Betraying Season

by Marissa Doyle

  When Pen peeked in just a minute later, Ally was asleep. That seemed a little strange. Hadn’t she just gotten up an hour earlier, after a good night’s rest? But she hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks because of the nausea. She probably had a lot of catching up to do. And she looked so comfortable, a small smile just showing at the corners of her mouth and a definite, if faint, flush on her thin cheeks. Pen shut the door again and tiptoed down the hall to the dining room for her own belated breakfast.

  “Good morning, Penelope.” Dr. Carrighar somehow managed a courtly bow without rising from his chair or ceasing to ladle oatmeal into his bowl from a tureen. “How is our dear little Melusine this morning?”

  Pen concealed a slight grin as she seated herself at the long table and reached for the coffeepot. She’d never thought of using the adjectives dear and little in connection with her formidable former governess. “Asleep again, but she ate half a bowl of Cook’s pudding for breakfast.”

  “Ah, so that was the cause of the crowing I heard from the kitchen. Asleep again, you say? Hmm. Well, a few days of that won’t do her any harm.” He stirred an enormous dollop of cream into his oatmeal. “Which leaves us free to have a practical exercise today for your lesson.”

  “Really?” Pen nearly overfilled her cup. She hastily set down the pot. “With your other scholars?”

  Dr. Carrighar shook his head as Norah brought in plates of coddled eggs and sausage and grilled tomatoes. “They were, er, not receptive to the idea of combining our practical as well as textual lessons.”

  That was hardly a surprise. “All of them?” Pen asked, thinking of big Patrick Sheehan and his shy smile.

  “Not all of them. But mastering new magic in a hostile environment is not what I would have you experience, even though”—he raised a hand to stem her protest—“even though I know that you would be entirely capable of learning under any circumstances. I’m just not sure my digestion could handle it. And I am not certain that those lads could learn while you were there. So much for the stronger sex, eh?” He smiled at her.

  Pen was quiet for a moment, buttering toast. “Very well, then,” she said, trying to sound gracious. “When shall we have our lesson?”

  “Why not right now?” He chased an errant blob of oatmeal around his bowl and spooned it up, frowning meditatively. Then he looked up at Pen, grinned impishly, and vanished.

  Pen was just able to keep from exclaiming out loud. She waited a few seconds, considering, and said, “That did not feel like a movement spell, so I must assume you are invisible.”

  “Very good, my dear.” Dr. Carrighar reappeared, beaming.

  “But my sister taught me that last year.” Pen thought for a moment, then cast the cloaking spell that Persy had used on herself and Charles when they sneaked into Kensington Palace.

  But Dr. Carrighar shook his head. “That spell does not make you invisible. It just makes you harder to see. A subtle difference, true. The cloaking spell works well enough when you merely wish to go about unnoticed. As soon as someone intentionally looks for you, it no longer conceals. Do you see the difference? Its benefit is that it takes less energy to cast and to maintain. But for true imperceptibility, even to those who seek you, the invisibility spell is what is required. I should know; I have experimented extensively with both over a long career of avoiding tiresome colleagues at the university. Now eat your victuals while I explain the theory.”

  Pen ate as quickly as she could without being uncouth. “The problem with invisibility,” lectured Dr. Carrighar, “is not the spell itself, but how you conduct yourself whilst you are invisible. Are you finished? Good. Now, you try it.”

  She took a deep breath. Concentrate. Know your intent and make it happen. “Ambition and volition are the keys to spells and witchin’,” her brother Charles had declaimed as they all practiced together one hot afternoon last summer, and Persy had pretended to throw up into his Eton hat. But his schoolboy doggerel was essentially correct, and Pen had found herself using it as a sort of incantation on its own, to focus her mind. It made her grin as she worked any magic, though, which tended in turn to make Ally sigh and roll her eyes during lessons.

  “Very good,” exclaimed the doctor. “But recall, invisibility spells are for being hidden. You are indeed hidden, but imperfectly. Your napkin is still on your lap, mind, and very odd it looks, floating above your chair like that. And your chair itself is still drawn up to the table. You could not leave the room or even move without giving yourself away. And that is what makes invisibility so difficult—not the spell itself, but thinking it through, so that it truly conceals.”

  Norah bustled into the room, carrying a tray. “Shall I be clearin’, sir, or would ye like more coffee—now, where is Miss Pen? I’ve a note here that just came for—saints, miss, don’t do that to me!” She staggered backward, dropping her tray with a loud clatter as Pen reappeared in her seat, grinning. The note fluttered to the ground.

  “Well, it worked well enough that time, didn’t it?” she said to Dr. Carrighar. “I’m sorry, Norah. That was not fair.”

  Norah bent to retrieve the tray and the note. Her freckles stood out in her white face as she handed the note to Pen. “I should be used to it by now, workin’ in this household. You’re as bad as that clurichaun, miss, frightenin’ me half to death. If ye don’ mind, I’ll just go have a sit-down for a minute or two.” She whisked back out of the room.

  “Mischievous twig.” Dr. Carrighar chuckled.

  “That wasn’t at all nice, was it? I’ll go apologize to her again after I read this.” Pen unsealed the note and read.

  My dear Penelope,

  I hope you can be spared Wednesday evening for dinner at my house, to meet a few dear friends whom you really ought to know if you’re to stay any length of time in this city. I should be honored if Dr. Carrighar and Mr. and Mrs. Carrighar could accompany you, but at any rate you must come. I’ll send the boy around later to collect your reply. It shall be such fun—do say you’ll be there.

  Fondly,

  Nuala Keating

  “How nice of her,” Pen said, and gave the note to Dr. Carrighar. A suggestion of Lady Keating’s musky perfume drifted past her nose as she did. “She really does seem determined to make me feel welcome here.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Carrighar murmured, scanning the slip of paper with a slight frown. “I wonder why?”

  “Thank you,” Pen said stiffly.

  “My dear nitwit.” Dr. Carrighar dropped the note and shook his head at her. “I am not implying that you’re not deserving of the most cordial of welcomes here. It’s their source that concerns me. I doubt Melusine will be able to go out yet, but I think that I shall escort you to this party myself, if you don’t mind. I want a chance to see if Nuala is up to anything.”

  Pen knew that Dr. Carrighar did not care to venture much into society. “Thank you, sir. I would be most happy if you came,” she said. “And I hope you’ll see how nice Lady Keating is.”

  “I hope so too.” Dr. Carrighar rose from his seat. “Lessons at half-past nine, don’t forget. Let’s see what my scholars have made of the reading I set ’em on the Triple Goddess.” He grinned at Pen, bowed in his old-fashioned way, and left the room.

  Pen poured the leftover cream from the pitcher onto a square of jam-covered toast, sprinkled the mess with a liberal amount of sugar, and headed for the basement.

  “Corkwobble?” she called as she pushed the wine-cellar door open with her toe. “I’ve brought you a treat.”

  There was a small pop! as the little man appeared, perched on the edge of the table. “That’s bad form, it is, bean draoi. Ye’re not supposed to tell a sidhe that ye’re gifting him something. We’re proud, mind you, and don’t care to acknowledge such things. In point o’ fact, we usually leave a house where the big people start making a fuss o’er their gifts.” He leaned toward Pen and sniffed appreciatively at the saucer she carried.

  “You old fraud.” Pen laughed as she set it down on the tabl
e.

  “Just thought I’d tell ye, so you’re knowing the etiquette next time. In the meanwhile, ’twould be a shame to let any o’ this go to waste.” He waved one tiny hand in the air and a golden fork appeared in it. “See, it’s been a useful rule. Gives us what we wants and keeps the human folk from sniffing about us and interfering with our ways. We just make it generally known as we appreciate a bit o’ a snack now and again, without any fanfare an’ fussing. We have our cake and eat it, too.”

  “Literally.”

  Corkwobble grinned around an enormous mouthful of toast. “’Tis truth you speak, bean draoi.”

  Pen set her candle down and sat at the table to watch Corkwobble. He polished off his plate of cream toast, belched comfortably, and snapped his fingers. A small silver goblet appeared on the table in front of Pen.

  “Go on, bean draoi, have a drop. It won’t poison you.” He nodded at it.

  “What is it?” Pen picked it up and sniffed cautiously. It had an elusive scent, like sunlight on distant green fields and ancient oak forests.

  “The Draiodoir Carrighar’s best uisce beatha. Whiskey to you Saxon heathens,” Corkwobble said with a grin. “Or it sort of is. It’s from the Draiodoir’s barrel as it is in An Saol Eile—the fairy world, you’d call it.”

  “Fairy whiskey? It sounds deadly.” Pen eyed the tiny goblet.

  “Not to you it won’t be, missy. It’s just a ghost of itself, here. ’Tis how I keep watch on everything in the cellar here—by sampling it there. Wouldn’t be much left, otherwise.” He grinned sheepishly. “Try it. Ye’ve been kind to me, an’ I want to thank ye.”

  “There’s a catch somewhere, isn’t there? If I drink it you’ll be able to keep me in your cellar indefinitely, like Persephone and the pomegranate seeds.”

  Corkwobble chortled and shook his head. “Oh, ho, bean draoi. Think ye’re so clever, do ye? But no, it’s not like that. This is the Draiodoir’s house, isn’t it? An’ his whiskey as well, in spirit—heh heh, spirit.” He chuckled at his joke. “Go on—it’ll put the heart into you before ye go back up to face those narling gloits that call themselves scholars.”

  Pen groaned. “How do you know about them?”

  “D’ye think I don’t know what goes on here? Many a day I’ve ground me teeth listening to those nits go on about magic being one o’ the ‘high sciences’ till I want to do my dinger.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Till I go stark, staring mad. Ooh, one o’ these days I’m going to catch ’em in the hallway an’ give ’em what for. High sciences, indeed!”

  Pen sighed. “Yes, well, they don’t want me in their class because women supposedly aren’t capable of true magic.”

  Corkwobble snorted. “Ye could show ’em a thing or three, bean draoi. Take yer drink, then. You’ll need it.”

  Pen sniffed at the goblet again. “Will it make me drunk?”

  “It can’t. It isn’t a part o’ this world, mind ye. Drink too much of it and all it’ll do is send ye into a sleep with dreams the like o’ which ye’ve never had.”

  “That sounds lovely, but another time, Corkwobble. I want my wits about me when I deal with the—what did you call them? Gloits? It sounds suitably derogatory, whatever it means. Anyway, I thank you for your courtesy.” Pen took a quick glance at her watch and exclaimed under her breath. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I’m late to class. I’ll bring you a bit of Cook’s milk pudding tomorrow. Ally liked it.” She rose.

  Corkwobble stood too and bowed low, then picked up the goblet and let a few drops fall on the table in front of Pen before he drained it dry. “An’ I thank ye for yours, ma’am. Ah, that hit the spot. Come back soon, and talk wi’ old Corkwobble again.”

  Pen wasn’t sure if the thunderous expression on Eamon Doherty’s face was caused by her lateness to class or something else. He rose when the others did at her entrance into Dr. Carrighar’s study, but with such a sneer of disdain at her murmured apology that she nearly turned on her heel and left. At least Patrick Sheehan’s polite greeting seemed sincere. Pen took the empty seat next to him with a smile and a nod.

  But to her surprise, it was he who spoke first when Dr. Carrighar leaned back in his chair and said, “Well? How went your initial investigation of our new topic?”

  There was an eloquent silence. Next to Pen, Sheehan shifted his big frame in his seat, as if it were uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and spoke.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Dr. Carrighar raised one shaggy eyebrow. “Sorry for what, Mr. Sheehan? Did you not do your work, and are seeking absolution?”

  “Oh, I did it, sir. It’s just—” He glanced at Pen and cleared his throat again. “It’s just that I don’t think discussion of the Triple Goddess’s, er, attributes are suitable for discussion in a group such as this.”

  Pen’s heart sank.

  Dr. Carrighar appeared perplexed. “In what way?”

  Sheehan gave him an agonized look.

  “He means,” drawled Doherty, “that it’s all utter bollocks, sir.”

  Sheehan grew red in the face. “No, that’s not what I meant, if you please, Eamon. And don’t talk that way in front of Miss Leland.”

  “Why not? If she’s good enough to work with us, then she has to get used to our ways. I’m not going to change how I speak just because she’s here.”

  “Uh, excuse me.” Pen rather surprised herself by speaking.

  “That’s the problem with you, Eamon. Everything always revolves around you, doesn’t it—”

  “Excuse me,” Pen spoke a little louder.

  “No, it doesn’t. I’m just tired of the damned English coming over here and thinking they can—”

  “Excuse me!” Pen stood up and nearly shouted. “Mr. Sheehan, I thank you for your concern for my feminine sensibilities. But I shall promise not to be embarrassed by any speech or subject matter in these tutorials if you will do the same. Please just forget my sex and regard me as a scholar. Mr. Doherty, I can’t change my nationality any more than I can change my sex. But can you temporarily suspend your own dislikes while we are here, for the sake of learning?”

  Everyone—the four students and Dr. Carrighar—stared at her as she stood there, breathing hard. Fergus Quigley let out a soft, nervous giggle.

  Doherty narrowed his eyes. “Very well, Miss Leland. For, as you say, the sake of learning. Then I’ll repeat my previous statement. This reading on the Triple Goddess was utter tripe. Ignorant peasant superstition. Three goddesses in one—it’s nonsense.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Dr. Carrighar leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling with a meditative air. “Now, what major religion have I heard of that is based on a similar doctrine?”

  Doherty flushed. “It’s not the same thing! And furthermore, it has no relevance to magic. It’s how the biddies kept their families in line, invoking some dread crone if they didn’t do as they were told. What does it have to do with the ancient bardic knowledge and rituals of the Druids that are the true magic? Which was, I might add, the exclusive province of men.”

  “Reverence for the Goddess predates the Druids,” O’Byrne commented thoughtfully. “Before them, there was the Great Mother—this Triple Goddess—and her horned consort, the Lord of the Greenwood. Why do you suppose—”

  Doherty interrupted him with a rude noise. “Yes, and sprites and pixies in every mud puddle and blade of grass. It was superstition and nature worship. Not the basis of real magic.”

  “Mr. Doherty.” Dr. Carrighar sat up very straight in his armchair, a bad sign. “I was not aware that personal opinion and belief had come to take the place of intellectual discussion in my tutorials. Perhaps I ought to invite Father Kelley from the rectory and let him debate the existence of magic with you. Miss Leland, I feel I must apologize for my class today. I had expected better of them.”

  Pen shriveled in her seat. Oh, why had he addressed such a comment to her? All it did was separate her from the others. “It’s not—that is, I don�
��t want—” she began.

  “There, see? We’ve upset her.” Sheehan leaned toward her with an apologetic, hangdog expression. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Eamon.”

  “Stop it, all of you!” Without thinking, Pen leapt out of her seat again and fled upstairs to her room.

  This wasn’t going to work. She threw herself onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Dr. Carrighar’s students would never be able to accept her among them. Studying with her sister under Ally had shielded her from the reality of masculine attitudes toward female learning, from Doherty’s outright contempt to Sheehan’s well-meaning but misguided urge to censor in the name of protecting her “feminine sensibilities.” In the end, both attitudes were equally repugnant. Would she have to go back to studying alone with Dr. Carrighar? Would he have time to tutor her alone, or would he even want to?

  Oh, why did Ally have to be so ill and wretched? But Pen couldn’t burden her with her upset over today’s scene. She rolled over, clutched her pillow, and let out the tears that burned the back of her throat.

  “Now, child. Crying about it won’t help,” a quiet, creaky voice chided gently.

  Pen stiffened. Who’d said that? She hastily rolled over and pushed herself up on one hand.

  A very small, very dainty old lady stood next to her bed, watching her with a faintly disapproving frown. She wore an old-fashioned white mobcap on her wispy gray curls and a white fichu collar over an equally old-fashioned sprig-print beige gown. Above a small pair of spectacles perched on her nose, her eyes twinkled with quiet sympathy and humor. They were also odd—the right one blue, the other brown. Pen blinked. They were just like Michael Carrighar’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, scrambling off the bed and smoothing down her dress.

  “I know you didn’t. It’s all right, girl. As I said, crying won’t help, but sometimes it just feels better when you do.” The little lady nodded and perched herself on the edge of Pen’s bed. She patted the counterpane next to her. “Sit and tell me what happened.”