A Wild Conversion

by Katherine Gilbert

  Her beautiful eyes positively glowed.

  “I am in no mood to put up with any more of your frivolous shenanigans!”

  He was glad that Emma was holding him up, however subtly, as he distinctly heard a laugh in his head, followed by Natalie’s voice. You always do become more formal when you’re angry.

  He could feel Emma’s annoyance, even if her answer to her friend was more playful. Oh, do shut up, Nat. Reginald’s being a jerk, and he knows it.

  Frederick had to look up that insult in his mental dictionary and was very grateful for the help. He was also grateful when his grandfather gave a resigned shrug and led them to a sitting room inside the house.

  “Well, if I must,” he gave in gracelessly.

  Once they were all seated—the lovely Emma’s hands still warm on Frederick’s arm—his grandfather looked at her, clearly annoyed to be carried away from his work. “Just what is it you think he should know?”

  It was only the soft stroking of the woman’s fingers which kept him from yelling. To his continuing disgust, the sound of his father’s cold tones answered again. “How about starting with the fact that you’re alive?”

  This simply made the man blink. “Of course I am. How else would I be here?”

  Emma’s stroking increased—whatever spell she was weaving over him much needed.

  “And your funeral?”

  His grandfather seemed no more contrite. “That was just an excuse to get away. Everybody knew that.”

  The hurt from the fact that he certainly hadn’t lingered, but his grandfather’s excuses continued.

  “My wife was dead. So was your mother.” He nodded toward Frederick, then shrugged. “There was nothing keeping me there anymore—and I didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions by hanging around for too long.”

  This explanation answered nothing, least of all the giant ache in his grandson’s heart.

  Frederick was only distracted from it by Emma’s lovely, rich voice, birthing an entirely new mystery for him. “Hang on a minute. Reginald, you’re Frederick’s mother’s father?”

  The man nodded, bemused, as her beautiful eyes met Frederick’s.

  “In your time, doesn’t the father pass down his name to his children?”

  Rather surprised at the thought of there being any other way, Frederick nodded—until the shock set in, as he started to see where she was going. That he had never, in his entire life, noticed it before only deepened the feeling.

  “Then why is your last name ‘Everly’?”

  He had no answer for this. Unlike many couples in his time, his parents had not been cousins. He was certain that he was no bastard, either, that his parents had been properly married.

  Gazing over to his grandfather, he finally saw the man look a little abashed. “That was Hester’s idea, actually.” He winced a little. “She changed Frederick’s father’s last name, then used a little . . . influence to convince everyone that it made sense and had always been that way.”

  Again, Frederick was left staring. He couldn’t at all understand how this was done but was too overcome by a million other questions, one primary one attacking him.

  Why in hell did I ever mourn for this man?

  Now that he thought it over, it seemed as though his grandfather had never cared about him, had just played with him when he found it amusing. Maybe the whole family had, truly. Especially if everyone were here . . .

  Along with a much deeper pain, this brought another question to mind. “Jenny is here?” He had always been incredibly close with his sister, even if she were a good 13 years younger than he was—or, at least, he had thought he had been. But, if she were here, too . . .

  This sorrow ached, the last connections to all he had believed suddenly unmooring themselves.

  Perhaps his grandfather saw this, almost seemed sympathetic—even if he didn’t really answer. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. He turned into a real prig in the end, but he did love my daughter something fierce.” He was staring at the floor, his hands clasped in front of him. “It’s why he changed so much after her death.”

  It was the first time Frederick had thought about it, although he had to admit that the theory made sense. Still, he had been too busy at the time both trying to survive his father’s moods and helping to comfort his infant sister to delve into anything like the man’s motives—and he wasn’t certain they helped him much now.

  It was this man’s motives he couldn’t comprehend—although he didn’t get a chance to question, his grandfather’s gaze suddenly piercing. “Goodwinter Distaff, why do you keep fondling my grandson?” He started to glower. “I realize he’s pretty enough, but he wasn’t raised in a time period which makes him ready for that sort of thing.”

  God help him, but Frederick thought Emma was even more beautiful when she matched the disapproving look completely. “It should be perfectly obvious to you that I’m trying to look out for him.”

  He felt another small ache that that might be all she was ever trying to do, and her hand ran intimately, further up his arm.

  “Suddenly finding out that his entire family exists here—including someone he thought was dead—could easily destroy his last ounce of strength.”

  That touch soothed slowly.

  “Or, given all he’s learned today, he may lose control and squash you into a small, green puddle.”

  The rest he only heard in his mind. Not that that wouldn’t be perfectly understandable right now.

  It was with this comment that it dawned on him that he truly was hearing her thoughts, and he assumed it must be on purpose.

  Thank you, he thought back and felt her startle.

  Oh, so maybe she hadn’t intended for me to hear.

  Confirming that theory, she said soundlessly, You can hear me?

  He heard Natalie’s mental, Oh my!

  About to answer them aloud, he was interrupted. No! Don’t let him know.

  Emma’s look pierced the older man.

  There are WAY too many unanswered questions to tell him any more than he needs to hear.

  There was certainly a great deal about this Frederick didn’t actually understand, but he didn’t press further.

  Giving her a nod small enough that the man near them would miss it, he saw that she was about to go on when his thoughts shifted to what she had just been called. He had only enough composure left to keep from speaking aloud. Just a minute! YOU’RE the head of the Goodwinter family?

  How was that possible when both her grandparents were alive?

  It’s all to do with who has the greatest magic in the family, she explained, silently and quickly, obviously not having time for deeper lessons now, and he remembered that she had said something to that effect before.

  “There’s something seriously amiss here, Reginald,” Emma went on, glaring at the older man. “Not the least of which is: how on earth did you manage to get back to the nineteenth century to start a family there?”

  Apparently, time travel wasn’t common in this era, either.

  His grandfather wasn’t particularly helpful, though, looked as though he were going to object and refuse to answer.

  Frederick just stared at the man, the hurt at all which had been kept from him caught in his gaze.

  A moment later, the man shrugged, looking away. “That’s one of Hester’s tricks. She likes to move about.”

  He heard Natalie exclaim in his head, A time witch! and guessed that wasn’t entirely typical.

  His grandfather went on. “Anyway, on one of our little holidays, I met a girl I liked. Cornelia. She had magical roots, even if she wasn’t aware of them. I decided to stay there and partner with her. Hester brought her kids along, and it kind of became a party. We all lived there, had a couple of null sons, as well.” His look grew grim. “Until Cornelia died having our daughter, your mother.” He looked back at his grandson. “She was a witch, too, if a weak one.” Sighing, he added, “The women in your family never did have much luck
in childbirth.”

  Several things about this statement made Frederick want to protest—loudly—his hurt increasing, but Emma’s touch went on soothing him, her mind now speaking to his. I’m sorry. If it helps any, I have a total bastard of a grandparent, too.

  It took him a second to translate this, not understanding why she would think his grandfather had been born out of wedlock—especially since, by her descriptions, pretty much everyone here was. Her next words robbed him of any other thoughts, however.

  It doesn’t mean you can’t still be loved.

  If only for a heartbeat, he felt it then, a moment of certainty that she cared for him, wasn’t just being protective. It set off one of his direst near-collapses of the day.

  He might have lost much of his family today—or, at least, any certainty of who they really were—but there was another bond being born here. It only made the isolation he had lived in for so long that much more painfully obvious.

  This was a beautiful possibility, but it brought on a far-less-positive realization which welled in him, demanding he listen.

  Suddenly, part of him knew that he could discover more of that link, could easily burrow completely into her thoughts. If he willed it, he could understand her so thoroughly that there wouldn’t be a single breath she took alone, nowhere she could ever gain privacy from him. With only the mere decision to possess, she could be entirely his.

  The impulse was horrifying—the fear and hatred she would feel at such an invasion so obvious. That there had been that one brief instant where it had seemed to tempt him . . .

  Leaning forward, his head fell into his hand, and he pulled back from her thoughts entirely, far too tormented by that brief glimpse inside himself and his desires.

  For a moment, he couldn’t even think, felt too ill. There was a vast chasm between being allowed into someone’s private world and forcing your way in—and it shocked him that there was even the minutest part of him which was suddenly so desperate for her acceptance that he could so much as imagine such an invasion.

  Feeling her confusion and dismay, he knew she had at least sensed the beginning of his emotional collapse—even if she could hopefully never guess what had started it.

  Obviously deciding the time was ripe for retreat, Emma helped him stand up. It was difficult to not just collapse, and he moved only because she sent little buzzing spells into his muscles to force them to work.

  “I think Frederick’s had enough shocks for today, Everly. He’ll be staying with me. If you or your family wishes to see him, they may come at any time.”

  He noticed distantly that her gaze bored into the man.

  “You still have a great deal you need to explain.”

  Forcing Frederick away, she was just turning them when his grandfather spoke, seeming only now to register her earlier words. “Wait a minute! Did you say that he’s done magic? That he . . .?”

  Emma was trying to hurry him off when the man trampled over like a boar, capturing Frederick’s head in his hands, staring into his eyes.

  Frederick shied, had never wanted less to do with anyone in his family—even his own father when he had been maddest at him or the world.

  However, his feelings clearly didn’t matter, the man letting out a cry. “Yippee! I knew it! I always knew it!”

  He was pointing at him gleefully, and Frederick felt an immense urge to destroy him.

  “You’re a sorcerer, my boy!” He was doing a little dance. “None of your cousins are worth much, but you . . .”

  To his surprise and thanks, Emma stepped in front of him, glaring at his grandfather. “Don’t you dare try to gloat, after all you’ve done to him!”

  The man stared, speechless, and she hurried Frederick away.

  “You can come talk to him, if any of you ever develops anything like a soul!”

  Frederick was rushed along, amazed by her—so grateful, but guilty, to be defended with such passion.

  But his grandfather roared behind them, his mood having evidently shifted dangerously. “How dare you? You haven’t even converted completely!”

  Continuing to push Frederick out the double garden doors, as he looked up the word “converted” in that mental dictionary and still found no entry which made sense, he looked at her. She had said it previously, but he was too tortured by his own temptations to remember the context clearly.

  As they made it outside, his grandfather’s voice was more distant. “You think you can steal him away from Hester? She’s twenty times the sorcerer you’ll ever be—and she’s a full one!”

  Emma didn’t respond to these threats, marching him further down the road, but he was so completely destroyed by rampaging, warring emotions he couldn’t even imagine how to go on. Emma only stopped pushing, when they were about 200 yards away. Then, her fuming began.

  “Oh, how dare he!” She couldn’t seem to decide whether to stomp or storm. “First, he breaks time barriers just for fun, and then he abandons his family without any real idea of who they even are!”

  Finally, she clearly decided on a stomp, as she turned back to the house.

  “That . . . that . . .” Her voice was suddenly huge, echoed wildly. “. . . bastard!”

  The word shimmered down the valley, clinging to the road and the pristine countryside, and his defender suddenly blushed.

  It was Natalie who spoke eventually, and he wondered whether Emma had said something mentally he had missed. “Okay, so it was a bit juvenile but well-deserved.” She looked back to him, and her eyes widened. “Oh!”

  He didn’t know what had caused the reaction, although he was certain his complete despair must be evident. Emma’s anger suddenly faded, replaced with a sadness which matched his own.

  For a moment, she reached up for his face but pulled herself back, and he was grateful, uncertain that he could have withstood—or ever have deserved—the sympathy.

  Turning back to her friend, she gave a sigh, her voice now soft. “I’m sorry, Nat. I need to . . .” She had her hand on his arm again, her gaze on the ground. “I need to talk to Frederick alone.”

  The sadness was catching, Natalie’s swamping her friend’s—but she did nod, wandering a little away. “I’ll be over there, if you need me.” Then, she left without looking back.

  He didn’t really understand all of this but was too tormented to try.

  He let Emma push him gently along to a large boulder beside the road which had been carved into a rustic bench. Once they were on sitting there, she drew two small symbols in the air—staring in her friend’s direction sadly and slowly, as she made the second. Then, she looked at him and created a third. Finally, she spoke. “We’re alone now. No one can see or hear.”

  He wasn’t certain whether this were a positive fact or not. An hour ago, he would have adored it. Now, he simply felt tortured and unworthy.

  “Even Natalie?” he wondered.

  She pointed at the second symbol sadly. “I cut off our mindspeech.” Staring at the ground, she shrugged, kicking the bench slowly with the back of her foot. “I haven’t done that since we were 15.”

  She didn’t explain, but he needed to know. “Is she always in your thoughts?” That seemed disturbing, like a constant invasion. He had never had a friend that close.

  Nodding, she played with her own fingers absently. “We’re not always talking, and we don’t invade each other’s privacy.” There was a deep sigh, as she gazed into the clouds. “But I don’t keep her out.” For a moment, she looked like she might cry. “It’s just more . . . comfortable, when she’s there.”

  Having only experienced something very slightly like this with his sister, he said nothing. Besides, if he thought about Jenny, the pain of her apparent betrayal would go far too deep.

  Intentionally returning to the conversation, he wondered. “Why did you block her out now?” Everything Emma had done so far had been with Natalie. He doubted there was anything she didn’t know.

  Gazing off at the woman, who sat with her b
ack to them in a nearby field, Emma let out a sigh. “She’s not a sorcerer. Natalie’s a good witch and a better person, but she doesn’t have our sort of power.” Shaking her head, she refocused on her lap. “She’s never had to understand what it’s like.”

  Uncertain what to say, and not wanting to explain the terrible moment of temptation he had experienced, he waited her out.

  “I’m not certain whether I’m trying to protect her or myself, really.” Her finger tapped on the stone of the bench. “I never try to push my power at her, but it has to hurt to be reminded of all you don’t have.”

  From all she’d told him, he supposed that made sense. Apparently, she was deeply privileged in this world. It would be as though she were from an incredibly wealthy, status-conscious family and had taken on a poor woman of little status to be her confidante. It said a lot for her, but that couldn’t help her friend.

  As he had no idea how to help her, he changed the subject to something he hadn’t understood. “My grandfather said you were unconverted,” he prompted.

  Fortunately, she understood the question here, though she seemed a little surprised that he hadn’t comprehended it from their earlier conversation. “It means that I haven’t claimed my full power as a sorcerer. To be completely converted takes a conscious act of some sort, but it’s different for everyone, so no one can teach it.” There was a shrug. “I just haven’t found that moment, myself.”

  He felt her pain, even though he had pulled back from their mental connection, afraid of where it might lead. True, he wanted to comfort her but didn’t dare trust himself.

  Smiling at him sadly, she seemed to read his fears. “I saw your thought earlier. I know you felt the temptation.”

  From her tone, this sounded like another of her magical phrases. He didn’t understand—and was too disgusted to try, looking away from her. “I could have . . .”

  But he couldn’t finish. It was too obscene.

  Seeing the flare of her magic around them, he knew where the boundary of it was. He wanted to run straight through it and away, but he had nowhere to go. Besides, it was better just to face this.