“I’ve always been able to absorb or cancel out mage power in small doses but…the limits of my abilities seem to have expanded. Perhaps it’s because I’ve stretched myself in teaching you. I begin to think being an anti-mage has untapped uses.”
While most mages drew power from the sun and could channel that power into specific spells or simple force, as she had when cranking the engine, Gregor’s power was the opposite. When he concentrated, light vanished, creating a dark, senseless realm around him. That was how he cloaked himself in shadow. She had found it unnerving, at first.
Now it was simply Gregor.
“There is no clear path for your ability,” she said. “Other than to follow me around, I suppose.”
“That was a mistake.” He grimaced again.
“But will you make it again?”
“I’ll try not to do so.”
A partial apology. It might be all she would get. She sighed, tired of this for now. “You’ll make the best use of your ability, I’m sure. If you need to learn more, you will.”
“Perhaps. But I’d like to find some instructions. Surely there are others who’ve been able to manipulate darkness.”
“Then why haven’t they come forward?” she asked.
“Like me, they must use the power for stealth. For all I know, there could be a shadow army out there, somewhere.”
“That’s a horrifying thought,” she said. “Is that what you expected to find at Isca? Clues to a shadow army?”
He shrugged. “I kept an open mind to whatever presented.”
“Did anything?”
“No,” he admitted.
“So you broke my trust for no reason.”
He set a hand on her knee. “You know, Joan, I looked, when I was young, for others like me.”
That was a new disclosure. He was sharing information now because he knew how frustrated she was. “And did you find any?”
“None.”
She felt her face grow hot, from his touch, and from his confession. By sharing this detail, he hoped to mitigate the damage he’d done by following her against her express wishes.
“We are each unique,” he added. “I see I sometimes go too far in protecting that.”
“Yes, you do.”
She drove on as they rolled their way to London, torn between anger and curiosity at his revelation.
“So what is your overall impression of the school?” she asked.
“It all seems in order, all as it should be, so far as I could discern in one visit. One point of interest: I found at least five of those white rooms for training novice students. The largest one appears to be used for the most powerful students.” He paused. “Moriarty has one with access through a hidden door in his private study. But then, given he instructs the highest-level boys, he needs the privacy. I could find nothing particularly sinister in it.”
“I almost wish you had.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you eavesdrop on our conversation?”
He snorted. “I’m not so good as to chance hiding in front of you and Moriarty. As it was, you spotted me quickly enough when I came too close.”
“So I did.”
“What did he want?”
She supposed she must tell him, if she wanted his advice. And, blast it, she did. That he hadn’t eavesdropped mitigated some of her irritation.
She recounted the conversation with Moriarty and took a deep breath after, letting the clear, country air fill her lungs. London had lost much of the smog that had filled the city at the advent of the use of mage coal, but a miasma still hung over the parts occupied by the lower classes. They used regular coal, unable to afford the cleaner, magical version that burned without residue.
“He wants you under his control,” Gregor said.
“That’s my conclusion. But turning him down has consequences. His threat was not an idle one.”
“We should be wed, Joan, to protect you.”
She stared ahead at the road. He’d said this before. She hated having this conversation. “Should? And simply for protection?”
“I would like to marry you,” he amended. “Your protection is a happy benefit.”
“You already disregard my express wishes, as you did today, and we are not even wed. What will you do when I’m your legal inferior?”
He turned his hand, palm up. “You could never be my inferior, no matter what the law decrees.”
She flushed. Pretty words. “But the law matters.” Her hands clutched the steering wheel tighter.
“Not to me.”
“Then our not being married should not matter to you at all.”
He laughed, without mirth. “I wish I could argue against the logic of that.”
“I wish we did not have to argue at all.”
Dash it all, why were choices so hard?
Chapter 2
Joan woke in the small hours of the morning, unable to sleep any longer. She rolled out from under Gregor’s arm and sat on the edge of her bed, staring into the gray dawn.
Or, more accurately, the abyss. The future yawned before her, a dark, unknown space. No paths were easy but one offered help, though from people who saw her as an inferior. The other offered conflict and perhaps ruin.
But more freedom.
“Joan?” Gregor whispered.
“Marriage means servitude to me.”
“You sound like you’re arguing with yourself, not me, tonight.”
“You’re aware that, by every rule of society, I’m not good enough for your family.”
He laughed. “Joan, by every rule of society, I’m not good enough for my family.”
“They’re still your family. Having lost mine, I hate to be the cause of you losing yours.”
They were from different worlds, she the Jewish seamstress, he the son and brother of dukes. A generation ago, their formal union would never have been possible, whatever their wishes. But her mage gift opened doors, even at the highest levels, and the proof was in Moriarty’s offer to teach.
And the proof was also in Gregor’s own mother. She was Indian, a native of Calcutta. The late Duke of Bennington had caused a scandal when he married her twenty-nine years ago, when he’d been in his forties, and his new duchess only nineteen, from an unknown family, and a foreigner as well.
Still, no one had dared gainsay the powerful old duke. He’d won in the end. Gregor’s mother was recognized as the Dowager Duchess of Bennington by her stepson, now the duke, and completely accepted at Court. It was said the queen herself had a fondness for her.
All around the Empire, barriers were coming down but, so far, no one knew all the rules in this brave new world. The conservative nobles wanted to hold on to power forever, the moderates wanted to take it step by step with the passage of the Mage Reform Act, and the radicals and anarchists wanted to pull the system down entirely.
She’d be in favor of the latter except the anarchists never seemed to reckon the human cost of revolution. They hated beyond reason, and Joan could never let hate rule her, not after seeing hate eat her mother alive.
She stood and gathered her silken robe around her. The rich fabric was an indulgence, but she’d always loved gorgeous textures. Her newfound wealth, the by-product of her supply of mage coal, allowed such indulgences.
“I adore you, Gregor.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But you do not, even now, always respect my wishes.”
“And you do not always respect mine. So we are equal on that, yes?”
“But not equal to the world.”
She smiled, despite herself. The Jewish seamstress and the consulting detective. They worked. So far.
She’d hired Gregor to investigate the murder of one of her dressmaker shop clients. He’d found the culprit, all right, the magical golem created by her mother, That her mother had created the golem out of desperation because her father refused to value his wife as a person offered only dire warnings about marriage.
T
rusting those close to you seemed far more dangerous to Joan than trusting strangers. Those you loved could hurt you more deeply.
And so, she and Gregor had consummated their passion but not legally. Each stitch they made in their relationship had to be finished with care, so the result would hold, especially with society arrayed against them. Sometimes, the stitches came loose, like with today’s argument over his following her.
I regret nothing.
No one had ever told her how wonderful it felt to love someone, emotionally and physically, the way she loved Gregor. They touched each other and felt the magic of the universe. Or so she thought. Gregor would smirk at the idea, if he knew. He was less given to flights of fancy than her.
Still, discretion over their affair had been Gregor’s watchword. She’d been in such a fey mood after defeating the golem that she was ready to break every rule in the book and to hell with those who judged her. Gregor, recognizing she might later regret being so public, had convinced her to buy a home of her own with proceeds from heaps of mage coal caused by the explosion. Or perhaps he liked keeping his own space private.
He spent nights here but not his days, taking care not to be seen, using his unique mage ability to walk in shadow to remain hidden from those who might question her morals. Still, the rumors were inevitable. They worked together, without the benefit of a chaperone, on some of his cases.
Let people talk.
Gregor watched her brood, saying nothing. Silence never bothered him. Patience was one of his most valuable traits.
“When my mother returns from India, you must meet.” He studied her. “You have much in common, you know. She understands what it’s like to walk in a world not her own.”
“I imagine she does.” His mother too had been involved with a man who’d been her mentor in magic. A much older and more powerful man who’d taken her away from everything she’d known. Had Gregor’s mother felt free? Did she even now? Joan shook her head. “Moriarty will withhold the approval of the Metaphysical Society until I agree to his terms. He could ruin me.”
“Moriarty fears your power, as he should, and wants to control it. Bugger Moriarty.” Gregor waved a hand, dismissive. “What do you want, Joan?”
“You,” she whispered. Impossible, arrogant, mysterious, and, yes, passionate Gregor. But was he good for her?
A frisson of power passed from her, standing before the fireplace, to him, still in the bed. She shivered with the love inherent in that connection.
“You already have me.” A pause. “I believe you would like my mother.”
“You hold her in high esteem, so she must be remarkable. I’m more worried about what she will think of me.” Mothers could be protective of sons. “When will she be back?”
“Her last letter only reached me a few days ago, so perhaps a month yet.”
Joan curled into her favorite chair by the fire. Gregor sat up in the bed, supported by the pillows, and watched her, no doubt deducing much of her thoughts. Annoying that he knew what she thought sometimes before she did.
He also knew how deeply she was torn between loving and truly trusting him.
If she could see more of the pattern of Gregor’s life, she could understand him better. His mother would likely provide insight on that, at least. Joan stared into the flames and curled her feet under her. The velvet cushions of the chair warmed her toes.
Gregor’s lips twitched, half a smile, half grimace. “It all depends on what you want, Joan. Nothing can be decided until you know your own mind. I know you veer between partnering on my cases and taking up your needle again, professionally.”
“I’ve made decisions. I’ve made changes. I’ve learned to control my own power.” She regarded him, remembering how his hands had played along her body tonight. “I took a lover.”
He rose from the bed.
She concentrated on him. The long leanness, his lithe movements as he approached her, his dancer’s body, and the restlessness that characterized his life, all evident in every step. How could she give this up? But, at some point, he would insist on marriage. And she could not yet do that.
He set his hand on her shoulder, standing above her. That crossroads loomed again.
“When I met you, you were determined to use fashion to change society. Radical, you called those designs, and you were right. Is that what you still want now?”
“When society considers you a lesser being, there is no choice but to be radical.”
“Ah.” He’d deny it, but his detective work was radical in its own way. He chose his clients with care, seeking to reorder society’s rights and wrongs.
That’s why she liked working with him.
“I would love to see an army of powerful women standing up for their rights,” she said.
“A sight to behold.” He chuckled, a lovely sound.
There. That was why she loved him. Her ideas never shocked him.
“Come back to bed, Joan. We have time before morning and we won’t solve this tonight.”
A rock cracked against the windowsill.
“Damn, that’s Garth’s signal,” Gregor said.
Joan strode to the window and looked down.
The strangest sort of steam carriage sat on the street outside. Beside it stood Garth, Gregor’s personal cabbie and jack-of-all-trades, and another man dressed in full livery of some important house. A new, urgent case?
She waved to Garth. He waved back, gesturing for her to come down. Gregor peered over her shoulder just before she closed the window.
“Blast it,” he said. “Not the summons I expected.”
“I take it you know something about this carriage?” she asked.
“That is the Duke of Bennington’s famous flying carriage and its driver, Henry,” Gregor said, slipping into his trousers. “Joan, I believe you’re about to meet my family, whether you like it or not.” He scowled. “And whether I like it or not.”
Chapter 3
In a few seconds, Gregor vanished from all of Joan’s senses. The only sign that he’d passed out of the room was the slight opening and closing of the bedroom door.
He’d gone down to the street to speak to Garth and this chauffeur in secrecy, though Henry certainly would be clued in to her relationship with Gregor by his very presence at her home.
She’d heard of this famous carriage, though she’d not believed that it could actually fly. Only dirigibles could do that. Or so she’d heard.
She let her dressing gown fall to the floor and rummaged through her closet for workday clothes—a long skirt, cotton blouse, and matching blazer—quiet colors, but of the finest fabric. She’d need the warmth from the chill of fall once they set out. No, no corset. Far past time for them to fall out of favor, though she had altered several to support her breasts in a less restrictive manner.
She chose a gray hat that would stay on nicely without pins.
Gregor appeared into the room just as she buttoned her blazer.
She controlled a flinch. She should be used to this by now, but the early-morning arrival added to the previous day had her on edge.
“You have anticipated me. Good. The carriage is here to take us to Lotus Hall.”
“Why?” she asked. Had Gregor planned this?
“An invitation from my mother.” He smiled. “It read: ‘Come at once, if convenient, with your Miss Krieger. If not convenient, come at once.’”
That sounded just like Gregor. Perhaps his mother was exactly like him. That could be good or bad. “I thought she was not yet back in England?”
“So did I. But she arrived a week ago, according to Henry.” He frowned. “I can’t fathom why she didn’t send word to me before this, however.”
Gregor said the words in a flat tone, but she knew that meant emotions were roiling beneath his placid surface.
“She should have stayed in London long enough to see you.” Not rushed to the home of her stepson. But inside, Joan was pleased that Gregor was being served his own medicine.
Someone had dared do to him what he often did to others, kept knowledge to themselves. Perhaps Gregor would learn how it felt and stop doing it to her.
“She should have, yes.” Gregor nodded, curt. “And even had she not, I should have known.”
“You had people watching for her at the docks?” Of course he did. Gregor kept obsessive track of the goings-on in London. The man loved knowing what others didn’t, even about his own mother. Could Joan tolerate that as his wife?
Again, a curt nod from Gregor. “No sign of her from my informants.”
“That only proves she’s resourceful,” Joan said.
“Indeed,” he said. “Pack a trunk. I have some things to settle at my office first, before leaving. I’ll be back by late morning, at the latest.”
“Already started packing.”
He brushed fingertips over her cheek, feather-light. “You do want to accompany me to Lotus Hall, yes?”
“I believe I do, but thank you for asking, not ordering.”
He nodded and vanished into shadow once more.
Joan’s trunk nearly overflowed when she finished. She’d added her finest dresses to pre-packed clothing. Once or twice, an investigation had called for them to travel swiftly, like the case of the artificial being haunting Stratford-upon-Avon. She’d learned to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. On top of the trunk, she set her fur-lined full-length cashmere outer jacket. Fall drew to a close, with winter close on its heels. Besides, her reception inside the house could be chilly.
When she finished, Joan went downstairs and consulted with Margaret, her housekeeper, arranging for her absence. Bills had to be paid and pantry orders adjusted, especially as she had no idea how long she’d be gone. Margaret took the news of the quick departure without fuss, as she had before when cases required it. She’d come highly recommended by Gregor as someone he’d met on a case who’d been unfairly sacked by her previous employer.
When they heard a knock on the door, Margaret rose to answer. “I’ll see to whoever is there. It’s not right for you to answer your own door.”
“It’s likely Mr. Sherringford anyway,” Joan called after her. Strictly speaking, he should be “Lord Gregor.” But Gregor tried to put aside his rank, as much as possible for his work. “It’s inconvenient,” he said. Most of London knew him as Mister Sherringford, consulting detective. As did Margaret.
A Hanging at Lotus Hall Page 3
