Mademoiselle Andrews gave a small, satisfied sigh. “Oh, good. I was afraid you were immune.” Then her gaze sharpened. “You aren’t a spy?” She seemed disappointed. “Then what were you doing with Umbra Aetherium Thaumatiis?”
He stared at her in complete confusion.
“The book I found you with,” she explained.
He struggled to remember. “Was that the black book? I couldn’t read the title...did I open it? It just looked strange, I suppose. I wondered what the binding was made of.”
Her face went slack for a moment. Had he said the wrong thing?
“It looked strange, and you wanted to see what it was made of,” she repeated in a flat voice. Her shoulders sagged. “My head hurts.”
“Then there are two of us,” Dominic snapped before he could stop himself. She compressed her mouth and reached for him. Dominic drew back instinctively, but she simply tucked the rose into the lapel of his jacket and moved away again.
“If you don’t like getting headaches—and who does?—you should not ignore well-intentioned magic intended to keep the inquisitive from finding things that will give them headaches,” she said, picking up a footstool and positioning it near his chair with a thump. She gathered her skirts and sat down. “Or worse. That white rose hedge is there for a reason, you know. But you never noticed it, or the protective spells on the book that should have made you ignore it completely. It’s very dangerous.”
Dominic had the feeling he had violated a point of magical etiquette. “Why are there...I mean, magic books? And the white roses are magical too? What do they do?”
“It’s very clever, actually. Just a slight amount of forgetfulness, and—” she broke off, and her interested expression changed to a scowl. “You are supposed to be answering my questions, Monsieur Kermarec. Now—why did you come here?”
“To borrow the volumes of Gridel’s Lectures, of course. Aaah—and to talk to you,” he said quickly, feeling his throat begin to constrict. He’d been damnably curious about her, and look where it had gotten him. Tied up and ensorcelled.
She went completely still, suspicion and doubt revealing themselves in flashes on her face. Then she glanced at the rose, and her expression became one of pure puzzlement. “I meant to this place. To Baranton,” she said in a small voice.
“The position I, ah, left involuntarily was in a town to the north. Josselin. It is cheaper to travel by train, but Josselin is not yet on a rail line and Baranton is the nearest station. A farmer took me most of the way.”
“And the rest...what you told me when I found you? That was true?” There was a doubtful expression in her eyes when she glanced at him.
If he said it aloud, she would believe him. Because of the rose. Dominic was at a loss as to why she thought he had an ulterior motive, but it seemed to worry her greatly. “I was lost and came to your house to ask my way. I thought the house was empty.” She said nothing for a moment, sitting on the footstool with her hands clasped around her knees. Her long face looked sad and troubled. “It is empty, isn’t it? Except for you.”
She ignored him, her brow furrowed in thought. “Have you ever heard of Oron?”
“No.” This seemed to please her, and he relaxed a little.
“What of...Yves Morlais?” Her voice was very soft. He could barely hear her.
“N–errgh.” Dominic coughed and blinked. He did know something? How could the damn rose know more than he did?
That strange, strong feeling of recognition—was it connected? She was leaning forward now, her gaze intent on his face.
“I can’t remember,” he whispered. “You said something earlier that made me think I had met you before. In Dinan. But that’s impossible. I...Mademoiselle Andrews?”
Her face had gone deathly pale. She stood up suddenly and walked towards the window, gazing out at the darkness beyond. “This impossible event. When did it take place?” He could hear the strain in her voice.
“A few weeks before the last Solstice. I was with my friend in a bookstore.” Dominic hesitated, remembering more. Beginning to understand. “I overheard a lady ask for books of magic for Yves Morlais. A lady who sounded much like you. But I could never quite see her face....”
“How can you see things you aren’t supposed to?” she cried, turning sharply and flinging her arms wide.
“How am I supposed to know what I shouldn’t see?” Dominic asked, feeling his temper fray. “Am I really being held captive with a broken head merely for overhearing a name in a bookstore?”
“Well, no, but...no, of course not!” she protested, her face twisting with distress. “I don’t understand. You go right for the magic even when...what magical training do you have?”
Not again. Phillipe had never believed him either, but now he had the rose to support him. “I have no talent whatsoever. I was examined twice.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back until the chair reminded him of his bruises and he sat up sharply.
“Your head isn’t really broken, is it?” She sounded genuinely concerned.
“It hurts,” Dominic said, mindful of the rose in his lapel.
She came back to the footstool. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to do this, but I have to. I have to understand.”
It almost sounded like she was pleading with him.
He shifted in the chair, wondering what compelled her to do this. “Who is this Yves Morlais? Is he the magician who made these roses? Why don’t you ask him all these questions?”
Her face twisted. “Oh, how I wish I could.” She sank her head down on her hands. “If he were here....” She dropped her hands, and for a moment Dominic caught a glimpse of wild desperation in her stormy eyes. “He’s dead. He was my great-uncle, and he left his house to me.”
Dominic hesitated. “Mademoiselle Andrews, if you are afraid of spies, of people stealing your great-uncle’s magic, perhaps you should sell this place.”
She gave him a wry, distracted smile. “I can’t.” She rubbed at her forehead, making a small sound of aggravation. “I have to think this through. No magical ability, but you are drawn to magic. Hmm. I wonder....” She jumped up and went to one of the curio cabinets, hunting through a narrow drawer. She came back to Dominic with three ivory balls in her hands.
“Which one looks most interesting to you?” she asked, watching his face with a look of eager anticipation.
At first glance they appeared identical. Slightly larger than billiard balls, they had the yellow patina of age and a faint pattern of cracks in addition to an overall flower and vine carving that covered the surface. What was she trying to do? He tried to ignore the throbbing in his head. If he humored her, maybe she would let him go.
“That one.” He gestured as well as he could for being tied down.
“You are sure?” Her face revealed nothing.
He nodded. She slowly tipped her hands forward. Two balls fell to the carpet and rolled away. He felt one bump against his foot.
The ball he had pointed to was still floating in the air, and Mademoiselle Andrews was smiling. He felt his breath catch. She had a beautiful smile, as beautiful as it was rare, that transformed her face like a sunrise chasing shadows.
“I was right!” she said, delighted.
“But I don’t have any magic. Or do I?” Dominic asked, equally confused and excited. Something had happened.
She shook her head, her earlier wary mistrust gone and replaced with interest. “No, you don’t have magic. You can see magic. That’s why redirection spells don’t work on you. It’s like posting a big sign with gold lettering that says ‘Don’t Look Here.’ How fascinating!”
Dominic drew a sharp breath. Many things that had puzzled him throughout his life began to make more sense. Those damn Solstice displays, for one. Phillipe had been right after all. He had seen something.
Mademoiselle Andrews glanced down at the ropes holding him as if she had forgotten they were there. Her smile faded. “I suppose I should make absolutely sure,”
she said to herself. “Has anyone asked you questions about this place, or who lives here?”
“No.”
“Do you have any interest in the books of magic in this house?”
“I want to know where they are, so I can avoid them,” Dominic answered, shuddering.
She knelt and started untying the ropes. “You really should get some training in your talent, you know. Magic is so prevalent nowadays; they use it for everything.”
Dominic rubbed his arms, wincing, and stared at the still-floating ivory ball. It turned gently in place. “I just guessed. How can you be so certain I have talent?”
The corners of her mouth twitched upward, and she pointed at the rose still in his lapel. “I asked which one looked most interesting. You can’t lie, remember? You don’t know what you see yet, but you do see it.” She removed the rose, and he noted how she took care to keep it well away from her.
He stumbled and nearly fell when he tried to stand, but after a few minutes his head stopped swimming and he could walk unsteadily.
“I apologize for looking at your books without permission,” Dominic said slowly. He still hadn’t figured out all the mysteries. He still didn’t know why she was so afraid, but he had inadvertently added to her fear and he wanted to make amends, if possible.
Mademoiselle Andrews’ quick flush of color glowed and faded. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about them. And for tying you up,” she mumbled, not looking at him.
“Then let us say no more about it,” he said, offering his hand. She took it, but released it instantly.
“Are you well enough to leave?” she asked, accompanying him as he slowly made his way to the door.
He nodded. He had another wave of dizziness on the stairs, but from there he was able to manage on his own. She let him out the back door to the garden, and he waved goodbye to her as she stood in the light, watching him go.
The blue glowing roses lit his way to the gate.
Dominic felt perfectly recovered the next day, with the exception of the lump on his head and a few bruises. He stood in the doorway and admired the beautiful country morning. He would never have a view like this in Dinan.
He would not have to contend with magical roses there, either. After his experiences last night he was reluctant to return immediately to his garden work. She had warned him about the roses, and now he had seen what one of them could do.
He rubbed his throat, taking a deep breath. “I’m a pastry chef,” he announced, and smiled in relief. The effects were not permanent. How long did they last, though? He’d have to ask her. And what of the other roses?
Dominic took a thoughtful tour of the rose garden on his way to the carriage house. The blue glowing one he had first seen probably just glowed, but was there any other magic to the rose with clear emerald petals, besides the fact of its existence? One she had told him on no account to go near. It shook and rustled violently as he walked by, trailing vines lashing out and falling back again. A litter of small white bones lay around it, and once he had seen a dead bird snarled in its branches. It made him wonder what manner of man her great-uncle had been to create such things.
The carriage house had some items he could use to move the statues, but not everything he needed. Perhaps he should go to the village now, before the sun got too high. Besides his own errands, he had some items to purchase to make his statue-moving apparatus.
He glanced up at the house on his way to the road, wondering if Mademoiselle Andrews was happy there. Did her great-uncle’s magic force her to stay?
Dominic stood to one side of the road to let a mail coach go by, and then followed it across a low stone bridge. He passed by the first of several clumps of chestnuts that grew outside Baranton, glad of the shade. He tried to recall anything objectionable about the statues Mademoiselle Andrews wanted him to move, but failed. Some prudish Atlanteans found the art of the late Empire shocking, but these statues were from the early Empire and quite modestly draped, considering. He’d have to ask her.
That assumed he’d ever be able to ask her anything. Dominic shook his head. Why, why had he tried to look at that damn book? She’d probably never let him in the library again.
He entered the town proper, so he had to pay attention to where he was going. It was busier than usual because this was the market day, and people had set up stalls to sell their wares in the central square. Baranton was not a large town, but the square boasted a small marble fountain and a statue of Queen Anne VI, weathered by the centuries.
He bought a loaf of bread and a fruit pie from a farm woman who wore the old-fashioned starched lace coif and who was possessed by barely contained curiosity.
“Na, yours is a face I've not seen before. You'll be visiting, then?”
“Yes, for a few months or so. Perhaps longer.” Each time he came to town the people grew marginally more friendly and willing to talk. He had hopes of being able to ask questions in ten years.
“It’s not the widow Retaille’s you are staying at, is it?”
“No, at a cottage at the chateau, there.” He gestured in the proper direction.
All amusement left the woman's face. Her neighbors in the market also grew silent and their eyes went to him.
“You've actually seen her, then? Spoken to her?” asked a grizzled old man selling chestnuts. His eyes were wide when Dominic nodded. “He don't look spellified,” he added in an aside to the others.
“Now, it was the old lord that had the Gift and he’ll be dead six months this Lammas,” said the farm woman. “You'll have him thinking we're simple in the head.”
“You don't hear no strange noises at night, or see strange lights a' flickering where there shouldn't be none?” persisted the old man, despite the woman's attempt to shush him.
“Have people seen strange things at night?” Dominic asked, intrigued. “I haven't noticed anything, but then I’m a sound sleeper.” He thought of the glowing roses, and his head suddenly ached.
“What a strangeness!” said the young egg girl shyly. “I’d never heard any say she’d speak.”
“She’s talked to him, right enough,” the old man grumped. “Else he’d not be staying there.”
“She could have a letter left,” the egg girl objected. “Always she be doing that, if there’s aught she’s needing.”
The old man sniffed. “That’s foreigners for you. I don’t trust ‘em.”
Dominic kept quiet, suspecting that the definition of foreigners included anyone not born in Baranton.
“Honest.” A surprisingly deep voice made itself heard, coming from a powerfully built young man with pale eyes. He was dressed as a laborer and carried a large basket on one shoulder. “Pays what she owes, afore time.”
“True enough,” agreed the woman. “T'wod be a good thing, more foreigners being like her.”
“She is Gaulish?” the egg girl asked, looking alarmed.
“Naw,” the chestnut seller said with great disdain. “She come from Atlantea. Kin to the old lord, she is, an' he left the place to her.”
“And he told you himself, bein' such a good friend of yours!” the woman said scornfully. “Jehan Guern, your tales put me out of patience.”
“Master Brenn, what drew up the will, might have some notion what got put in,” said old Jehan with awful dignity, “and it was him that told me.”
Seeing the argument continue with no sign of abating, Dominic gathered up his purchases and left. He visited the post office, finding a letter from Phillipe, and then the ironmonger’s, where he spent an interesting hour discussing forging techniques with the smith before recollecting his errand and buying the pulleys he needed.
The pulleys were heavier than he’d planned for, especially with the other things he’d purchased, but he was unwilling to leave anything behind. Before he had gone far, he heard a familiar deep voice. It was the young man who had defended Mademoiselle Andrews in the market.
“Goin' back?” he said, seated on the bench of an ancient
cart. “Take you. Bringing the weekly order.”
“Yes, please!” Dominic said gratefully. He put his purchases in the back of the cart and climbed up beside the driver. Glancing back at the contents of the cart, Dominic saw the tall basket the man had been carrying earlier. It was now full of parcels, two loaves of bread, and a barely visible wheel of cheese. The driver clicked his tongue at the horse. After considering the matter dispassionately for a minute or so, the horse moved forward.
The big man, whose name was Michel, was silent all the way to the chateau after introducing himself. When they reached the port-cochère, Michel easily hefted the basket and placed the contents inside the cupboard. He took out a letter from his shirt pocket and was going to put it in as well.
“I’ll take that to her, if you like,” offered Dominic. It would save her, or someone, a trip and might help improve her opinion of him.
Michel gave him the letter, then turned his strange pale gaze to Dominic. “Want to be watchful,” he said, jerking his head towards the house. “It's a powerful place. Have a care what you do.”
Dominic slowly shook his head. “I don't understand.”
“Land’s strong there. Things don't work the same.” Apparently exhausted by such a long speech, he said not another word as he climbed up on the cart and drove away, nodding farewell.
Dominic scratched his head, trying to puzzle out the meaning of what seemed to be a well-intentioned warning. Eventually he shrugged. He'd probably find out what he'd been warned about after he did it. He went to the back door after depositing the heavy gear in the carriage house, and raised his hand to knock.
He couldn’t touch the door. An invisible barrier prevented it. Despite the heat of the day, he felt a chill shudder over his skin. He felt over the door, the frame, the wall of the house. The same barrier existed in a smooth, continuous form as far as he could reach.
Dominic stared at the letter he held as if it could explain what was happening. It had a foreign black-and-purple stamp, and was addressed to Miss Ardhuin Andrews at Peran, near Baranton in Morbihan. He remembered the name Peran from the encounter in the bookstore—more confirmation, if he needed it.
The Last Mage Guardian Page 6
