Magic by Daylight

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Clarice must have noticed his sudden loss of interest. Her hands released his coat and she turned away, straightening her arms until he no longer leaned over her. Her breath still came a trifle fast,

  “I do not know what came over me. Pray forgive my forwardness, Mr. Knight.”

  Dominic wished futilely that even a single drop of Fay blood had mixed with his own somewhere in his ancestry. Without it, his thoughts were open to the king. If it were not for that, he would be thinking what a darling Clarice was. As matters stood, however, he had to act the part of a self-satisfied lout for her, while playing the calculating soldier in his thoughts for the king.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “You couldn’t help yourself.”

  “Couldn’t I?”

  “No, little silly! Many women have found me hard to resist. You might say I’ve made something of an art of seduction.” To Forgall he sent the thought, “That should give her a suitable disgust of me. “

  “Ah, was that your intention? Strange methods, sirrah. “

  “Have you, indeed?”

  “Oh, yes. You’ll be in good company, dear heart.”

  She rose regally to her feet. “Be good enough to excuse me, sir. I find I have neglected some minor duties that must be seen to.”

  “Ah, no,” he said, rising too and catching at her hand. “Never mind such foolishness! What’s housewifely duties compared with the rapture we find within each other’s arms?”

  “Overdoing it?” the king asked.

  “Trust me, o King."

  “So I do, as much as I trust any man.”

  That made Dominic wince. Clarice, however, was beyond noticing his expression. She pulled her hand free with the expression she would have worn had she found a slug crawling across her fingers. “You mistake me, sir. I gave in to a moment of weakness—my curiosity has ever been my downfall. I found no rapture, no pleasure in your arms. I have not the slightest wish to repeat the experiment.”

  “But... but... Clarice ...” he stammered, locking his true feelings in his heart. He cocked an eye toward the king, to see what his reaction was. The royal eyes were narrowed.

  Clarice stood very tall. “I am the Viscountess of Hamdry, sir. You will call me Lady Stavely or you will leave this house at once.” The king gave a nod of approval at the imperial ring of her voice.

  “You mean, I can remain here?”

  “I do not forget, sir, that the weather is such that I would not turn a dog out-of-doors. Furthermore, despite your behavior, you are still an acquaintance of my brother-in-law. For his sake, you may remain. But never again dare to lay a hand on me!”

  She turned to sweep from the room, her back as straight as a queen’s. Reluctant though he was to spoil a fine exit, he said, “Lady Stavely, have you taken a knife from your father’s collection yet? You know we discussed that you should keep one for protection.”

  He was grateful that she was not one of the People, for he surely would have been turned to ashes by the flash of her brilliant eyes. “I shall certainly carry one from this hour forward! Indeed, I wish I’d had one but five minutes ago!”

  She strode away, leaving him bowing after her.

  When he could look about him again, Forgall had gone. Dominic could not even be certain that he’d seen him in truth. He might have been no more than the figment of a guilt-ridden conscience.

  He sat in the very spot where Clarice had embraced him. It would never happen again; she’d vowed it, but the memory was inexpressibly good. She’d taken him by surprise, a defeat for the soldier but a definite victory for the man. He grinned at the thought, even as he realized what a strange one it was for him to have.

  He’d never thought of himself as a man, mortal though he was. Trained from childhood for one purpose, his humanity had never entered into it, except for two facts; his lack of power and his ability to handle steel.

  He could not stay here, wallowing in sensual memories. He would go and practice with the swords from the Red Chamber. Standing, he stretched out his arms, feeling remarkably healthy for a man of his years.

  Then the door opened. He turned, hoping against hope to see Clarice. But it was Camber. The thin, youthful butler looked over his shoulder stealthily, then came in. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. Come in. What have you to report?”

  “All is well. This mortal lady suspects nothing.”

  “There will be difficulties ahead, especially for the maid. How will she perform her duties without touching Lady Stavely?”

  “She will wear gloves, explaining the action with a facile tale of blisters on her hands from handling some noxious plant or other. These humans are prey to many such weaknesses.”

  “Don’t forget to whom you are speaking, if you please.”

  The butler’s lips twitched. Then his face changed and over the crisp white collar of the servant, Dominic saw the luminous countenance of a Fay. Everything was different; the long-lashed eyes, the vaguely pointed ears, the upswept brows. Only the laughter remained. “It is easy to forget that you are one of them, Dominic.”

  “For me also, Chadwin. Their ways are strange to me.”

  “How long has it been since you dwelt in a human home?”

  Dominic had to think about it. “Some four hundred mortal years, I believe. And this manor is nothing at all like the smoky hut where I was born. That had naught but a fire in the center of the floor and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. My mother had but one bed, a table, a stool, and a pewter spoon. Yet she was of good family.” He shook his head. “It has been long indeed since I thought of her. How she would stare to see the books in this room!”

  “Yes, I suppose they have managed some progress over the centuries, though it seems but slight to me. I know this much. Of all the uncomfortable clothing ...” He tugged at the butler’s cravat. When it was loosened, his features had once again taken on the semblance of Camber.

  “It won’t be for very long, Chadwin. Soon the hag will sue for terms.”

  “I hope you are right. Ah, well. To work, to work.” Pointing a finger at the fire, he restored the half-burned log to its unburned state. After a nod, the hearth was clear of ashes and another nod straightened the cushions on the settee, placed the box of chessmen on the shelf, and the tea tray vanished, leaving not a crumb behind.

  Chapter Nine

  Clarice debated having dinner on a tray in her room. If it were not for Morgain and the trouble it would give the servants, she would have done it. How could she face Dominic Knight, coolly and collectedly, when her face still burned with embarrassment an hour or more after leaving him in the library?

  What had come over her? Never in all her life—well, not since her mother had died—had she acted so impulsively. She had learned to control her wilder notions while under the severe gaze of society. Flinging herself into his arms ...

  Clarice could not sit still. She paced in the clear space between bed and bureau, her skirts swishing in agitation. Again and again, she replayed the scene in the library. Though she would have liked to blame Dominic for the entire dreadful business, she could not. True, he’d acted badly. She never would have guessed that he could sound so vain, driveling on about how irresistible he was.

  Even more than disgust, she felt disappointed. He’d been so helpful when Morgain had been hurt; exactly the kind of friend she’d needed most. There’d been a warmth in his eyes when they’d rested on her as he brought her to her room that had created an answering warmth in her heart. She’d cherished a hope that his former patronizing tone had been born of shyness or diffidence at meeting a stranger. Now to find that he was vain enough to believe himself the perfect lover for any woman... Perhaps he was a man who could only look at a woman in two ways—as a creature of a lower order than man, good only so far as she was docile, or as a convenience for a lustful male. She had met that kind before.

  Though she blushed, she conceded that he might have a reason. She still could not say why she’d done
it, except that all the while he’d been talking she’d seemed to hear another voice, a small voice whispering in her ear. It had urged her to accept his challenge, to make him prove what he said about desiring her. Slowly, she’d felt creeping over her a sense that her will was draining away. When the little voice had told her to kiss him, she’d had no self-direction left.

  She’d sat motionless while the spell was woven about her until she was compelled to grasp his lapels and pull him close. What he must think of her had been proved when he’d kissed her in response, only to push her away a moment or two later. Her sense of self had returned in a flood, bringing with it hideous humiliation and the knowledge that she’d sunk herself beyond hope of redemption.

  Clarice flung herself into a chair, and sat in the very attitude of despair. Placing her hands over her eyes, she groaned aloud. She could not face him. It would have to be supper on a tray after all. Breakfast, luncheon, and tea would also be taken here. She might never emerge from her room again in her lifetime. “How fortunate that I like the view,” she muttered.

  “Aunt Clarice ... ?”

  Morgain stood in the doorway, his red robe caught around his middle with what looked like a twisted cord taken from a drapery. With the faint remains of the bruise on his face, he looked like a very small, rather dissolute monk none too sure of his reception by the abbot.

  Putting aside her disquiet, Clarice hurried to slip her arm about his shoulders and lead him into the room. “Are you feeling well enough to be out of bed, Morgain?”

  “I don’t feel at all bad. I was tired—I don’t think I slept well last night so I’m the better for having rested.”

  “You look far better than I expected.” Clarice cupped his face in her hands and turned it toward the candles burning on the table beside her chair. “I don’t understand how this wound can look so well the very day after you received it. Your face is hardly swollen and there are only faded bruises. I have never known you to heal so swiftly before.”

  Morgain tossed his head to be free of even the lightest touch. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, further distorting his robe. Digging one toe into the carved carpet, he said, “I don’t. Nobody does, except perhaps those who do not die. The immortal ones must have amazing powers of recovery from such minor wounds or how do they live so long?”

  “These are questions for your father, Morgain, not I.”

  The thin shoulders lifted and fell fatalistically. “He doesn’t tell me anything about those days, except how not to ... you know.”

  “Yes, I know. But I cannot help you. I know only the very little your father has told me. Your mother may know more yet.”

  “She won’t tell me. She’s afraid, I think, that if I know too much I’ll want to join them. But that’s silly. I never should, you know. Father’s told me enough for me to know that the ways of the People will never be mine. What kind of a wasted life I should have if all I need do is wave my hand and whatever I desired appeared to me.”

  He made a fine gesture to show what he meant. A moment later, Clarice and Morgain froze as they heard from behind them a sniffling whine and a slither. A long red tail slid over the carpet toward them from behind, a sharp triangle on the tip. At the same moment, they were aware of a smell as of brimstone and burning.

  “Morgain . ..” Clarice said in a low voice. She didn’t dare look around to see whatever it was he’d brought forth from his mind. She only hoped it didn’t commit an indecency upon her new Aubusson carpet.

  “It wasn’t me!” he said in an agitated whisper. “You know I don’t do that anymore.”

  “I don’t care who did it! Get rid of it!”

  He closed his eyes so tight that lines appeared in the corners. Taking in a deep breath, he released it very slowly. Then twice more. “There!”

  “It’s gone?” She looked over her shoulder. Except for a light haze around the candles, which might have been fog, whatever creature had stood for an instant behind them was there no longer. Then she looked down and saw traces of its presence—great four-clawed impressions that had flattened the intricate cut-pile of her carpet. Each claw-mark was larger by far than her hand. She sighed heavily.

  “Morgain, what happened?”

  The boy raked his teeth over his lower lip in thought. “I haven’t the remotest notion. Ever since my father taught me how to control my ‘gifts,’ such a thing has never happened to me. Something odd is occurring in this household; I intend to discover what it may be.”

  Clarice sat down in her chair. “I think I shall write your parents and tell them to return....”

  “Ah, no.. ..”

  “They must be told that you’ve been injured, Morgain. I should be neglectful in my duty to them and to you if I did not write to them. Already, I may have waited too long.”

  “But I am well. You can see I am. There’s no need to alarm them unnecessarily.”

  “I’m not certain it is unnecessary. You had a nasty blow to the head, dearest. Who is to say it was not that which has reawakened your dormant gifts?”

  “It hasn’t! I would know ...”

  “You thought you knew you could control them. Yet what was that thing that stood behind us? Of what were you thinking just then?”

  “Of... of a wyvern, Aunt.”

  “Of a ...” She closed her eyes, thinking of slashing beaks and tearing claws. “That’s a type of dragon, is it not?”

  “Yes, Aunt. Whenever I imagine one, mine are always red.”

  “And harmless, of course. Yours are always entirely harmless?”

  “Actually, I have always thought a fire-breather would be most handy on those occasions when the firewood is wet."

  Clarice’s hands tightened on the upholstered arms of her chair so much that she was afraid she’d slit the fabric with her nails. “You conjured a fire-breather into my boudoir?”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt. I was not intending to.”

  “No, of course not. You shall have to exercise the greatest caution until your father returns.” Putting on her spectacles, she flipped open the lid of her writing case and took out a square of paper and a pen. “I feel I must write them. Of course, until the fog lifts, I shan’t be able to send the letter.”

  “Is it foggy?”

  “Yes, silly. Why else would we have the candles lit so early on a summer’s evening and have the windows closed?”

  “Oh. You see, I have such a realistic dream...”

  “What about, dear?”

  “The picture I drew . . . but I left many things out. The little animal, for instance. It was rather like a cat, but it wasn’t really.. ..”

  “You should look it up in the library. We’ve a book on different animals—when you were very little you loved to pour over its pages.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember. I’ll do that at once.”

  Clarice was only half-attending, her focus on the letter. It was surprisingly difficult to form into sentences the happenings of the last day or so. She wanted the prompt return of the Gardners, but did not want to alarm them unnecessarily. She found her first effort to be so full of reassurances that she knew it was more likely to throw them into a panic than any bald statement of the facts. She crumpled it and laid it aside.

  When the door closed, she glanced around. Morgain had gone. “I do hope he puts on some clothes first.”

  Morgain had not stopped for that. He didn’t even think of it. His leather slippers slapped along the stairs and the tiled hall but he went silently enough over the wooden floor. Therefore, as he passed the dining salon, the two men within did not look up. Morgain had gone by before he’d realized what he’d seen had seemed most unusual.

  Carefully, he kicked off his slippers and crept back, keeping low. He poked just enough of his head around the corner to see without being seen,

  “Have I put the goblets in all the right places?” Mr. Knight was asking.

  Camber held a book open in one hand, while he traced his finger over a page. “I believe you have th
e wine and the water reversed on the left side of the table.”

  “Over here?”

  “That’s better. Now, the silver and we must hurry, Dominic. There’s not much time before the woman comes down.”

  “If she comes down at all. I won’t be surprised if she takes supper in her room.”

  “What did you do to her? No, the blade of the knife faces the plate.”

  “I kissed her.”

  “Did you? How odd of you. Those small forks are next to the larger ones, on the outside.”

  “I had a reason,” Mr. Knight said.

  “Of course. Why would anyone do such a strange thing without a good reason?”

  “When I know, I will explain it all to you. Are you certain we put all these things on the table at once? Where will the food set?”

  Morgain could not imagine why Camber would have a guest put out the table settings. It made no sense. Camber—while off-duty was not above helping a boy build a model boat or hunt bird’s nests—was jealous of his professional abilities. He permitted no one to polish the family silver but himself and never allowed another soul to touch a bottle of wine.

  “There will be room enough,” Camber said, closing the book with a snap. “Serve from the left, remove from the right,” he muttered. “Serve from the left, remove from the right.”‘

  Mr. Knight was rolling up the rest of the silver flatware in their special flannel bags. “Don’t worry so much. If you make a mistake, I’ll be there to distract her attention from it. She doesn’t like compliments; I’ll make a few, the grander, the better.”

  “If she’ll speak to you at all.”

  “She doesn’t have to speak to me, just not look at you.”

  ‘There is another alternative,” Camber said, and raised an eyebrow. Morgain caught his breath and scuttled back out of sight. Their voices went on, but he paid no attention, unable to hear anything over the blood drumming in his ears.