Dark Mirror 2 - Dark Passage

by M. J. Putney

  They crossed through the main hall into the tunnels that connected to the boys’ school. Cynthia had never been on this side of the Labyrinth.

  As they entered a tunnel on the left, Jack touched the small magical patch high on the corner. It flared purple. “This is the route I always use for coming and going from the Labyrinth. The tunnel comes out in a beech wood near the road to the village.”

  “I wonder why none of the tunnels on the girls’ side lead off the abbey grounds.”

  “To protect you frail creatures,” Jack said with a laugh. “Whoever dug these tunnels obviously couldn’t imagine warrior women like you.”

  There was real admiration in his voice. Surprised, Cynthia said, “I’m no warrior woman. If some horrible soldier attacked me, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “You’d call lightning down on his head and fry him like an egg,” Jack said promptly. “Even Boadicea couldn’t do that when she fought the Romans.”

  “You know I can’t call lightning unless I have a storm to work with.”

  “You’d come up with something.” His voice turned serious for a change. “We could never have controlled the weather over the channel without you. I have more experience and perhaps more raw ability, but you’re inventive. You came up with some clever ways of shifting winds that I’d never thought of. We were good partners.”

  Stupidly, she felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Why did it have to be Jack Rainford who fully appreciated what she’d done?

  They walked steadily until the tunnel ended in a flight of stairs leading up to a door. “Time to dim our mage lights,” Jack said as he touched the magical patch on the frame at the top. The door swung silently open to reveal the beech wood and a blast of cold, damp night air.

  Cynthia was surprised to see a saddled horse placidly munching hay nearby. “We don’t have to walk?”

  “I wouldn’t ask a fine lady to walk all the way into the village on such a cold night,” he explained. He patted the padded contraption behind the saddle. “You’ll have to ride pillion, though. I dug out the old seat my great-grandmother used when they rode to market.”

  “That is the ugliest horse I’ve ever seen.” Cynthia brightened her mage light to confirm what she was seeing. “Walleyes, a mule nose, lop ears, and he’s pigeontoed. Have I missed anything?”

  “He’s long-backed, too.” Jack stroked the beast’s neck affectionately. “Pegasus had a hard life, but he has good heart. He’ll get us to where we’re going.”

  “Pegasus?” she asked incredulously. “Could you possibly have picked a less appropriate name?”

  “I thought he needed a name to live up to.” Jack mounted, then reached down to give her a hand. Cynthia hesitated. She was a good rider in a proper sidesaddle, but perching on a horse’s rump was a different matter. “Is that contraption safe?” she asked as she studied the pillion seat dubiously.

  “As long as we aren’t galloping away from armed highwaymen. The pillion seat is attached to my saddle and there’s a girth and a tail strap.”

  “It probably hasn’t been used since your great-grandmother’s day,” Cynthia muttered. But she didn’t want to go back to her cold, lonely room, and annoying as Jack was, she trusted him to keep her safe. Even a horse moving at slow speed would be quicker and warmer than walking.

  “I cleaned it just for you,” he assured her.

  She took Jack’s hand and stepped on his stirruped, booted foot. With his help, she managed to swing around awkwardly and perch sideways behind him.

  “All settled?” he asked.

  “Well enough.” The padded seat was surprisingly comfortable and the back edge turned up to help keep her safely in place. The footrest was set for a shorter woman, but it did give her a place to rest her feet. She slid her arms around his waist, very aware of the hard, strong body under his heavy cloak. “Just don’t let highwaymen find us.”

  Chuckling, he set Pegasus into a smooth walk. “If that happens, we’ll just have to call down the winds to blow them out to sea!”

  CHAPTER 9

  Cynthia hadn’t been riding since she was sent to Lackland. As they moved through the night toward the village, she realized how much she enjoyed being on a horse again, even perched on the broad rump of the ugliest horse she’d ever seen. This was much more amusing than staring at the crack in her ceiling.

  “Here we are,” Jack said as they turned into a lane a little short of the village. As Pegasus carried them smoothly up a hill, Cynthia saw the outlines of a sprawling house take shape. Sometimes inns had lights in every window as a welcome to travelers. Here balls of mage light glowed with equal welcome.

  As they drew closer, she realized that the weathered stone structure was as large as a manor house, though the shape was irregular from having been built over centuries. It looked like the home of a prosperous yeoman family.

  Cynthia stared at the well-kept house and grounds. Jack had always given the impression that his family lived in modest circumstances. Tenant farmers, perhaps. Instead, they must be very nearly gentry.

  She was so irritated by his deception that she was tempted to push him off the horse. Except, since this was Jack, he might not have deceived her deliberately.

  Before she could decide whether to push him off, they’d ridden around the house. The faint sounds of music and laughter could be heard. This was not a small gathering.

  Jack pulled up by a mounting block in front of the stables, steadying her arm as she stepped onto the block. “You can go into the house and get warm while I give Pegasus a quick rubdown.”

  “I’ll wait for you.” There was no way Cynthia would walk alone into a house full of strangers who were not her kind. She pulled her cloak tight and regarded the house warily, kicking herself for having agreed to come. Yet spending Christmas alone had been driving her into flat despair.

  Grooming finished, Jack joined her. “These are friendly folk,” he said quietly. “You won’t regret coming, I promise.”

  She raised her chin. She was the daughter of a duke, a descendant of great ladies who’d held castles against attackers when their husbands went to war. She could face down a house full of farmers.

  They entered the house through the kitchen. That would never happen in the home of a nobleman, but the long room was irresistibly warm and bright. Cynthia sighed with pleasure. She hadn’t been this comfortable in weeks.

  “Nothing like a warm kitchen on a cold night!” Jack said with appreciation. “Try one of these.” He scooped up a pair of mincemeat tarts.

  Cynthia’s wariness vanished as soon as the warm tart landed in her palm. It was a traditional mince of venison and dried fruit and spices, and she ate it in three bites. The tart was the best thing she’d tasted since the fish and chips in 1940.

  “Out of the kitchen with ye, Master Jack,” a gravel-voiced woman ordered. Her tone changed. “I see you brought the young lady back. Welcome to Swallow Grange, miss.”

  Cynthia turned and saw the cook, a round, smiling woman with twinkling eyes. Unable to resist that smile, she said, “The mincemeat tarts are delicious.”

  The cook nodded, pleased. “You won’t find finer on a duke’s table.” She chuckled. “And I’ll wager you know dukes’ tables firsthand. Here, my lady. Have another tart.” She offered the platter. When Jack also reached for one, she swatted his hand. “That’s enough for you, my lad! If I left you alone with these tarts, the whole batch would be gone quicker than the cat can lick her ear.”

  He tried to look wounded. “You’re a cruel woman, Mrs. Brewster.”

  “And you, my lad, are a biblical plague of locusts that devour everything down to bare ground.” She made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go join the family so we can start getting dinner on the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. “Cynthia, let me take your cloak. If it hangs here, it will be warm when you leave.”

  If they departed through the kitchen, perhaps Cynthia could collect some food to sustain her at Lackland
. She’d learned early that sincere appreciation was very successful for charming food from a cook.

  Jack took her cloak from her shoulders and hung it on a hook by the door. Then he removed his own cloak. She blinked. Instead of his usual casual clothing, he wore coat and breeches whose tailoring would not disgrace a London gentleman.

  She tried not to stare as she removed her bonnet and hung it on another hook. He had really excellent legs and shoulders. In fact, he was downright … handsome.

  After hanging his cloak, he took Cynthia’s arm and led her from the kitchen. A short passage emerged into a large drawing room lavishly decorated with greens and berries. Mage lights clung to the ceiling and a blazing fireplace warmed the space and brought out the tangy scents of the greens.

  There were at least thirty people present, probably more, and they came in all ages and sizes. Some looked like laborers, a few were as refined in appearance as Jack. Though the furnishings and the clothing lacked the elegance she was used to, the gaiety was contagious. She found herself smiling as Jack escorted her to his mother.

  They’d met the night the Irregulars had gone through the mirror. Lily Rainford was fair-haired like her children. Even when she’d known she might never see her son again, her composure had been impressive.

  When Lily saw Jack and Cynthia approaching, she smiled warmly and offered her hand. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Lady Cynthia. Your plum pudding is magnificent.”

  Her hand was as warm as her smile, and both touched a dark, shriveled place in Cynthia’s soul. She hadn’t seen a smile like that since … since her mother died. “The pudding really isn’t from me. Lady Fairmount sent it to Tory, and I inherited it when she was invited to her brother’s house.”

  “I know, but you’re the one responsible for the pudding reaching Swallow Grange!” Lily released Cynthia’s hand. “Jack, get our guest a cup of mulled wine.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said cheerfully. “More for you, too?”

  His mother shook her head. “It’s too early in the evening for the hostess to let her wits be scrambled. Run along now.”

  As Jack headed to the fireplace, where a great cauldron of spiced wine was steaming, Lily said in a quiet voice that only Cynthia could hear, “I wanted to thank you for what you did for Jack on the other side of the mirror. No one could have controlled so much weather for so long, but knowing Jack, he would have died trying. If not for you, that’s exactly what would have happened.”

  Startled by the older woman’s intensity, Cynthia said, “There were five Irregulars and three other Rainfords contributing magical power. It wasn’t only Jack and me.”

  “Everyone was needed,” Lily agreed. “But power alone wasn’t enough. Another first-class weather mage was required. And that was you.”

  Cynthia remembered how Polly Rainford, who was younger and almost entirely untrained, had burned out her magic and collapsed after pushing too far beyond her limits. Scarily, she recognized that Jack might have done the same or worse. Annoying though he could be, she didn’t want him dead.

  “We all did our best. I’m glad it was enough.” A thought struck her. “If you’d like to express your appreciation, could you show me how to make the fire in my room at the abbey warmer? It’s freezing there!”

  Lily laughed. “I’d be delighted. Hearth magic is very ancient and has its own rules. I can show you how to work around the suppression spell, but not tonight.” She raised her voice as her daughter, Rachel, approached with several other girls. “Rachel, will you introduce Lady Cynthia to your friends?”

  Rachel was a couple of years younger than Jack, pretty and fair-haired like her mother. She and Cynthia had seldom worked together in the Labyrinth, but her smile now was welcoming. “I’m so glad you came, Lady Cynthia. My friends have heard you’re a very powerful mage, and they’re perishing to meet you. You know Alice from the Irregulars, of course, but here are Margie and Rose.”

  Margie, the shorter girl, said worshipfully, “Cousin Jack says you’re a wonderful weather mage!”

  The other girl, Rose, a little older and a lot taller, added, “Jack says you’re one of the most powerful magelings at Lackland Abbey.”

  “Perhaps,” Cynthia admitted. “But there are many strong mages around. Jack for one. Both Rachel and Alice.” She tried to think of the names of other Irregulars from the village, but couldn’t. She usually stayed among the wellborn students from the abbey.

  “Being a hearth witch is much less romantic than doing weather magic,” Rachel explained wryly. “They want to hear your tales of calling the winds.”

  “Really?” Cynthia said, wondering if she was being quietly mocked.

  “Really,” Jack said as he came up behind her. He placed a warm mug of mulled wine in her hand. “Did you know how rare female weather mages are?”

  She sipped the wine, enjoying the warmth and the heady scent of spices. “Oh? I’ve never heard that.”

  “Tell us how you discovered you could work weather!” Margie begged.

  Cynthia regarded the eager young faces with bemusement. They really did think the talent that had wrecked her life was exciting and enviable. But despite their ignorance, it was impossible not to be flattered by their interest.

  “I accidentally blew the hay outside the stable halfway into the next county,” she began, mentally editing the story for their tender ears. “My father was not amused.…”

  * * *

  Jack was right. The Rainford Christmas dinner was much better than the one served at Lackland Abbey. Cynthia was seated next to Lily Rainford as guest of honor, with Jack on her other side taking pains to ensure that she lacked for nothing.

  The climax of the feast was the ceremonial entry of the Fairmount Christmas pudding. The mage lights were dimmed to a faint glow while Mrs. Brewster proudly carried in the blazing pudding on a great platter. The blue flames from burning brandy flickered out as the cook set the pudding in front of Lily Rainford.

  The size and richly spiced scents of the pudding were greeted with ooohs and aaahs. Lily removed the slightly charred sprig of holly from the top. “We must thank our special guest Lady Cynthia Stanton for this magnificent pudding.”

  Several guests who’d clearly had more than enough mulled wine broke into a chorus of, “For she’s a jolly good ladeee, for she’s a jolly good ladeee…” while others applauded enthusiastically.

  As Lily began serving the pudding, Cynthia ducked her head, embarrassed but also deeply pleased. She had never in her life been in a place where so many people liked having her present.

  Conversation lulled as everyone dug into their pudding. Servings were small but incredibly rich, particularly since pitchers of cream and brandy butter and custard were being passed around. For those who didn’t like plum pudding or who needed more sweets, there were also splendid cakes and trifles.

  The only sounds were the clink of spoons on plates, and occasional exclamations of pleasure as guests discovered the silver tokens hidden in the pudding. Here as in her ingredients, Lady Fairmount had been generous. There were sixpenny pieces for wealth in the year ahead and rings to symbolize marriage. Someone happily held aloft a silver thimble for thrift, another person welcomed a tiny silver wishbone for luck. The real luck was that no one broke a tooth biting on a silver token. Such accidents were not rare.

  Cynthia poured thick cream over her pudding, and tasted it. Though very good, it was similar to what her father’s cook made, and she was too full to want more. Beside her, Jack polished his serving off and looked wistfully at the empty platter. “I suppose it would be bad form to see if there are any crumbs left.”

  “Very bad form indeed.” Feeling mellow, she added, “Take mine if you like. I’ve eaten enough.”

  “Thank you!” Jack stealthily exchanged their dessert dishes, then consumed her pudding more slowly to make it last.

  As people finished the sweet, conversation resumed and some guests began to rise from the table. “I suppose it’s time to go home,”
Cynthia said, a little wistfully.

  Jack shook his head. “The evening has just begun. By tradition, the small children are put down to nap on various beds, the older men go into the study to play cards, the older women retire to the kitchen and trade horrifying gossip with Mrs. Brewster, and the younger folk go to the music room to dance.”

  Cynthia brightened. “Dancing?”

  “Not a grand ball,” he assured her. “Just a bit of music and some country dances. That’s where you and I belong.”

  Cynthia had been taught by a dancing master, of course, but she’d still been in the schoolroom when she was condemned to Lackland. She’d never done real dancing with real people. “I don’t know any country dances.”

  “You’ll learn then quick enough.” He got to his feet. “I can take you home now if you wish, but why not try at least one set?”

  Though it was foolish to involve herself further with a bunch of farmers, Cynthia had drunk enough mulled wine that she didn’t care. “Very well, one dance. But you’ll have to show me the steps.”

  “With pleasure, my lady.” He offered her his arm, his voice deliciously husky.

  Furniture in the music room had been moved to the walls and the rug rolled up to make space for dancing. A very enceinte young matron was seated on the pianoforte bench and leafing through sheets of music.

  Jack suggested, “Lolly, since Lady Cynthia is unfamiliar with our dances, play ‘Apley House.’ That’s simple enough that by the end she’ll be ready for anything.”

  “That’s a good one to start with,” Lolly agreed. Her pleasant-looking young husband hovered over her, ready to turn pages. Seeing Cynthia’s gaze, Lolly laughed. “Be careful, Lady Cynthia. Christmas dancing can lead to Christmas kisses.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The pianist patted her rounded abdomen. “George and I grew up almost next door to each other. But it wasn’t till we met under the Rainford kissing bough two years ago that we really saw each other!”