“Oh, very well,” Sarah said irately. “I see you don’t trust me any more than he does, despite knowing that my intentions are honorable. I shall tear the page out and let you take it to him, but you must give me your word as a gentleman that you’ll return it to me, regardless what the Dewin Mawr says.”
“I do not distrust you, Miss Tamony,” said the professor. “Quite the contrary.”
“Ha,” Sarah muttered, giving her attention to carefully tearing the thick page from the journal’s excellent binding.
“I ought to insist that you give me an interview in exchange for this, you know. Although I suppose, as you’ve been so good to allow my brother to view your private collection, we could consider ourselves even. Oh dear, I’m tearing it. I don’t suppose you’ve a pair of scissors at hand?”
The professor rose from his chair just as the door to the study opened. Tego stepped in with Julius behind him. They stopped when both Sarah and Professor Seabolt gave an exclamation of dismay.
“Forgive me, Professor,” Tego said in his hissing voice. “I did not mean to take you by surprise. You did not hear my knock, I think.” His black eye settled on Sarah, then the book she held. “Mr. Tamony has finished examining your collection, sir. I’ve brought him to the study, as you instructed.”
Sarah closed the journal slightly, hiding the page from the creature’s view, and realized the mistake the moment she made it. The action only caused his gaze to sharpen.
She exchanged glances with the professor before saying, “A moment if you please, Julius. Professor Seabolt and I are nearly finished.”
The door closed once more, but not before Tego had given Sarah an unpleasant smile.
“That creature,” she said. “I don’t know that you should trust him, Professor. I’m surprised that the Earl of Graymar would allow you to keep such a being in your employ.”
“But why?” the professor asked with genuine surprise, handing her a small pair of scissors. “Tego’s an excellent servant, despite his appearance. Very quiet and helpful, which are necessary qualities to me as an employer. Has he done something to offend you, Miss Tamony?”
“Does His Lordship know about him being here?” she pressed, opening the journal once more and setting to the task of carefully cutting the page away.
“He must,” the professor replied. “He senses all magical beings wherever he goes. Although, come to think upon it,” he added more thoughtfully, “Tego was gone from the dwelling when Malachi arrived this morning. I’d intended to introduce them, for it is a great honor among those with magic to speak to the Dewin Mawr. I had meant it as a treat for the lad.”
“Then you must be very certain,” she advised, “to make that introduction when His Lordship next comes.”
“Indeed I shall.”
“There,” Sarah said with satisfaction when the page at last gave way. She closed the journal and put it into her purse. “I’ll fix it back in with a bit of glue when you return it to me. And please, sir,” she said as she stood and passed the page over to him, “bring it to me yourself when Lord Graymar has finished reading it. I shouldn’t want it to be waylaid.”
“I promise that I shall bring it myself,” he vowed, blind to Sarah’s expression of dismay as he folded the page twice and slid it into a coat pocket. By the time he looked at her again she had composed herself. “Thank you, Miss Tamony. I believe this may go a long way toward softening Lord Graymar’s heart toward you and your project.”
Sarah offered Professor Seabolt her hand in parting. “I shouldn’t wish you to be disappointed on my account, Professor. It would likely be best not to raise your hopes where Lord Graymar is concerned.” She smiled. “I certainly don’t intend to.”
Chapter Ten
There was not a mere mortal alive who could describe the interior of Miss Serafina Daray’s town house. Many mere mortals had been in her domicile, almost all of them men, but none could ever after remember why, what had transpired, or what the place had looked like. Even those men who had served as her lovers for more than a few days or weeks could not say with any clarity what her home was like inside. The memories of their visits there were so dreamlike as to almost be imagined.
The mystery was but a part of what made Serafina Daray such a sensation among the ton. Other particulars included but were not limited to her delicate and stunning beauty, her exquisite sense of style, and her delightful charm and wit. Anyone you asked would tell you so, and believe it. Serafina made certain of it and put herself on display as often as possible in order to prove how right her admirers were.
Her home, however, was Serafina’s private refuge and not open to public speculation. Mere mortals wouldn’t understand, even if she did let those who had been allowed within her sanctuary to remember it.
She needed darkness. Craved it. Especially after being in sunlight, which hurt her delicate eyes. Her home gave her the darkness Serafina required and sweet surcease from the misery of being in company with mere mortals. They were tiresome and stupid and thoroughly exhausting and Serafina longed for the day when she’d at last possess the power to put such beings in their proper place—as servants to their magical betters.
Being in company with mere mortals day and night, having to converse and laugh and pretend to be interested or amused by their ignorant, small-minded utterances, was what Serafina hated most about the farce she was required to live. But soon everything would change. All she had to do was watch the great wizards and place her minions in ideal locations to spy as well, and the clues to finding the cythraul would fall into her capable hands.
Tego, the best and brightest among Serafina’s servants, was the first to bring his mistress intriguing information.
“ ‘Mr. Julius Tamony,’ ” she read from the little card, reclining on a black velvet lounge and stroking her fingers gently over Tego’s long, silky hair as he rested his head in her lap. “How interesting. The brother of the famous Sarah Tamony, and soon to be known in his own right. Is he handsome, my dear?”
Tego, who lay in ecstasy beneath his mistress’s caress, made a sound of disdain. “He is handsome, my lady, in the way of mere mortals, and does not possess the horrible red hair, as the sister does. But his eyes are weak, for he wears spectacles.”
“He is a scholar,” she told Tego, “and reads a great deal. A man of intellect, in the limited manner of mere mortals. And handsome, you say?”
“Aye, mistress. He is just what you like best.” The fact seemed to displease Tego a great deal, for he added, “I should enjoy killing him very much.”
“Not yet, my darling,” Serafina murmured. “Not until we’ve done with him and the sister. Did he know about the journal?”
Tego gave a slight shake of his head, the motion moving the silky cloth on her lap back and forth. “She was cunning, my lady, and played the brother for a fool. He believed all that she said of interviewing the professor, though Professor Seabolt had already broken their appointed meeting.”
“Only at the Dewin Mawr’s insistence,” Serafina reminded. “I’ve no doubt the old fool was eager to speak with her, despite that. He must have been disappointed when Malachi put a stop to the connection. It’s clear that the woman is a source of fear to Lord Graymar, else he’d never go to so much trouble. Yet she possesses no magic.”
At this Tego lifted his head. “But she knows of magic, mistress. She recognized it in me almost at once. I saw the understanding in her eyes.”
“She’s one of our sympathetics, then,” she said softly, tracing the tip of his sharp chin with a single finger. “A dangerous woman for us. And this journal—you say that the professor insisted upon taking it to the Dewin Mawr at once?”
Tego nodded. “But the woman said it was too valuable to let out of her possession and took it away with her, giving him only a page to take to the Great Sorcerer. She made the professor give his vow that he’d return the page to her on the morrow.”
“Are you quite certain, Tego?”
�
�I heard all they said once I had the brother out of the artifact room. The study doors were no hindrance to my ears. And it must have been very important, for the professor left for Mervaille immediately after the woman and her brother had gone.”
Serafina nodded slowly, thoughtfully, before at last focusing on his misshapen face.
“I must have that journal, Tego,” she said in gentle tones, stroking his cheek. “We must find a way to obtain it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I shall think of a way, and perhaps allow you to help in stealing it, my most faithful servant. But before then, you must bring me the page that was torn from it. It should be a simple matter to get it away from Seabolt, so careless as he is.”
“It will be in your hands before midnight,” Tego vowed. “But I must return it to the professor’s possession before daybreak. If he discovers it missing he’ll likely call for the Dewin Mawr’s aid.”
“Excellent,” she murmured, well pleased, and leaned to kiss him on the forehead, just above his single eye. “My faithful Tego.” She began to stroke his hair again. “You are the only one I can truly trust. I’d not be able to continue in the world of men without you. One day soon, you’ll be well rewarded for your loyalty to me.”
His expression grew hopeful. “You know what it is that I desire, mistress.”
“And you will have it,” she promised. “When I’ve come into my rightful place I shall at last possess the power to make you the handsomest being on earth. And then, my dearest, no woman, mortal or magic, will be able to resist you. Not even me.”
The Earl of Llew’s journey to London was not turning out to be a pleasant one. It was plagued by rain and muddy roads, and he had been obliged time and again since departing Castle Llew to exit his carriage when one of the wheels had gotten stuck in a rut. He’d used magic in order to get it unstuck, for his servants were all mere mortals and he had neither the time nor patience nor desire to stand in the rain waiting for them to lift the heavy carriage free. This only proved to him more fully how inferior mere mortals were, and the knowledge that he was surrounded by such feckless beings made him irate.
He might have employed magic mortals as servants, as clans like the Seymours sometimes did, but Cadmarans had always felt it wrong to place their magical peers in servitude when either mere mortals or animantis were available. But Morcar particularly disliked being in company with animantis. There were none left now who were pure-blooded and therefore few who, like Serafina, had retained their ancient beauty. Cadmarans had rules about ugly and inferior creatures, first and foremost that they should be drowned at birth. After two days of standing in the rain because his idiotic coachman couldn’t avoid ruts, Morcar was ready to consign all mere mortals to the same fate.
He wasn’t in any particular hurry to reach London, knowing what awaited him with Serafina’s challenge at hand. But he’d been warned in a dream that he would receive no signs regarding the cythraul while he remained at Llew and had departed for London the following day.
The Season this year would be remarkable. Numerous magic mortals would be in Town, many who claimed allegiance to the Dewin Mawr and an almost equal number who had, at least until recently, given their allegiance to Morcar. He found the thought supremely depressing.
With a sigh he turned to the window, gazing at the rain-splattered pane—beyond which he could see nothing—with a feeling of both loneliness and despair.
He was thirty-seven years of age and his life, so far as he could tell, had been useless. From his birth he had been made fully aware of what was expected of him—to destroy the Seymours and take on the mantle of Dewin Mawr. His father, a wise and powerful wizard, had been his mentor, and Morcar had tried fervently to please him. He had vowed upon his father’s death to be the Cadmaran who at last would find the way to best the Seymours.
Not only had Morcar not bested them; he’d utterly failed at each attempt. He’d tried to comfort himself with the thought that he’d been unfortunate to come against Malachi—a wizard of such power as only came along once every thousand years—but he’d at last had to accept the truth. It wasn’t that Malachi was a superior wizard but that he, Morcar, was inferior. Proof, he knew, was that he’d not been able to make a woman love him. At least not of her own free will, and the other kind of love, forced by magic, had soon grown dull.
But he had loved. Not deeply, perhaps, but enough so that when she had been taken from him, he’d felt the loss. And she would be in London this Season. Desdemona.
He closed his eyes as the memory washed over him, unsure of what it would be like to see her again. She had been his perfect mate, and he had greatly desired to have her as his wife. With Desdemona at his side, Morcar might have conquered anyone or anything that stood in his path, not merely because she, herself, was so powerful a sorceress, but because she would have completed him. Or so he had dreamed. But it had not been fated and thus had not come to be.
She was a Seymour now. Desdemona Seymour, wife of Dyfed Seymour, brother to Kian, Baron Tylluan, who would one day be the Dewin Mawr in Malachi’s place. Unless Morcar became Dewin Mawr, first.
Dyfed was not an extraordinary wizard, as Morcar was. Nor was Dyfed a greater wizard. The truth, more insulting than any other fact, was that Desdemona had chosen a lesser wizard for her husband, and not merely a lesser wizard, but one possessed of such a minor gift as to nearly make him mere mortal. The only magic Dyfed Seymour held was that of silent speech, of being able to speak into the minds of listeners, rather than into their ears. From what Morcar had heard, Dyfed wasn’t even capable of levitating small objects, which was a simple magic that nearly all wizards and sorceresses, regardless of whether they were lesser, greater, or extraordinary, could perform by the age of three. How Desdemona, the daughter of the famed wizard Draceous Caslin, as well as an extraordinary sorceress possessed of incredible powers, could choose such a husband when she might have had Morcar was beyond all comprehension.
Equally unpleasant to contemplate was the Seymours Morcar would have to contend with during the Season and the game that Cadmarans and Seymours had been playing in public almost from the beginning of the exile. For if they didn’t smile and speak pleasantries while among mere mortals, rumors would begin to spread that there was some argument between the two families. Rumors would lead to close observation by outsiders, curious to know what the truth was, and questions would soon begin to be asked. Neither family could afford such inspection, and so they had agreed to ever behave with perfect amity when in Society.
It had become difficult to continue the farce over the past several years, however. Five years ago Morcar had kidnapped Niclas Seymour’s beloved, Julia, with the intention of making her his mistress and then had tried to kill Niclas when he’d come to rescue her. The Guardians had blinded him for the attempt, and it had taken the loss of Desdemona to restore Morcar’s sight. He supposed that the beings who ruled over magic mortals had realized he’d been sufficiently punished for his misdeed. Apart from that, no lasting harm had come to Niclas. He and Julia had married and lived happily thereafter, producing two daughters and two sons in the years that had passed. But it was always awkward to see them during the Season; Morcar couldn’t look at the happy pair without feeling a pang of jealousy.
The carriage gave a sudden familiar thump and lurched to one side, flinging Morcar toward the door so that he nearly struck his head. With a curse he righted himself, then shut his eyes and prayed for patience. He was close to abandoning the carriage altogether in favor of the fast traveling extraordinary wizards could employ when they wished. But it was his due as the Earl of Llew to arrive in London in his grand carriage for one and all to see and admire. If one couldn’t make a grand entrance, there was scarcely any point in going to Town at all.
The carriage door opened and one of the footmen, ashen-faced, said, “My lord, I’m afraid we’ve—”
“Struck another rut,” Morcar finished for him. “Yes, Fulham, I’ve realized.”
/> With a loud sigh he heaved his tall, muscular person out of the elegant equipage and put his expensive, now-ruined, boots once more into the mud. Heavy rain splattered on his face, hair, and shoulders as he stood full height, wetting again the clothes that were still damp from the last rut.
“Stand aside, you fool,” he commanded irately, shoving the footman back. “Let me have a look at it.”
He peered through the rain to see that it was one of the front wheels this time and that the rut was indeed quite deep.
He shouted up to the coachman over the pouring rain. “When I give the word, drive the horses forward. Just get the front out and I’ll repair the hole before we—”
A sudden flash stopped the rest of his speech, blinding all of them and terrifying the horses into bolting forward. The carriage wheel cracked, then with an explosion of sound burst into pieces, sending the entire carriage hurtling to one side.
Morcar had spent three years of his life living in darkness, and not even the sudden onset of blindness had the power to overset him. All of his senses reacted as they would have done during those three years, and he reached out a hand, calling forth his supernatural strength to push the carriage upward. With a few spoken words the wheel was magically repaired and replaced upon the shaft. By the time his men had hurried to fix it firmly on, Morcar’s vision had returned.
He blinked, feeling the same relief that he did upon waking each morning to know that he had his sight. Drawing in a deep breath, he steadied himself. And then he heard it. A voice calling to him from above, though he couldn’t make out the words. He looked up to find the source. Rain poured on his face, into his eyes and mouth, but that did not distract him from the sight he saw, floating directly above him.
“My lord?” It was Fulham.
“Do you see that, Fulham?” the Earl of Llew asked. “Right there above us? Did you hear the voice?”
Fulham looked and neither saw nor heard anything. He decided that the earl had likely hit his very hard head.
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