’s lips.

  While Lord Wodesby was all that was amiable, Adam had sensed a reserve that seemed to harbor a disturbing level of disapproval. No wonder, considering the home truths that he had voiced during the interview. But there had been something more in the discussion than the simple umbrage of wounded pride, a distance that was courteous, but cool. “If you do not mind, sir, I will go down to the kitchen and make my farewells to Tante Reina. I would not want to give her insult.”

  “Only a fool would insult Tante Reina,” Damien said with a sleepy semblance of a smile. “May Fortune favor you, Lord Brand.”

  “And you, Wodesby,” Adam returned.

  “When it comes to her servants, I fear that Dame Fortune is not a kind mistress,” Damien said, his eyes clouding with recall as the full weight of his responsibilities came to rest upon his shoulders. A husband would have to be found for Miranda. However, the mage had the unsettling premonition that it might be simpler to split the Channel with a staff, than to find a man who could make her forget her infatuation with Brand.

  Adam watched anxiously as the young man climbed the stairs grasping the baluster as if the polished wood rail alone kept him upright. His shadow of a hound trailed close behind like a nervous nursery maid, until they reached the upstairs landing.

  “Meowrrr!” Thorpe purred softly, rubbing at Adam’s ankle to capture his attention.

  “My regrets, Thorpe, I still cannot converse in feline,” Adam apologized.

  Thorpe swished his tail like a furry flag. He padded toward the kitchen stair and looked over his shoulder impatiently.

  “You wish me to follow?” Adam asked.

  A satisfied mew was an obvious “yes.”

  Adam shrugged. With any luck at all, he would find the old Gypsy woman and confirm Miranda’s condition. As he trailed the cat down the steps, the Mage’s words whirled in his mind. Magic! Not the manipulations of mountebanks or the cheats of charlatans, but a force as natural as gravity or electricity. Difficult as it was to credit, the evidence was mounting in favor of the existence of those marvelous abilities. He felt like a blind man trying to grasp the concept of color, unable to comprehend even the simplicity of light and dark.

  But his newfound frustration was as a pinprick to a cutlass wound. Miranda had lived her entire life encompassed by rainbows that she could not see, knowing that she was missing that special sense. At least Adam had been blessed in the bliss of ignorance. Even now, he could only guess at the extent of his handicap. No wonder at all that she had gone seeking after that special sight. Indeed, from what Lord Wodesby had let slip, the marvel was that Miranda had returned at all. The thought of losing her filled Adam with a sudden panic. What if they were hiding the truth? Dread hastened his pace, and he took the treads two at a time, heedless of the dimly lit stairwell, all but stepping on Thorpe’s tail in his breakneck haste.

  As they reached the kitchen, Thorpe looked over his shoulder, his indignant growl an obvious rebuke before stalking away haughtily. But Adam paid him no mind. All of his fears and doubts vanished under a spell of true enchantment.

  Miranda sat at the roughhewn kitchen table, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in a gleaming fall of gold.

  “There you are, Adam. I see that Thorpe has found you at last,” she said, rising and gesturing toward the place set opposite her. “Mama said that you had barely touched a morsel at supper. You must be as hungry as I.”

  Like a Raphael Madonna, an aura seemed to surround her, suffusing her face with a soft glow, as if that otherworldly Light somehow lingered, bathing her in its radiance. “Miranda,” he whispered, crossing the room recalling the pale, chilled shadow she had been a few hours before. Tentatively, he raised a hand to her cheek, half-expecting his fingers to pass right through her as it did in his dreams. But the soft flesh that met his touch was warm and unquestionably alive. She looked up at him in puzzlement.

  How could he explain this need? Adam wondered, as his hand wandered upwards, tangling itself into the silken strands of her hair. Once again, Adam tried to convince himself that what he felt was no more than a combination of compassion and Caliban’s savage cravings. But the truth, when it fell was like a hammer blow shattering the mirror of his illusions. Though it defied all logic, he had somehow fallen in love with Miranda. Emotions simmered within him like a brew in a cauldron, swirls of desire, molten yearnings and seething fears somehow blended with warm tenderness. Sweet anticipation was seasoned with a touch of hope.

  “I was afraid for you,” Adam whispered, trying to remember that she was promised to another, doubtless one of her own, a man of the Blood. All at once, the undercurrents of his conversation with Wodesby became clear. It was a disconcerting feeling, to say the least. For the first time in years, Adam was outside the charmed circle, his title and fortune worthless in the face of this exclusive magical aristocracy. Confound it! Miranda was of the Blood, beyond an Outsider’s touch. Yet, his own blood was singing in his ears, demanding that he take her into his arms.

  Touched by wonder, Miranda looked up into his eyes. Deep within those depths, she saw a faint glimmer and knew that she beheld a spark of the Light, the bright core of the soul that only love may glimpse. Once more, she felt the tug of the gossamer cord that had bound her to him. Though she might have to wait a lifetime to see the fullness of glory again, there was splendor in the feel of his fingers upon her cheek, tracing a line of fire to her mouth.

  Longing burned, as every fiber of her spirit seemed to tremble in expectation. When she stepped into the charmed circle of his arms, she knew with utter certainty that this was where she belonged. His hands were the touch of destiny and eterni
ty exploded in the shattering sensation of his kiss. His lips claimed her, gently at first, then with a deepening passion. Miranda surrendered to the tide of emotion, wondering at the host of contradictions that seemed to fill her. Apprehension and certainty, joy and sorrow, ecstasy and pain warred within, like the chaos before creation. Yet somehow, in the midst of the tempest, she felt a curious sense of serenity. This was what she had been born to do, to love this man until the Light claimed her. For the first time in her life, Miranda knew the fulfillment that was magic.

  It was as if Adam had never before kissed a woman. Like his original namesake, he stood in the midst of Paradise touching Eve after tasting the fruit of self-knowledge. Suddenly, he felt uncertain, hesitant as these strange emotions flooded him. His past life was revealed in the complete measure of its emptiness. For the first time, he realized how utterly alone he had been.

  As he gathered her to him, primal awareness came to the fore, recognition that she was the missing part of him. Only she could fill that void, assuage this aching need. Was this why the Bible used the term to “know” to describe intimacy? The feel of her arms around his neck, the sound of her soft sigh, the scent of jasmine, the shimmering silken veil of golden hair, even the taste of her lips, seemed achingly familiar and right. Though Adam had placed no credence in faith or fate, at that moment, he believed. This woman was meant for him from that first dawn in Eden.

  Enchantment surrounded them, creating a space that was beyond the measures of time and place. Together they whirled through the maelstrom of discovery, buffeted by emotion.

  Hidden in the butler’s pantry, Tante Reina smiled in satisfaction. Lord Damien might seethe like a kettle on the hob, but the Lady was confident that his ire would pass once he realized the extent of his sister’s love for the Gajo. And from the look on Brand’s face, she was certain that the feeling was mutual. Gone was Adam’s mask of diffidence, the facade of pride that hid his true self. No need to resort to cards or the palm to see the hand of fortune here.

  She sighed softly at the tableau before her as Thorpe purred impatiently. “Peh! You prudish creature! You would have been hissing had they gone past a handshake, I know it,” she chided in a whisper, looking down at the animal “That is why the Lady left it to me, eh. Every man is like a tom on the prowl, you think? Well, he is a fine one, Brand. From the caravan days, I know him. Never trouble with our girls, like other Gajos. He knows to treat them with respect. So, leave off your whining, Thorpe. I decide when is enough, when the moment is right.”

  The tom growled, directing her attention back to Adam and Miranda. The Gypsy’s eyes widened.

  “Is enough, by Hecate,” Tante Reina said, rattling a pan to create deliberate clangor. “The moment is right.” By the time she made her way back to the stove, the two had separated, looking as guilty as a pair of goats in the garden. Miranda’s cheeks were nearly red as a rosebuds and Adam seemed as dazed as a punch-pounded bruiser.

  “Hungry, I’ll bet,” the old woman said, ladling stew into a plate and setting it before Adam.

  Her raised eyebrow spoke volumes, giving her words an entirely different meaning. The frown on her face made it absolutely clear that any other appetites would not be satisfied.

  “I am starved,” Miranda admitted innocently.

  “Aye, it can do that, the magic.” Tante Reina said, putting a second plate before Miranda. “You must rebuild your strength, child.”

  “But I did not do anything magical,” Miranda protested. “Basically, it was nothing more than jumping into a carriage that was already underway.”

  “Is not so much the going as the coming back,” Tante Reina said seriously. “You struggle against nature of your own soul. She wants to seek her source, you fight to return to the body. Is not same as witch’s magic, but is magic still.”

  “What you described once as Earth magic?” Adam asked, seating himself at the table.

  “Aye,” Tante Reina nodded in approval. “Always you learn quick, Adam. Is one of the kinds of magic that even those who are not Blood, not Gypsy can summon, but is rare, these things, very rare.”

  “So Lord Wodesby tells me,” Adam said, looking at Miranda. “Very few come back from such journeys, according to your brother.”

  Although Miranda listened carefully, his voice seemed devoid of derision. The sarcasm and doubt that had colored his conversation was gone, replaced by serious consideration. Joy welled up in her. “You believe him then?” she asked.

  Tactfully, Tante Reina retreated to the bowels of the kitchen, silently commanding Thorpe to accompany her. As she stirred the pot, she muttered every good luck incantation that she knew.

  Adam regarded her with a self-deprecating shake nod. “Ironic, isn’t it? The naysayer utterly exploded. But if I deny the evidence of my own observations, then I delude myself much as my father did. I suppose that I never truly understood what would motivate an otherwise sensible man to be possessed by so strong an obsession, to seek on even in the face of obvious deception.”

  “And now you do?” Miranda asked, her voice just above a whisper. His gaze locked upon her, asking her some unspoken question. But try as she might, there was no reading the thoughts behind the fiery look that seemed to melt her to the marrow.

  “At this point I find myself willing to consider things differently,” he acknowledged, finding it difficult to put in words. “My father possessed magic, Miranda, in the form of my mother. Although I was but a boy, there was no mistaking the strength of the love between them. When the two of them were together in a room, I vow, I almost felt lonely. When she died, he spent the rest of his life and fortune trying to regain what he had lost.”

  “An impossible task,” Miranda said, wondering at the change in him. Before when Adam had spoken of his father, there had been a brooding resentment, his expression tight with lines of anger. Now there was sympathy. “Such efforts are entirely wrong-headed. Among witchkind, Orpheus is considered more the fool than the hero for seeking out his Eurydice in Hades. Love is one of the few gifts given to mortals that may survive death. He had only to wait.”

  “Easy to say. But I suspect that few lovers feel that utter certainty.” Adam looked down at his plate, concerned she would see his feelings naked in his eyes. “I have begun to think that fear is love’s inevitable companion. Perhaps Orpheus and my father worried that love might not survive time and separation. Emotions change. And once you have known love, I suspect that it is difficult to survive without it. In a way, ‘tis much like your witchcraft. Even myself, though I never really felt love, I know that I’ve yearned for it, if only in my secret heart. Deep down, I envied those few of my friends who have found it, even as I mocked it. And now, it’s no wonder to me that my father refused to let go. I have to admit that the very thought of that level of obsession frightens me to the marrow.”

  Even myself, though I never really felt love. Like an echo, the phrase reverberated inside her head over and over again. With all the rigor of a grammarian, Miranda parsed it to fit the framework of her fears. Perhaps her mother’s instincts were wrong? He had excluded himself from the category of lovers. What if that gentle look in his eyes was naught but a friend’s concern? And that soul-searing kiss had been nothing more than the combination of his loneliness and her desperation?

  Adam met her gaze, puzzled by the sudden transformation in her countenance. Gone was that glowing aura and in its place he found familiar melancholy. Impossible though it seemed after her tryst with death, she was still thirsting for sorcery. How could he tell her that she did not need witchery to weave a spell without declaring himself outright?

  “I had a friend once, by the name of Andrew,” he began hesitantly, hoping that Lord Hapbourne would forgive him for revealing his story. “A great lover of music, was Drew, played the harp like an angel. His ship was engaged in battle and Drew was near the mouth of a cannon when it fired. Burned him fairly badly, but worse, it left him deaf as a stone.”

  “Sweet Hecate,”
Miranda whispered, biting her lip as she absorbed the import of the injury.

  “Indeed,” Adam said, his eyes clouding as he recalled Drew’s face on that long ago night. “He seemed to be bearing up rather well, until his sister dragged him to the opera. There was a young lady, it seems, who was willing to ignore his infirmity for his purse.”

  “A stranger might be excused for her carelessness, but how could his sister be so cruel?” Miranda asked, feeling the prick of tears. “Did she hate her brother so, that she would wish to see him tortured?”

  “She was simply an unthinking fool who meant no harm,” Adam said, pleased that Miranda had grasped the direction of his theme. “Drew knew full well what his ears were missing. He followed very flourish of the violinists’ bow, every wave of the conductor’s baton, until he could stand it no more and closed his eyes. When the orchestra reached the first crescendo, the vibration chased him from the box. I found him weeping in his coach, a pistol in his hand, ready to put a period to himself.”

  She hardly dared to ask, yet she did. “What happened?”

  “I wrestled it from him. Due to Drew’s condition, there were always writing materials at hand. I vow, I have never scribbled so quickly in all my life.” He smiled, noting the faint upturn of her lips with satisfaction. “Told him about a musician I’d met in my travels, fellow by the name of Ludwig Beethoven.”

  “The composer?” Miranda asked startled.

  “The same. In fact, Ludwig had just completed his Eroica when we were introduced, wanted to see some of my magic for an idea that he was working on. We became friends. The German is an irascible man, but his temperament is entirely understandable, considering that he has been going progressively deaf since the turn of the century.”