Wizard's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  Grayson threw down his pen. "When I read Sarimund's sniggering claim, I'll tell you I laughed. I truly thought I would be able to break his code. It's all written with what look like random letters, spaced apart like they're words, only they're not and I can't figure out how to make them into real words. I've spent the past"—he stared over at the or­molu clock on the mantelpiece—"well, since this afternoon trying to figure it out, but I haven't yet succeeded. My brain wants to explode."

  Rosalind frowned. "That surprises me since you've al­ways been good at solving puzzles and deciphering codes and such."

  "Yes, until now. It's fair to driving me to the edge."

  "Does Sarimund use any proper names, or are the names in code as well?"

  "Well, he did write one name—Rennat."

  Her heart started up a hard drumbeat again. "Rennat?"

  He nodded. "Yes, strange name, isn't it?"

  Rosalind thought she would expire. "Rennat," she re­peated, her voice a skinny thread of sound.

  "It could be a dog, really, but it makes sense to me that if

  Sarimund went to the trouble of not encoding the name, it must be a man, an important man."

  "Grayson, my dream"—Rosalindswallowed—"that is the name of the old man who came to me in my dream. Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East—that's who he said he was."

  Grayson stared up at her, then threw his nib pen at her. She snagged it right out of the air with her right hand. She always did. It had been a game between them for many years. No spattering ink since the nib was dry. Grayson said, "I can usually count on you for a better jest, Rosalind. Ren­nat came to you in a dream?—that isn't worthy of you. Come now, don't try to make me any more befuddled than I already am."

  She opened her mouth to tell him it was no jest, but he'd already turned away, staring back down at the book. "May I look at it?"

  He shoved the book over to her. "I'm so bloody tired my mind's decided you're my mother."

  "In that case, I could smack you and you'd have to take

  it."

  Grayson rose and stretched, waved her to his chair. Ros­alind sat down and slowly drew the book toward her. She looked down at the small, spidery handwriting, the faded black ink still quite legible. She lightly touched the pages. "Sarimund never had it printed. So twenty copies were hand-copied?"

  "That's what Nicholas said. I don't know. Mr. Oakby at Oxford never said. I don't think he knew either."

  Rosalind looked down at the page and her heart nearly stopped. Grayson was wrong. It wasn't a difficult code at all. She reached out and touched her hand to his arm. "Grayson, it's easy. I can read it."

  8

  Grayson was so startled he spurted out the tea he'd just gulped down, and coughed. "No," he said, staring at her, "that's not possible. Stop it, Rosalind."

  "Listen to me, for whatever reason, I can indeed read it. And I did dream of this old man Rennat, it wasn't a jest. I can tell you what he looks like. He spoke to me. Maybe that's why I can read this. It's not in old stilted English, either—it's in modern English. I don't know, maybe he's al­lowing me to read it easily."

  Grayson carefully set down his teacup. He looked bewil­dered. "No, that's not possible, Rosalind."

  "It's easy, I tell you. All you have to do is switch the third letter of each word to the front, or, if the third letter happens to be a vowel, then it goes to the end or near the end of the word. All vowels represent the seventh, thirteenth, nine­teenth, twentieth, or twenty-fifth letters of the alphabet, and those consonants represent the vowels. All the u's are point­ers to those words that are the subject—it's perfectly clear,

  Grayson, in lovely, clear English, not stilted and no strange words from the sixteenth century."

  "Yes, yes, you move consonants about and the vowels fail into place and—" He stared at her, shook his head. "Damna­tion, what you said makes no sense at all, it's all nonsense. Besides, if it did make sense, if that was the key, it would take hours to rearrange all those bloody letters."

  He took the book from her and saw his hands were shak­ing. Dear God, how he hated this. He looked down at the scrambled letters and heaved a huge sigh. What had she said about the consonants being vowels—and the u's were what? Pointers? "No, you must be tired too, Rosalind. There's no sense to be made of this."

  "Bloody hell, you stubborn jackass, it is easy! Be quiet now and listen." She read slowly: "A river slices like a sharp blade through the Vale of Augur, narrow and deep and treacherous—"

  Grayson jerked the book from her hands and scanned the page. "You made that up. I don't like you teasing me like this. This dream about Rennat, what you're pretending to read, no one could decipher that code so quickly. You should be writing the ghost novels, not I."

  She laid her hand on his forearm. "Grayson, for whatever reason, the code translates itself to me instantly. I cannot ex­plain it, but it's true."

  He looked down at the book again. "There is no way you can make sense of that except—" He shook his head, thrust the book at her again. "All right, I'll transcribe what you say." And he began to write as she read.

  "Smooth black stepping stones span the river like burned loaves of bread, but the stones reject a man's foot. That is because they are meant for the Tiber's hoof. A man may only dare to walk on the stones to cross the river when the three blood moons are full and have risen in concert over Mount Olyvan. Heed this rule or you will die."

  She raised her head, and said, her voice thin as a thread,

  "Grayson, what is this place? Three full blood moons that rise together over this Mount Olyvan?" She shivered. "I'm afraid." And she was—very afraid. She said slowly, "Nicholas knows about this. He said his grandfather owned a copy."

  Grayson lifted her from the chair and pulled her against him, lightly stroking her back, something he'd done to soothe her since she was a terrified child newly arrived at Brandon House. "I don't understand this either. But whatever it is, you're right—Nicholas Vail is a part of it. But what I don't understand is, why was I the one to find this particular book? Why did the old man at the bookstall call to me and not to you? After all, you're the one who can read it, not I. I'm will­ing to wager you my new saddle that Nicholas can read it too. And what happened to that whistling old man and his bookstall? It's as if he was waiting for me to come, then poof!—gone. All I see in my mind now are leaves blowing in the wind, a few rotted boards. Fact is, I'm afraid too." He eased her back against his arms. "There is something very odd going on hare, but we will find out the truth of it, Ros­alind. Now, I want you to read the book to me so that I may transcribe it while you read, all right?"

  Suddenly she was excited, filled with energy, not fear. "Yes, of course I will. You know, Grayson, I'm thinking the old man showed the book to the right person." She turned to look a moment into the sluggish fire, nearly embers now. "Before I read more, let me tell you about my dream. I told you that Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East spoke to me."

  "Yes, but—"

  "Well, the thing is, I can't remember." And try as she might, she simply couldn't remember. "Grayson, I—" She stared up at him, helpless and mute. She was perfectly white now. "Why can't I remember? It's gone, the dream of Ren­nat, it's all gone now. And he was so clear to me, what he said, all of it—now it's just gone."

  Grayson was suddenly scared to his feet. "What the devil is happening here?"

  "I don't know." She pulled away and slammed her palms against her head. "I have a great memory. Why, I can re­member that girl's name you took to the barn loft that July afternoon—Susie Abercrombie."

  He stared at her with a fascinated eye. "You shouldn't know about that," he said slowly. "I was very careful, since my mother always knew all." They were both silent for a while. Grayson picked up the book. "Perhaps I should burn this damned thing."

  She grabbed his hand. "No, oh, no, you can't. There is something here, Grayson, something that places you and me and Nicholas in the middle of something. We don't know what that
something is right now, but we'll find out, you'll see. We must speak to Nicholas."

  She didn't know where it came from, but she felt a smile on her face. Then the wild energy left her. She felt empty and so tired she could sleep on the carpet in front of the fire­place.

  She heard Grayson say as if from a great distance, "You're right, we do need to speak to Nicholas Vail. I'm praying with all my might he'll have some ideas about how to proceed. We can send him a message first thing in the morning. You look very tired, Rosalind. Enough of this."

  She said, "You don't want to wait, I can see it, you want to run all the way to Nicholas's house—no, he's staying at Grillon's Hotel. I'd like to run right along beside you, but I'm so tired, Grayson."

  Grayson touched his fingers to her white cheek. "We will figure this out, trust me. Until tomorrow. Come, I'll walk you up."

  Rosalind paused on the step, looking back down at him. He was cradling the book in his arms. She said, "Yesterday I was only concerned about the ball at Pinchon House, wear­ing the new gown Uncle Douglas ordered for me, dancing with at least three dukes, but now—everything is backwards and upside down now. I feel like we've strayed into the pages of one of your novels, Grayson."

  Backwards and upside down, things you would say to children in the nursery, Grayson thought.

  They parted at the top of the stairs, Grayson to his bed-room, the book now pressed tightly against his chest. Ros­alind watched him until he paused at his bedroom door, looked back at her, and gave her a small salute.

  Rosalind slipped into had and fell immediately asleep. There were no more dreams. She slept soundly until Matilde, whose plentiful bosom was the envy of every female servant in Sherbrooke town house, shook her awake the following morning. "Miss Rosalind, come on now, it's time to wake up."

  Rosalind's eyes flew open, suddenly aware that light flooded in on her from the window, and she shot up in bed. "Oh, goodness, what time is it, Matilde?"

  "Going toward ten o'clock, Miss Rosalind. Mrs. Sophie told me to see if you were ill. I told her you were never ill, you did not even understand what it was like to suffer colds like J do, endlessly. I told her—"

  Rosalind threw back the covers. "Yes, yes, Matilde. I un­derstand. Have you seen Master Grayson?"

  Matilde crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "He went out early, just as soon as he'd fed the last bit of bacon to that racing kitten of his, didn't tell anyone where he was going, at least that's what I heard Mr. Willicombe tell Mrs. Fernley."

  Rosalind paused. "Did you notice if he was carrying any­thing, Matilde?"

  Matilde, whose secret ambition was the stage, struck a pose, fingertips tapping her chin in rhythm with her tapping toe, eyes narrowed in deep thought. "Yes, there was a wrapped package beneath his right arm. Sly, Master Grayson was about it, and ever so protective."

  She'd just hat he was furtive. Curse him, he hadn't waited for her, he'd gone by himself to see Nicholas. She would kill him.

  Matilde said, "I heard Mrs. Fernley tell Mr. Willicombe that Master Grayson knocked at least three times on your door early this morning, but you were nestled in the wings of the angels."

  Well, that was something, but not enough. She was still going to hurt him.

  Rosalind was pacing the drawing room an hour later, alter­nately grinding her teeth and looking at the clock on the mantel. Where the devil was Grayson?

  The Rules of the Pale —she wanted to read it before Nicholas did. Small of her, she knew, but somehow she sim­ply knew deep down that she had to be the one to read it, and very soon now or—or what? She didn't know.

  When Grayson came into the drawing room thirty minutes later, she grabbed his arms and shook him. "I know what you did, Grayson, you gave three paltry little knocks on my bed­chamber door, probably-just brushed your knuckles really, then off you went. You took the book to Nicholas, didn't you? You let him read it, didn't you? Oh, I'm going to bloody your nose and lay you flat. You treacherous blockhead, I'll just bet Nicholas—another treacherous blockhead—was ever so delighted to see you, wasn't he?" She shook him again, got right in his face, ready to lambaste him some more—blast him to the hereafter—when Grayson had the nerve to laugh at her.

  9

  She stuck her fist under his nose. "You dare to make light of this, Grayson Sherbrooke? You don't think I can kick you in the dirt?"

  "Hello, Rosalind."

  She whirled to see Nicholas Vail standing in the open drawing room doorway. He looked ever so fit, and danger­ous, in truth, with his black hair wind-tossed, his boots so highly polished she knew she'd be able to see her face in the shine. A black brow was arched; he looked ready to laugh.

  "You!"

  "I believe so, yes. Do you really think Grayson and I are treacherous blockheads?"

  "You are probably a good deal worse."

  Grayson said, "I did knock on your door, Rosalind. Rather vigorously, but you were dreaming of dancing with your three dukes, deciding which one of the poor dolts you were going to nab. What was I to do? Of course I went to see Nicholas. Of course I showed him the book. You would have done the same thing in my shoes, you know it. Don't be a twit."

  Nicholas never looked away from Rosalind as he walked into the drawing room. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. A graceful, old-fashioned gesture, to be sure, but it fit him, and it fit the moment. His mouth was warm on her flesh, the look of amusement still making his dark eyes gleam, and at the touch of him ... Rosalind grew very still. Something akin to shock crashed through her. It was only a man's mouth lightly touching her hand—the absolute frantic delight of what she felt astounded her. She opened her mouth, stared at him, mute, her confusion, her delight, clear on her face. She looked at his mouth—she thought it could be hard, perhaps cruel—but when his mouth had touched her hand, she'd wanted to plaster herself against him and kiss him until her lips fell off. As for Nicholas, that unconscious clod appeared unmoved, as if he hadn't a clue that her world had just shifted, as if he were thinking about a nice cup of tea. She wanted to kick him, yell at him to wake up, but Nicholas said, amusement rich in his voice, "Grayson came to me. He showed me the book, told me you could read the Rules as fluently as one of Mrs. North's gothic novels. I ad­mit I disbelieved him because I couldn't read it, so how could you, a mere female? Now do you feel better?" Are you lying, Nicholas?

  Before she could pin him, Grayson said, "So it's only you, Rosalind, who has this ability, I suppose you could call it, this gift, this—"

  "Yes, yes, I know, I'm different."

  "So, Nicholas is of no use to us at all. Why do you look like you want to kick him? He didn't do anything at all. You're still the only star performer here, not either of us."

  Nicholas said, "Fact is, even though my grandfather showed me the book, he never told me specifically what was written; he only told me about Sarimund. Had he broken the code as well? I remember him trying, endlessly, but I don't think he ever did."

  She wondered again if he were lying and wanted to con­nect her fist to his perfect nose. Unfortunately she had to keep her fists at her sides because Uncle Ryder and Aunt So­phie came into the drawing room at that moment. Their faces froze, all conversation died.

  Ryder said smoothly to Nicholas, "Willicombe told us you'd arrived with Grayson."

  "It is delightful to see you, sir, ma'am," Nicholas said, bowing to Sophie. "Your gown is quite charming."

  Sophie grinned up at this dangerous young man. "No more charming than you, my lord."

  Rosalind snorted.

  Sophie asked, "From the looks on all your faces, you wish us to the Devil, but alas, we're staying right here. Now, what is all this about a book? This is the one you were read­ing yesterday, Grayson?"

  Grayson nodded. "I, ah, had some questions about it, Mama. I wanted Nicholas to see it."

  "But why didn't you show it to him yesterday? After all, the three of you were together at the park, weren't you?"

  Grayson turned mute. Nicholas stared hard
at a lovely shepherdess atop the mantel, and so Rosalind, giving them both a disgusted look, said, "You know how Grayson is, Aunt Sophie, he gets an idea and he goes off to hide. He left us in the park." Unchaperoned. "Er, that is, Grayson didn't really leave us, exactly, he suggested we come home imme­diately and so we did. Well, almost immediately."

  Ryder Sherbrooke walked slowly to where his son stood. "You and Rosalind were always inept at dissimulation. I see that his lordship is no better. What is going on here?"

  Nicholas said, "Grayson found a rare old book at the fair yesterday. It is in code. Are you good at deciphering code, sir?"

  "Code? This old book is written in code? How very odd. Let me see it." Ryder held out his hand. Nothing else to do— Grayson handed his father the Rules of the Pale, though for an instant, he'd wanted to tuck it into his shirt and run.

  Ryder, aware that his son was hovering, handled the book very gently. "It indeed appears to be very old. You found this in a bookstall at the artists' fair yesterday?"

  Grayson said, "Yes, sir."

  The three of them watched Ryder open the book at ran­dom, watched his forehead furrow as he studied the page, watched him frown. Finally, he raised his head. They held their collective breath. "It is a code I have never seen before. Douglas is very good at this sort of thing. We can show it to him." Grayson took the book from his father without a word.

  "Douglas and Alexandra will be arriving on the morrow," Sophie said to Nicholas. "He is the Earl of Northcliffe, but you know that, don't you?"

  "Someone mentioned it to me at the ball the other night. I look forward to making his lordship's acquaintance."

  Sophie held out her hand to her son. "My turn."

  To her disappointment, she couldn't make out the code ei­ther. "How very lowering. I thought my dear husband and I knew everything of importance. This depresses my spirits. As for Douglas, he is coming to lend more weight to Rosalind's coming out. There will be a bail hare for her next Friday," So­phie said, her eyes never leaving Nicholas Vail's dark face.