Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters (18 page)

How marvelous to be able to work so effortlessly! It was a miracle! Shyly, she looked up at Hyr, who let out another of his bright chuckles. She returned to her musing. She would only do good with these wonders, please God.

“This reminds me of something,” the sylph said, circling around the bowl like a goldfish. “I can’t think of what it is. But it was a very long time ago. And perhaps it wasn’t even I who smelled it, but one of my kind.”

Aurelia groaned. She was becoming impatient with his breezy memory.

“He forgets a lot of things,” Alfonse said, laughing. That is why he cannot be trusted to carry messages.”

“He has done good service for us today,” Aurelia said. “For us and M. Rupier.”

Hyr exploded in a burst of blueness from sheer pleasure. Aurelia smiled indulgently.

*   *   *

Aurelia sat in a cab, straightening her skirt nervously. M. Casanova had not come in himself, for which she was grateful, but he had sent a message with his payment. Would Mlle. Degard kindly deliver the perfume herself to the lady? There was enough money included for a taxi for both the outward and return trips. Aurelia was impressed by his generosity. She could rarely afford to ride in cabs. This one had good springs and a good horse. She clutched on her lap the cranberry-red carton marked in gold with the name ‘Rupier,’ which contained the perfume bottle.

The flat at which it deposited her had a most fashionable address. This was not a neighborhood where one found courtesans or mistresses, as near the theatres, but people of independent means. If the lady in question had once been the dear friend or wife of a wealthy gentleman, it was she who commanded now.

Aurelia told the cab to wait. The service entrance was much less grand than the white-outlined front door with a uniformed footman on duty. Aurelia walked past a boiler-suited workman and up four flights to the apartment designated as the home of Madame du Charpentier. A maid in a starched white apron and cap over a trim black uniform answered her knock and accepted the package. Aurelia began to descend the stairs. She had not yet reached the door when a cry from above arrested her.

“Mam’selle! Please return! Madame wishes to see you!”

It was most irregular for her to be admitted to the front part of a customer’s domicile. Aurelia stood nervously in the center of a room that was more a jewel box for its inhabitant than a mere chamber. Sumptuous silk hangings of warm, beautiful colors depended from ornamental bronze fittings. The furniture had been expensively upholstered in damasks and brocades to match. Madame du Charpentier lounged upon a fainting couch in a satin gown with her small feet in Chinese slippers. She was a lady of a certain age, older than Aurelia’s mother, but not as old as
Grandmere
.

Aurelia smelled, or, rather, sensed something wrong in the room. She could not identify the source of the discomfort. The sylph had awakened a new sense in her! She had many questions for M. Rupier when he returned.

“And how may I serve, madame?” she asked.

Mme. du Charpentier appealed to her, blue eyes wide with pleasure and curiosity.

“Mademoiselle, I implore you! It is so nice to get a parcel from M. Rupier, but who gave it to me?”

“Madame, I do not know his name.”

“Describe him!” Madame commanded.

Aurelia shook her head. “I regret, Madame, that he swore me to secrecy. No doubt he wishes to tell you himself.”

The woman and her maid exchanged glances.

“It is M. le Bovin,” the maid said.

“Doris!” the woman exclaimed, rapping her maid on the wrist with her ivory-backed fan. “You should not refer to M. Carnau in that fashion.”

“It is true,” the maid said, unrepentant. “I will call him M. le Cochon instead. No matter how many gifts he gives you, he smells like a pig, not an ox. And he is a pig!”

“Well, this makes up for it,” Madame said, opening the small bottle and inhaling the essence. “Oh, it is heavenly! Tell M. Rupier that it gives me much joy.”

Aurelia inclined her upper body.

“I shall, Madame. But I must tell Madame that your admirer gave me the basis of the formulation himself. He wished to please you.”

“Of course he did.” Madame waved the fan. “He is most persistent. I know a man who has an eye out for opportunity. I do not cast my
sous
as if they were breadcrumbs. If he was not so infernally handsome, I should send him about his business. Still,” her expression softened, “if he has such a sensitive soul as to cause you to create such a perfume for me, perhaps I am too hasty to dismiss him. And this will greatly abate the displeasure of his miasma.” She took another deep sniff of the bottle.

“That is its intention, Madame,” Aurelia said.

Mme. du Charpentier seemed to have forgotten that she was present. She waved her fan.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. You may go.”

Aurelia was troubled by the dazed look on Madame’s face, but she departed.

*   *   *

Over the following weeks there was much to do. Madame Noisette had spread the word about her lavender lotion, and how it picked up her spirits. Aurelia had many orders from the lady’s friends.

“You see, your talents are manifesting themselves,” Alfonse said.

“It is chemistry, dolt, not magic,” Aurelia corrected him.

“I think you will find that it is both.”

While she worked and Hyr darted around her like an insane hummingbird, Alfonse read to them from the newspapers. He adored the society columns, especially the rumors and confidential whispers. Now that they knew their mystery customer’s name, Alfonse looked for any reference to M. Carnau.

“It said yesterday that M. Carnau must declare bankruptcy or leave the country,” he said, “but today, here is word that he has been rescued from ruin.”

“Good for him,” Aurelia said, signing to Hyr to add chamomile to the dancing wisps in her mixing bowl.

“In fact, he is getting married!”

“He is? To whom?”

“To ‘the delightful Mme. du Charpentier, a widow of means’.” Alfonse held up the paper. A drawing of ‘M. Casanova’, by a popular artist, depicted him in a local café with Madame at his side looking rapt.

Aurelia put down her vials and frowned at the page. She could not possibly have fallen in love with him. He was too conceited and she was too sensible.

“Hyr?”

The translucent boy child obediently whisked to a stop before her eyes.

“Mistress?”

“That perfume that we made for Madame. Have you recalled why it smelled familiar to you?”

“Which perfume? The one with musk and ginger and bergamot and . . . ?”

“Yes!” Aurelia interrupted him. “Is it a love potion?”

“Oh, no!” Hyr said, floating away from her on his back as if swimming in a river. “It is more of . . . an obedience drug. You may command the wearer to do your will. Well, nearly. What you formulated lacked at least one ingredient.”

Aurelia felt herself grow very still.

“And what was that?”

“Oh, it is unpleasant. Cow urine. That is why it is so seldom used any longer. I can’t think of the last time it was employed. Was it two hundred years ago in Persia, or three . . . ?”

“He does that to himself,” Aurelia realized. The dreadful smell was deliberate. He caused her to surround herself with scented things. “Can he persuade her to give him money?”

Hyr waved his hands expansively.

“Anything! Speak, and it is done.”

“Could he persuade her to marry him? Could he command her to make over her entire fortune to him?”

“Naturally. But the potion wears off quickly if it is not renewed, and especially if the commander is no longer close. Pheromones, the natural perfumes of the body, are part of it. It is most specific. She would only take instructions from the one.”

He couldn’t have added them to the perfume. The pheromones must have been present in the room already, no doubt in one of the other gifts the maid said he had brought.

“If it wears off, she would come to her senses,” Alfonse said.

“Not if she died,” Aurelia said.

“What?” Alfonse asked.

“Hyr,” Aurelia asked, seriously, “could he tell her to . . . to die?”

Hyr was untroubled by the notion.

“Oh, yes. It is a powerful potion. It would be easy. All he would have to do is tell her that her heart must stop beating. And it would.”

A horrible picture suddenly rose before her eyes. Aurelia laid down her pipettes.

“He is marrying her for money. Surely someone, perhaps her grown children, already suspects this terrible man of fortune-hunting. But if she dies after the marriage, her money will pass to him. My father is a man of law. I have heard many such cases discussed over the dining table. A court suit would take a long time. A marriage, only minutes.”

“That is horrible!” Alfonse declared. “What can we do?”

The stink was the clue. The terrible smell was one of the things that had been missing from the completed potion—for it was a potion, not a perfume. It was evil magic, against the will of God. The Holy Bible did not say that a witch must not live, but rather that a poisoner must die. And M. Carnau was poisoning this poor woman, but through her pores and her nose, not her lips. She had fallen into his power. He had done it deliberately. Why else the strange list of ingredients? Why else the secrecy? He had made Le Parfumier Rupier complicit in a future crime!

“We must create a counteragent,” Aurelia said, firmly. “I must recreate the potion in its entirety, and find a way to undo its works. We have little time. Hyr! Help me!”

“At once, mistress!”

Hyr began to send vials and bottles flying her way. Alfonse went out, locking the door behind him.

Aurelia assembled from memory the elements of the perfume in the crystal bowl. She still liked her formulation. If it had not such dire associations, she would be pleased with herself!

Alfonse returned suddenly, holding a covered crockery jar at arm’s length. He handed it to Hyr, who made a terrible face. The contents made Aurelia’s eyes water.

“It is pig,” Alfonse said. “Do not ask how I got it.”

Aurelia smiled at him.

“I won’t.”

Moaning about the stench, Hyr added a yellow wisp of pig’s urine to the luscious mixture in the bowl. As soon as he did, Aurelia felt a strong sense of compulsion coming from it.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. It was a strange thing, but she understood how every element went together. She felt her way through the sweet and sour. The bitter, dry notes of the myrrh should have made it feel sacred, but it was overpowered by the hot, fierce stench of the pig’s excretion. Her eyes stung. The sylph’s favorite musk was last, its heady, rich aroma tickled her nose, but she felt it go deeply into her mind.

“Come back, mistress!” Hyr shouted. She felt a wind buffet her backward. She coughed, reassembling her wits. She sniffed. The sylph smiled at her. He gestured to the bowl. The wisps had vanished.

“I have cleared the air, mistress.”

“Thank you,” Aurelia said, sighing. “Magic is indeed a gift.”

“Is there an answer?” Alfonse asked. “Can you counteract the poison?”

“Indeed there is,” Aurelia said. Her thoughts had tiptoed among the scents and odors at her command, and come up with the right scent. “And it is so simple, as simple as a key slipping into a lock. This is a sin. It is only appropriate that trinity flowers should heal it. Hyr, let us begin.”

The sylph flitted around the workroom lamp with joy.

“Command me, mistress! This is fun!”

*   *   *

Alfonse delivered the box to the home of Madame du Charpentier. It was a gift from Parfumier Rupier, the enclosed note said, in honor of her upcoming marriage. The young guardian returned to the shop.

“Are you certain that this will undo the evil?” he asked Aurelia. “Must I cast additional protections upon the premises?”

“I think not yet,” she said. “Wait and see.”

And they did. The very next day’s paper contained an interesting note in the gossip column.

“The engagement between Mme. du Charpentier and M. Carnau had been called off, definitely and for good,” Alfonse read, relishing each word. “The gentleman has departed from Paris.”

Aurelia could not help but be relieved.

“Now the poor lady will never have to smell that stench again. She can enjoy the perfume in peace.”

“What if M. Casanova learns that the gift was from us? He may seek revenge!”

Aurelia showed him the small vial that hung around her neck on the same chain as her silver cross. Its value was greater than a month’s pay, but M. Rupier would undoubtedly forgive the debt—since he had left her without explanations of the many secrets hidden in the shop.

“If he comes here, I shall give him a taste of his own medicine,” she said. “I will compel him to turn himself in to the Gendarmerie. That will teach him to pollute the element of Air.”

A Flower Grows in Whitechapel

Gail Sanders and Michael Z. Williamson

Isabelle Helen Harton, Headmistress of the Harton School for Expatriate Children, was in her office when Karamjit knocked discreetly.

He said, “There is a child at the entrance, Memsa’b. The guardians want to speak to you.”

She knew by his tone and phrasing that these were not the usual nursemaids or concerned parents that normally came to the doors of her school.

She closed her book, stood and said, “Thank you, Karamjit. I’ll be right there.” She rose from her chair and walked downstairs.

When she opened the door to the chill, damp, February air, she gasped and stared. There was indeed a child, but the guardians holding her hands so carefully were Elementals.

It wasn’t uncommon for waifs to be dropped off at police stations, orphanages, or churches.

It was quite rare for one to be brought to the front door of the Harton School by Earth and Air Elementals. In fact, it had never happened before.

Gathering up her astonishment and sitting on it hard, speaking with at least the appearance of aplomb, she politely asked, “May I help you?” Protocol must be adhered to when dealing with Elementals or unexpected things could happen.

“She is pursued. She is in danger. She is alone.” The breathy syllables could barely be heard above the noises on the street. The sylph’s feet did not touch the ground and she did not leave a shadow, of course, but she gripped the hand of the little girl with desperation all too visible, despite the sylph’s transparency.

“What pursues? What is the danger?” Isabelle’s astonishment was giving way quickly to alarm.

“We know not. All we know is that it has consumed her parents, and reaches out for her. Will you take her into your charge? Knowing that there is danger?” This was remarkably formal for a normally flighty satyr. This was also alarming to Isabelle and she hesitated, knowing that the request was both a geas and a binding. Looking at the confused and frightened eyes of the small girl, she knew that she could not turn her away.

“I will take her into my charge and protect her to the extent that I am able.”

“It is well,” both Elementals said in unison, before disappearing, one sinking into the ground and one fading into the air.

The girl collapsed onto the frosty front step, as if only the Elementals had been keeping her going.

*   *   *

The child appeared to be far too small for the neat little room. Her dark hair spread over the pillow as she restlessly shifted, but she did not awaken. She had a faint Chinese cast, but was clearly mostly European.

What am I going to do with you, little one?
Isabelle wondered as she kept watch from an overstuffed armchair. She had no idea what the guardianship of the Elementals could mean and the prospect of danger was not new, yet she was used to having at least some information from which direction that danger might come. She also knew that she couldn’t have left the little one to her fate. She sighed deeply and then reached up to caress the hand that had appeared on her shoulder.

“Who do we have here?” Frederick Harton, Isabelle’s soft-footed husband, said in his quietly concerned voice.

“I don’t know, but potentially a very great problem.” Isabelle gestured over to the clothing that was laid out on the other small bed in the room. Neatly laid out was a skirt with petticoats, as English as would fit in any middle to upper-class neighborhood, but next to them was a blue silk tunic of distinctly Asian design. The fabric was a bit worse for wear, with a couple of ragged tears.

She ran her fingers over the rich fabric. “It’s a
cheong sam
. They’re Chinese, and this quality of material is only worn by higher-class diplomats or their families. I encountered a few Chinese merchants in India and they didn’t wear anything this fine. The Chinese are very structured, with strict laws on what each level can wear. Why would a European girl child be wearing something that only a Chinese diplomat would be allowed to wear?”

He offered a reassuring squeeze but no comment.

She continued, “We won’t know anything until she awakens. She was also wearing a red silk pouch around her neck. I left that alone. Even in her sleep, she became very agitated when I touched it.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Mei-Hua,” she replied. “Which is also a puzzle. She’s clearly English, and her accent places her to Cheshire. Yet she offered a Chinese name in excellent Mandarin.”

*   *   *

“Headmistress?”

If her office hadn’t been so quiet, Isabelle never would have heard the hesitant question.

“Yes, Mei?” She tried to project reassurance. The little thing was so self-effacing that she almost blended into the walls, even after being here for a month. She had no problems with the other children per se; it was almost as if they didn’t know she existed. Everyone in the school was surprised when she spoke, as if by her speaking she had become real to them again.

“Agansing said I was to talk to you, please? About the garden?” Mei-Hua bowed deferentially and kept her eyes low, avoiding eye contact with Isabelle.

“What about the garden, child?” Isabelle had to work hard to keep a sigh out of her tone. To a woman used to cheeky Londoner children, this politeness seemed both extreme and worrisome. Combine it with Mei-Hua’s knack of remaining unnoticed, and it spoke of unseen damage from whatever she could not remember—either in what happened to Mei’s parents or how she came to the school.

“Agansing said that no one really has time to take care of it. So may I, please? And may I have a pot and soil for a plant in my room?” Mei waited, her slender body seeming tense and anxious.

“That sounds like an excellent idea. Tell Agansing I gave you permission, and if you need anything for the garden, he can help you with it.”

“Thank you, Headmistress.” Mei bowed again and closed the door behind her.

Perhaps with a useful activity she will come out of that shell.
With that thought Isabelle turned back to reviewing her students’ progress.

*   *   *

Isabelle stared, and searched her memory. Yes, just a few days ago, this plant had been dry, sallow, wilted and near death. She’d noted the contrast to those around it.

Now, though, it was vibrant with color, flush with growth and taller than its neighbors, which also seemed to stand more proudly. The bloom atop it was perfectly picture-book symmetrical, and seemed to glow violet with a lip-red sheen underneath. It was beautiful.

“How did this happen?” she asked the girl.

Mei-Hua shrugged slightly and mumbled, “It was tired. I helped it.”

“You most certainly did!” she replied, but the girl had turned shyly away and offered nothing else.

Within days every flower in season bloomed huge and bright, even those that barely budded in April. The stalks straightened, the leaves filled out. All the herbs in the garden behind the kitchen sprouted thick and healthy, and the food gained an extra little zest.

Two weeks later, Isabelle happened to pass Mei-Hua’s room whilst on an errand. The girl was just coming out on her way to breakfast. Behind her, near the window, the pot she’d asked for sprouted a huge white peony.

It was impossible for such a blossom to bloom so quickly. Or was it? Clearly it had. Clearly also, Mei-Hua had a talent for flowers.

The girl took her classes, quietly, and had no trouble with grammar, arithmetic, or history. When not busy with schooling or chores, she spent most of her time out in the garden, caressing and talking to the various plants, all of which responded with straight, robust growth. The plant in her room remained in brilliant bloom, new flowers replacing the old.

*   *   *

Lord Alderscroft’s carriage was familiar, but its arrival unexpected. It drew up in front of the school, and he debarked in a hurry. He reached the door as Karamjit opened it in surprise.

“Good day. I must speak to Frederick and Isabelle at their earliest convenience,” he said as Karamjit took his cane and hat.

In minutes he was seated in the drawing room, and hot, fragrant tea was placed on a table between them.

Isabelle gave a nod that indicated Karamjit was to leave them alone. This was clearly something under the rose.

Frederick remarked, “So, David, what brings you to our little corner of Whitechapel? It’s hardly your usual haunt.” He poured three cups of tea with splashes of milk and delicate sprinkles of sugar.

Alderscroft accepted his cup with a nod and spoke directly to the point.

“I bring tragic news. You have heard that the King has been fatigued of late. It has reached a crisis. Yesterday he collapsed unconscious, and is now bedridden. They aren’t sure if he’s in a coma, or has suffered an aneurysm or something similar.”

Isabelle widened her eyes. “There was no mention in the morning news, nor have I heard anything from the stands.”

“No, it is all word of mouth, to keep it from the tabloids.”

Her stomach fluttered.

“Oh, dear. They have no diagnosis?”

Over a sip, Alderscroft said, “Not yet. Officially, he is taking a few days’ rest at Marlborough House and responding to a personal matter. You see, the reason I came to you is that I don’t think that the doctors are going to find anything. I think that the reason for his collapse has something to do with magic—but not my sort of magic, not Elemental magic. After his collapse, my contact at the palace was able to get me into his rooms. They were awash with, something . . . I could almost feel myself going under, slowing down. But I could not
find
anything.”

“And so you’ve come to us for help?” Isabelle’s scepticism caused David Alderscroft to flinch. “Don’t tell me you’ve found something that your ‘White Lodge’ can’t handle?”

“Actually, I was hoping that Sarah and Nan could have a look. I can get us into the Royal Residence, into the King’s rooms.”

She flared her nostrils and tensed as she placed her teacup down gently, but with haste. “No! Absolutely not. David, you know how I feel using the children that way. Sarah Jane Lyon-White and Nan are still children, and I will not put them into danger.”

“Love, I think we must,” Fredrick quietly interrupted her angry reflex with a hand on her wrist. She leaned back into her chair as he continued, “Will we be with them, Alderscroft?”

He nodded and placed his own cup down. “Yes, I can promise that much. And I’ll have to go along as well. They won’t let you in without me.”

She unclenched her jaw and accepted the wisdom of the idea.

“Tonight then. I want time to prepare the girls.”

*   *   *

They rode in Alderscroft’s carriage to the rear of Marlborough House. He stepped out first and spoke at length to a military officer, a captain, probably of the Lifeguards, but in field uniform, not parade. The other men all appeared to be police. Marlborough House was a Royal Residence, but not the Palace. The informal presentation would help disguise the King’s presence.

The captain frowned darkly, but acceded after several minutes of talk punctuated with gestures. He stepped inside, and spoke into one of those new-fangled telephone boxes.

With a command and a gesture, the two guards at the door snapped their rifles to port arms and stepped aside. That seemed to be assent to entry.

Isabelle was impressed. Not even two waifs with birds and three obvious foreigners with a less than fashionable schoolmistress caused them to be anything other than impassive statues.

Inside, a young man in a bespoke suit gestured for them to follow him up the stairs. Even the rear servants’ staircase was broad and elegant.

Little noise was made and nothing was said. They walked down a long corridor, the children uttering soft gasps at the sights but otherwise silent.

Another guard stood at a double door, its panels book-matched of some highly figured wood. There was an exchange of gestures between their escort and the guard, at which he nodded smartly, opened the door and stepped aside.

Within was a private chamber, richly appointed and smelling of tobacco. A doctor sat beside a huge, soft bed. Nestled in the deep comforters was His Royal Majesty, Edward VII, clearly sick.

His eyes were closed and sunken, his cheeks hollow. Even his proud beard looked scraggly and weak. Looking up at this remarkable group of people, the doctor approached Lord Alderscroft and obviously started to make a fuss.

Words were exchanged, the doctor wide-eyed with raised eyebrows. He looked at the unusual party and then back at Alderscroft, opening his mouth to protest. Then somehow, with the addition of but a few more low words, the doctor quietly gathered his bag and let himself out. Isabelle’s cynical mind suspected a method other than sweet reason had been used to get the doctor to at least temporarily quit the scene.

“He won’t be gone long,” Lord Alderscroft commented, rejoining the rest of the group.

At once, Gray whistled low. “
Bad. Something here.”
The parrot fluffed up her feathers and then spread her wings over Sarah’s shoulders.

Even the humans could feel it. There was an aura of despair. It was if they were standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down mesmerized at the rocks below, just waiting for the pull of gravity . . .

Neville quorked loudly, startling everyone. The raven on Nan’s shoulder had his feathers ruffled as well, and looked as if he wanted to bite something, if he could spot it. Even with the warning Alderscroft had given them, they had almost been drawn in themselves.

Sarah looked up at Gray and then over at Nan. It was obvious neither of them wanted to get closer to that feeling, but Isabelle knew it was the only way.

With a polite tug at her sleeve, Karamjit said, “Memsa’b, we need light. We need light to pierce the darkness around the King.”

Isabelle’s voice began a chant that the girls probably found a bit familiar. Sarah would have heard that chant before, when the girls had been trapped in a house haunted by something worse than any ghost. Nan reached out her hand and clasped Sarah’s before joining her voice to the chant. The other members of the party joined in. Slowly a glow surrounded the two girls and they walked forward, approaching the pillared bed.