“Ellie has you on Brontë, does she?”
“Among other things.”
“And what do you think?”
“Brontë’s good when people are committing arson, but the bits about religion were really dull. Stoker’s better, if a bit too close for comfort. I liked Tennyson,” she added. “In parts.”
“Which parts?”
“The ones that aren’t about drippy girls dying of love. ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ was pretty good,” she said thoughtfully, “and ‘Ulysses’ was great. I knew one of the lines already. I just never knew what it was from.”
“Oh?”
“‘Though much is taken, much abides.’ They’d painted it above the main armory.” She looked off into the distance. “I always liked reading it. I like it more now. There’s such hope in that poem, in the face of everything.”
Reverie softened Joan’s face and strengthened it at the same time. For a moment, it was as if she stared into a bright light and didn’t flinch. “That’s why we have our names,” she added.
Simon wanted to hear more. Mostly he wanted her to go on talking. “Names?”
“The names of heroes. People took them after the end and passed them down to their kids.” Joan took a deep breath. “You know who you’re named after. You know the stories going back as far as you can, and you tell them on the holidays.”
Daughter of Arthur and Leia, he remembered. The second name was strange, but he knew the first well enough. “They live on in you?”
“Sort of.” She was sitting up straighter now. “The world’s dark. It’s easy to fall into that darkness. So everyone has someone to live up to. A reason to keep fighting, even if it’s just fighting to stay who you want to be.”
That future was still a path he never wanted to take. There was more than fear around that bend, though, Simon realized, and not all the shapes that lined the way were twisted and shadowed.
Some work of noble note may yet be done.
“You suit your name well,” he said.
Chapter 12
Rain crawled down the drawing-room window. It had been falling most of the day in slow sluggish drops without the excitement of a real downpour. Joan stood at the window and glared at the empty lawn outside. Behind her, her newspaper waited on the couch. She should pick it up again, she knew. It would help her disguise considerably if she was even remotely up to date on current events.
She wondered when she’d started thinking about anything in terms of “helping considerably.”
Good to know she was blending in, she supposed. Good for the mission, at least.
Joan tapped her fingers against the glass but realized she was doing it only when she caught motion out of the corner of her eye and saw that Simon had looked up from his book. “Sorry,” she said, and lowered her hand.
“All I ask is that you don’t break my windows until the weather’s better,” he said.
“When the weather’s better, I won’t have a problem.”
Simon lifted an eyebrow. “Won’t you?”
Joan’s first impulse was to snap back that she obviously wouldn’t, since she wouldn’t be stuck indoors reading about some countess getting married and practicing what to do on social calls. But Simon wasn’t stupid. Nor was he sarcastic to no purpose. She bit her tongue and thought.
Yes, she’d spent most of the day silently cursing the rain, the busybodies who’d have noticed and commented if she’d gone out in it anyhow, and the endless need to give a damn whether a bunch of idiot civilians thought she was weird. No, she wouldn’t be in as foul a mood—and there it was again, “foul” instead of the word she’d have chosen a couple weeks ago, even in her head—if she could have gone walking or riding. It wouldn’t have been as bad.
She’d been shut up before in worse circumstances and for longer than a day. A different kind of rain had fallen for weeks back home, and nobody with human skin could set foot outdoors. She’d had to recover from injuries, and once, she and two men had spent three days holed up in an abandoned store, waiting for the not-quite-mindless-enough things outside to get tired and move on. She’d never gotten surly then.
She’d never needed to exhaust herself then. The world had always been very good at doing that for her. Now she had more energy and less to do with it than had ever been the case at home.
That part was easy to think about.
Simon was still watching her, not intensely but enough to make her aware that she hadn’t replied. Joan shrugged one shoulder. “I just…” she began.
She’d planned on saying something about too much rest and good food. Those were basic physical facts, no real trouble there. No need to think more.
“I wish I knew we were going somewhere.”
The man was too damn easy to talk to. Still, her thoughts were out so she might as well go on. Better to voice problems at the beginning of the mission, right? Even if she didn’t know exactly what the problems were.
Joan took a breath and tried to find words for what she’d been trying to ignore, what had been easy enough to ignore when she’d been surrounded by things she’d never seen before and struggling to master the basics of life in this time. “We’ve got this plan. It seems pretty good.”
“I certainly thought so at the time,” said Simon, but he was frowning up at her. “If you’re having second thoughts, though, or if you’ve spotted a problem—”
“If I’d seen anything that concrete, I’d tell you,” Joan said. “I haven’t seen any problems we haven’t discussed. It’s not that.”
“Then—”
“We have a saying back home: no plan survives first contact with the enemy.” Joan raised her hand and then yanked it back before she could run it through her hair and dislodge the million-and-a-half pins. “You make a plan, sure, but then you start carrying it out, and you get feedback, and you adjust.”
“Feedback?” Simon was giving her the look that said, “You just used a crazy made-up word.” She’d gotten to know it fairly well by now.
“Like…say you want to get into a building with five guards,” she said. “So your plan is to first set a fire and draw out some of the guards, maybe into a trap. Then you shoot the others, take whatever opens the door off one of their bodies, and head in. But you need at least two of the guards to leave before you start shooting, and you’d really like three.”
“Right,” said Simon, smiling. “I think I had this problem back in my school days—that or it was two trains leaving Harrow.”
Joan laughed. Explaining the problem was actually helping a little. She didn’t want to pace or hit things as much, though she was tempted to ask for some paper and a pen. “Okay,” she said. “Maybe it takes me a couple days to come up with the plan, if we’re planning way in advance and I’m really dumb. But as soon as I set the fire, as soon as I put the first part in motion, I’m already finding things out. Maybe I’m lucky and four guards leaves rather than three, or I find a fuel line and blow them up. Maybe I’m not lucky and only one guard goes, or they can put fires out at a distance. But either way, I know something more. I can change what I’m doing.”
“You’re not getting that now.”
“No. This stuff I’m learning—you think it’s the way forward, and I think you’re right, but…I don’t know. If I’m not good enough—”
“You will be. You’re nearly there.”
He thought so, maybe, and so did Ellie, Joan thought, but they’d been around from the beginning. Easy enough to see victory when they were comparing who she was now to who she had been—and she found she didn’t want to think too deeply about that. “Well, what if Reynell doesn’t give a damn about me when I show up?”
Simon shrugged. “I’d imagine we’d try something else. That plan of yours with the servants, perhaps. It’s riskier in its way,” he admitted, “and Reynell may well have wards up against uninvited guests, but those can be dealt with. Or we could find a new plan. We’re both intelligent people.”
“After
wasting all this time.”
“I was under the impression,” Simon said calmly, “that you had forty years or so.”
Joan blinked and then found herself laughing again. “Right. Nice memory.”
“I’ve found it useful on occasion.” He gestured, not to the couch with the boring paper on it but to the chair nearest him. “We are making progress, you know,” he said as she sat. “Honestly. I doubt we’ll be here much longer. But even if we do have to revise our plans…what you’re learning here will be valuable. It’s how my world works, after all, and I have to imagine you’ll need that knowledge if you’re going to try anything but a, mmm, direct frontal assault?”
“Wouldn’t work,” Joan replied almost automatically. “I’ve got two targets and no explosives, and blowing up buildings is tricky anyhow, especially if you don’t want to kill bystanders.” As Simon’s eyes widened, she added, “Which I don’t here. And I get your point.”
“I take it you don’t have many long-term campaigns?” he asked.
Joan started to relax into the chair, feeling for the first time that afternoon the warmth of the nearby fire and the soft cushions under her back. “No,” she said. “Too hard to predict the Dark Ones in advance. And I’m not high up enough for strategy, mostly. Only plan I’ve been in on more than a week or two in advance was…”
“Coming here?” Simon asked, and his gaze was both sharper and sadder as he looked at her.
“Yeah. That.”
Chapter 13
My friend, the letter began, in Sangupta’s neat, round handwriting,
I cannot even guess at the events that prompted you to seek such information from me, and I feel certain, from the vagueness in your earlier letter, that you will not disclose them. Therefore, I will not trespass upon your privacy or presume on our friendship by pressing the matter.
Let me, however, warn you. Geasa are no light matter. It is, in a way, easier to kill a man with magic than to compel him to act against his will, just as it is in the real world, and any attempt to command a man’s obedience often comes back on the caster.
To change a man’s nature for the rest of his life takes power seldom seen today, and the ways of shaping that power are themselves secret.
There was a book written by one of your countrymen a few centuries ago, The Wisdom of Raguiel. It is difficult to find, as are all sources of real power, but I was fortunate enough to read a copy in my youth. From what I remember, it may have what you seek.
When I read this book, it was in the hands of a scholar in London, a Doctor Gillespie. He is a private and a very strange man, but you may be able to persuade him to let you see it.
Whatever your quest might be, my friend, I can only trust that you pursue it out of the best of motives and that you do so with all the wisdom and judgment I know you possess. Thus, I wish you the best of fortune; may all the Powers and the Secret Masters attend you in your endeavors and keep us both safe until we meet again.
Sangupta
Simon folded the letter and sat back at his desk, tapping his fingers on the mahogany surface. Leaving Englefield for a few days would not be such a disaster now. The threats he’d feared when he’d left London had shrunk. Between the warding spell and Joan, Eleanor should be quite safe. She seemed happier too, more involved in life. Surely there were no more grounds for the other fear, the one Simon hadn’t quite been able even to articulate.
Leaving Joan behind should present little problem as well. On her own, she could probably keep from making herself conspicuous. She’d be fine with Eleanor’s help. Between riding and reading and walking in the garden, she’d keep herself quite content without him.
The thought didn’t please him. Perhaps that was another reason why he should go. That and Alex himself.
No further attacks had occurred since Simon had set up the wards, or at least none that he knew of. Nobody had reported mysterious creatures skulking around. It was quite possible to believe that Alex had given up. Whatever dedication he was capable of in the service of his own gratification, he was easy enough to distract.
Simon almost hoped Alex was using his absence to plot some grand and complicated scheme. Better that, in a way, than to believe that Eleanor’s misery or the attack on his own person had been the whims of a moment or that the world might end because of a spoiled schoolboy. And if a scheme was in the works, it would be best if Simon wasn’t away from London for too long.
He told Mathers to begin packing.
“I’ll be three days,” he told Eleanor. “Four at the most.”
She nodded. Then, as silence stretched out between them, she swallowed and spoke. “I hope that you have a safe journey. And that your business goes well.”
Not too long ago, simply having her speaking on her own initiative would have been a triumph. But she’d laughed and joked with him, if quietly, when Joan was around. Now she sat with folded hands and huge eyes.
“I’m sure it will,” he said. “If you feel, ah, up to it, you might have a few of the village girls up to tea. With Joan. As a trial, I mean.”
“Thank you,” said Eleanor. “I think she’s more than equal to the task now. And—”
“And out here, gossip doesn’t travel as fast. At least it doesn’t get back to the city quickly,” Simon finished for her, watching her blush. He rose, looked down at her, and cleared his throat. “Well. Take care of yourself.”
“And you,” said Eleanor.
When she’d bowed and left, Simon turned to the window and stared out for a long time.
***
Walking in, Joan didn’t quite slam the door, but she definitely closed it more loudly than the servants did. It gave Simon time to compose himself before he spoke.
“You wanted to see me,” she said. She didn’t sit down.
“I’m leaving for a few days.”
Joan met his eyes. “Progress?”
“Possibly. I wouldn’t—” Simon shook his head. “I wouldn’t jinx myself by being too sure. I know that sounds a bit ludicrous.”
“Nope.” Joan grinned. “But then, I never knew a man who’d light three on a match.”
“Three on a match?”
“Bad luck. Especially for soldiers.”
“Ah,” he said, and waved her toward one of the chairs. “Eleanor was thinking you might meet some of the village girls while I’m gone.”
“While you’re safe in London, you mean?” The grin reappeared. Despite his mood, Simon found himself answering it with one of his own.
“Chivalry forbids me to say. Ellie’s much better qualified to manage such a meeting, anyhow. You’ve certainly picked up enough.” He added, “And you’re looking well,” understating the case considerably and trying not to be aware of it. “A credit to my cook, I think.”
She half winced and then laughed at herself. “Thanks. Sorry. Old associations.”
“You weren’t that thin on purpose, were you?” he asked, horrified into tactlessness.
Joan snorted. “Hardly. We do as well as we can. But there’s only so much food to go around, unless…”
“Unless?”
She didn’t even look upset. He’d carry the memory to London with him, the look of calm acceptance on her face. This is the way the world is. It’s too common to be worth crying over. “The Dark Ones are very good to their pets. Or their livestock. And if you don’t want to sell out to them directly—”
“I think I can guess,” Simon said. A term floated through his mind, one he’d read long ago in a pirate story, long pork. He grimaced.
“Yeah.” Joan made a face and then shrugged. “Anyhow. Most of me knows this isn’t that. Physically, I feel great. But it’s hard to shake what you grew up with.”
It took a moment for Simon to find the thread of his conversation. “Tea,” he said. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“I think you’re wrong,” she said, but cheerfully.
“Look at it as a challenge.”
“It’ll be that, all right.�
�� She raised one hand and then stopped before she could run it through her hair and scatter the pins. “Besides, if Ellie suggested it—”
Simon nodded. “That’s what I thought. And she seems to enjoy your company.” His best efforts couldn’t keep a hint of bitterness out of his voice.
“That’s what you wanted.”
“I know,” he said, and looked away, turning back to the window. “I’m sorry.”
From behind him, he heard Joan’s footsteps. He couldn’t see her, but he knew that when she stopped, she was just out of arm’s reach. “I don’t think she blames you.”
It was what he hadn’t asked. Hadn’t dared to. “She barely speaks around me. She’s never been alone with me since we came to Englefield unless I’ve requested it. You’re a stranger, to say the least—”
“That’s probably why,” said Joan, and the mundane steadiness of her voice was soothing. “I’m not part of your world, and I don’t have its standards. Also, I wasn’t there to see her possessed—I mean, hell, I’d be jumpy around anyone who saw me that helpless. And, I wasn’t some kind of father figure to her.”
Some of Simon’s black mood lifted. I should have said something before, he realized. Joan wouldn’t shy away from a subject because it was personal or improper, and neither would she lie to spare his feelings. Of course, she could be wrong, but he felt as if he’d put out an unsteady hand to catch himself and found a rock underneath it.
“A bit hard for you to manage, yes,” he said, his voice light with relief.
“I could always fake it.”
He turned and looked at her. The skirt and blouse did little to hide her body: slim, yes, and strong but gracefully curved now. “You’d have to deal with a blind man for that,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, startled and amused, but not only that. Her breasts rose and fell a little more quickly now, pushing gently at the white cloth of her shirt.
If he cupped them in his hands, Simon thought, probably only that cloth would be in the way.
And cloth ripped so easily.
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