by M. J. Putney
“She told me that you’re the most powerful student she’s ever had for hearth magic. Coming from my mum, that’s high praise.”
“She’s a good teacher.” Cynthia would have liked to say more, such as the fact that Lily Rainford was also a good woman and lovely to be around, but the words seemed too sentimental, so she held her tongue. “The waves are really crashing down there.”
Jack grinned. “Perfect for a new trick that I’ve learned. Would you like to see it?”
“Weather magic?” Cynthia asked with interest. She’d learned a great deal from Jack during their Dunkirk days, and was ready to learn more.
He nodded. “We should dismount for this. We can tether the horses in that stone shed on the headland so they won’t get chilled.”
Cynthia nodded, in no hurry to get back to the school. Jack was good company today. Her friend, no more and no less. Just the way she liked him.
The shed was open on one side, but the sturdy stone walls provided protection for the horses, who were less enthusiastic about the stormy weather than the weather mages. Catching up her skirts so they wouldn’t trail on the ground, Cynthia followed Jack out onto the headland.
Pitching his voice above the wind, he said, “If you hadn’t tied the strings tightly, your bonnet would be halfway to Dover!”
She grinned back. “Show me your newest trick, weather mage. I’m not easy to impress.”
“I’ve noticed!” They halted above a small cove. The famous white cliffs of the Kentish coast were only medium high here, but the headland still loomed well above the clashing waves.
Jack gestured at a path that slanted down to a narrow beach. “In summer, this is a good place to swim and fish. I keep a small boat in a cave. But today, weather magic.”
Cynthia waited with anticipation. Was Jack going to part the clouds and surround them with sunshine? That wasn’t really new and exciting, but under these conditions, it would be a major challenge. This smashing gale had Arctic power behind it.
Jack extended a hand toward the sea, his brow furrowed with concentration. “Watch this.”
Cynthia watched. To her amazement, after Jack had concentrated for several minutes, the water at the mouth of the cove began to rise in a column while a tendril of cloud spun down from overhead.
“A waterspout!” she exclaimed as the top of the column rose to the height of their headland. “I’ve only heard of them. You’re drawing the energy from the storm?”
He nodded, his brow furrowed with effort. “It gets easier with practice, but a lot of power is required. Try it.”
She concentrated on the churning waves. Draw the waves up, pull energy from the wind, from the clouds. Raise the sea.…
Slowly, a smaller column wavered out of the water not far from Jack’s. Though not as tall as his, she thought it quite decent for a first attempt.
“Well done, Cynthia!” Jack exclaimed, forgetting her title in his enthusiasm. “Can we run them together and make an even bigger waterspout?”
“We can try.” Cynthia frowned as she moved her column of water sideways toward Jack’s. This was tiring work.
The columns came together. Instead of making a larger column, both collapsed into huge roiling waves. Jack laughed. “Better luck next time. That’s enough for one day. I need to get you back to the abbey.”
Cynthia was about to turn away when something caught her attention in the churning gray seas. She narrowed her eyes to see better. “Dear God, Jack! Is that a boat out there?”
He followed her gaze. His gasp of horror matched hers. “A sailboat! It must have been caught up in the waterspouts and crashed on the rocks outside the cove.”
Cynthia squinted through the gray storm light as she tried to see how much damage the small boat had sustained. It was jammed onto a jutting rock with waves battering the hull. Dark shapes clung to the wreckage as the sea tried to tear them away.
Feeling sick, she said, “There are at least three people in the wreckage. Jack, two of them are children!”
“The boat might have made it to the beach if we hadn’t been playing with the water.” He swore under his breath. “I’ll have to go after them.”
Cynthia stared at the waves. “Can you control the water enough to row out there without getting wrecked? It must be freezing! You’ll be drenched and unable to row after the first wave goes over you.”
“I have to try,” he said grimly. “I can’t let them die because I wanted to show off for you.” He headed toward the path that led down to the beach.
He was trying to impress her? Not sure whether to be pleased or alarmed, Cynthia raced after him. “I’m going with you! Together, we have a better chance of controlling the waves and getting out there and back safely.”
He stopped in his tracks and glared at her. “No! I forbid it! I’m not going to have your life on my conscience.”
She glared back. “You do not tell a daughter of the Duke of Branston what to do!” she snapped. “I’m going with you, and that’s final. We have a much better chance together.”
He hesitated, his expression torn. “A better chance. But still not a good one.”
“Stop arguing, you stupid boy!” Catching up her skirts, she darted down the path. “If we don’t act now, it will be too late!”
She could feel anger rolling off him, but he stopped arguing and followed. Luckily the path was fairly wide, or they might have been blown off. Cynthia clutched her skirts, not caring that Jack could see her ankles and more. She didn’t much like children, but they deserved a chance to grow up.
The beach was narrow with waves pounding only a few feet away. Jack bolted past Cynthia and ran to a small opening in the cliff a yard or so above the dense sand. She didn’t notice the hole until he reached inside to drag out a small rowboat.
The rowboat smacked onto the beach, sending wet sand flying. It looked very small to be braving such stormy seas. Jack dragged the boat to the water’s edge and set the oars into the locks.
Guessing he might try to take off without her, Cynthia caught up with him. “Can I climb in now?”
“Yes,” he said shortly, realizing he couldn’t escape her. “Concentrate on smoothing the water where we’re going in.”
She obeyed, clutching the side of the boat. The gunwales, she thought the edges were called. Strictly speaking, weather magic wasn’t power over water, but in a storm, calming the air could be extended to calming the waves. She focused all her power on the area around the boat.
After a brief struggle with the elements, she managed to create a zone of still air and still water that allowed Jack to launch the boat. Though not before a wave splashed over her. Every inch of her beautiful habit was saturated and the dashing shako bonnet was torn from her head and lost in the water.
The sea was icy cold, chilling her to the bone. Since the outfit was already ruined, she used her numb fingers to rip the lower section of her skirt away so she could move more freely. There would also be less heavy fabric to pull her down if she fell into the water. Though she’d probably drown anyhow since she couldn’t swim.
She was shivering in the bitter wind when Jack barked, “Use your hearth-witch magic!”
Exasperated that she hadn’t thought of that, Cynthia created a zone of warmth around her. It was tricky to operate that in addition to her weather magic, but the blessed warmth kept her from freezing. Hoping she could continue to wield both magics at once, she extended the warm field around Jack.
“Thanks!” he said as he pulled on the oars. “We might survive after all!”
They cut through the water with surprising speed. Jack must have developed those broad shoulders from years of rowing.
“Guide me!” he ordered. “The waves out there could push us into the rocks. Link into my magic. We’ll need all we can get.”
She obeyed, reaching out until their power blended in a familiar, comforting rush of energy. Feeling stronger and more centered, she peered into the heaving seas, hoping the wrecked boat ha
dn’t completely shattered.
Her heart constricted when she finally caught a clear sight of the vessel. Its bow was jammed into a cleft in the rocks while the stern was mostly torn away. Shredded sails rattled in the wind. A man clung to the wreckage with one arm, his other arm locked around two young children. Only their heads and shoulders were above water.
As she watched, another wave swept over the wreck, almost tearing the survivors from what was left of the boat. Cynthia focused their joined magic to calm the area around the rock. When it was as clear as she could manage, she called back, “Can you bring this boat close to the rock without our getting wrecked, too?”
“Watch me,” Jack said grimly. “If you can keep the water around them calm, I think I can do it. Don’t waste hearth-witch magic on me if you need more power to control the water.”
She didn’t point out that freezing would weaken him critically, but she did reduce the warmth for both of them. She daren’t risk burning out all her magic before they’d rescued the shipwreck victims and were all safely ashore.
Jack sculled the oars as he looked over his shoulder to study the wreckage. “I’ll draw up on the right of the wreck, but I have to stay at the oars to keep us steady. Do you think you can help them into the rowboat?”
“I don’t suppose I have much choice,” she said, not quite able to keep the tremor from her voice. She was painfully aware that the sea was more powerful and dangerous than she’d ever truly realized. All that protected them was this fragile boat and the magic they were both using up at an alarming rate.
Incredibly, Jack laughed. “When I first saw you, I never would have believed what a game girl you are!”
She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or insulted, so she turned her back on him, her hands clenching the gunwales as Jack eased the boat closer to the wreck. “We’re almost there! A little more to the left.”
Jack obeyed and the boat slid alongside the remains of the sailboat to hover a yard away. The man had closed his eyes, his face worn with desperate exhaustion. The smaller child, a girl, was so white and pale that Cynthia feared she was already gone. Only the boy, a little older, saw them.
“Et vous êtes qui?” the boy asked in raspy French.
Cynthia answered in the same language. “We are your saviors. Take my hand!”
She reached across the gap. The boy broke out of his father’s grasp and leaned forward to catch Cynthia’s hand. His fingers were like ice.
Taking a firm grip, she pulled hard. He lurched forward into the water. Even with weather magic controlling the worst of the waves, the rowboat was rolling back and forth. Cynthia waited till the gunwale was tilted in the boy’s direction, then dragged him into the rowboat. Gasping and shivering, he tumbled into the bottom, his face barely above the water that had sloshed inside.
Cynthia wasn’t sure if the man was aware of his surroundings, so she called sharply, “Give me your daughter, monsieur!”
When he didn’t stir, she pitched her voice to command. “Give her to me now!”
The Frenchman’s dull eyes opened and he stared at her as if she were an illusion. She held out her hands. “Monsieur, if you value her life, pass her to me!”
Stiffly he released his death grip on the wreck and wrapped both hands around the child. When he leaned forward to pass her to Cynthia, he almost slid away from the remains of the boat, but he managed to grab on again.
She was hardly more than a baby, and cold, so cold. Cold as death. Cynthia wrapped the little girl in her arms, pouring waves of warmth into the limp body.
Jack said, “Tell him he has to get here on his own, we can’t lift him over!”
Of course Jack wouldn’t speak French. Cynthia called over the wind, “Find the strength to cross over, monsieur. Your children need you.”
That cut through his stupor. With his free hand he reached into the bow of the sailboat, the only part that was still intact, and pulled out a heavy canvas bag. He managed to throw it in the stern of the rowboat. After mustering the last of his strength, he lurched forward so half his body was over the gunwale while Cynthia leaned backward to keep them from tipping over.
Slowly, painfully, the man pulled himself into the boat. He tumbled to the bottom, barely avoiding his son.
Jack instantly pulled away from the rock, turning the bow back toward shore. He looked on the verge of collapse from fighting the storm. “Put your power into warming these people, Cynthia! If you don’t, they may not last long enough to get to shore.”
“Very noble of you,” she snapped, “but you need warmth and weather help as well. I can handle all of it as long as necessary.”
She was lying, she was already scraping the bottom of her magical reserves. Desperately she tried to balance all the demands on her magic, helping Jack keep the water smooth, encasing them all in a bubble of warmth, and most of all, warming the child she held in her arms, who was as white and still as a wax doll.
She was a pretty little thing, blond even with the water darkening her hair. Cynthia thought she saw a pulse in the delicate throat, but perhaps she was fooling herself.
Survive, ma petite, she thought with the last dregs of awareness. You are too young to leave.
She could maintain warmth and weather magic as long as necessary. She was a duke’s daughter, she was strong enough for anything,
She could do this.…
CHAPTER 15
She was drowning, drowning in the cold gray sea … cold and lost and alone forever.…
No. Cynthia’s mind cleared and she realized she was cradled softly in a feather bed with warm covers over her. Not at Lackland, this bed was far more comfortable. Where was she and how did she get here?
She and Jack had been riding back to the abbey after the lesson with Lily Rainford. Something had happened. A boat ride? In the storm?
Her attempt to recall was interrupted by the realization that there was something wrong with her. Not a physical injury. More like something missing, like a lost tooth.
Dear God, her magic was gone! Her magic was gone! Her eyes shot open in horror. She was in a pleasant bedroom, the sky was dark outside, and she had no magic!
When she first realized she was cursed with magical abilities, she’d prayed frantically to an unresponsive God to make her different, normal. Now there was only emptiness where her power had been a constant pulsating awareness. Instead of being glad, she felt as if a limb had been chopped off.
“Finally you’re awake! Would you like some tea or maybe some soup?”
It was Jack’s voice, so she must be at Swallow Grange. Memories rushed in of the storm, the shattered boat, their attempt at rescue.
Jack was lounging in a chair by the bed. He looked tired and thinner, which wasn’t surprising given how much magic and physical strength he’d burned in their desperate rescue attempt. He had his usual cheerful smile, though.
Cynthia was about to ask if the French family had survived when horrified realization struck. With her magic gone, everyone could see what she really looked like!
She gave a small shriek and rolled away from Jack to bury her face in the pillows. She wished she were dead.
The bed creaked as Jack sat on the mattress and laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “You’re a real heroine, Cynthia. If I’d been alone when I saw the boat wreck, I’d have gone haring off to the rescue in my rowboat and drowned.”
She shook off his hand, not lifting her head. “And good riddance!”
He chuckled, unoffended. “Without your power, we never would have succeeded. Adding your weather magic to mine made it possible for me to row out to the wreck, and your hearth magic kept us all from dying of the cold and wet. If you hadn’t been able to generate so much warmth and hold it so long…” He stopped, not wanting to say more.
Perhaps she was a heroine, but an ugly, scarred, repulsive one. Face still in the pillow, she asked dully, “The little girl. She’s all right?”
“She is indeed. It’s possible that her father and
brother would have survived without your warming them up, but Marie-Annette wouldn’t have made it,” he said seriously. “You kept her alive long enough for us to call in the village healer.”
There was some satisfaction in that, but not enough to lift her anguish. “My magic is gone,” she said dully. “I burned it out.”
“No wonder you’re in a mood,” he said. “But it’s only burned out, not gone. Remember how Polly Rainford burned out her weather magic on the other side of the mirror? She not only recovered all her power, but Nick says she’s stronger than ever. The same will happen with you. It will just take some time.”
“Too long,” she whispered. “Now everyone will know how ugly I am.”
“You’re not ugly.” He rolled her over so that she was looking up at him. She screwed her eyes shut so she couldn’t see his pity and revulsion, and her left hand rose reflexively to cover her scarred left cheek.
“My mother says you must be a powerful illusion talent.” There was admiration in his voice. “Amazing that you’ve been able to alter your appearance for years even under the Lackland Abbey suppression spell.”
She began to sob uncontrollably. Jack’s arms came around her and he patted her back and made comforting noises. She gave a brief thought to the shocking impropriety of this. To be in the arms of a young man, and in a bedroom, no less!
If they were part of polite society, they’d have to marry. More likely, given the difference in their stations, Jack would be horsewhipped or worse for his behavior.
But polite society was forever closed to her, and her magic was far more disgraceful than clinging to a commoner. A commoner whose kindness was soothing some of her misery. “I thought … that if I was perfect and beautiful, my father might not send me away,” she faltered. “But he did.”
Even more, she’d wanted the duke to love her. She’d failed utterly in that.
“You are beautiful,” Jack said. “Not perfect, but beautiful. And far more interesting than when you were only perfect.”
“Liar!” she said bitterly. “I’m an ugly slut who should be dead like my revolting mageling mother.”
