Elementary (10 page)

And that was when Frieda finally broke down, her defenses crumbling. They had been cast out of their home, she said, weeping, because their stepmother thought Frieda was a
Hexe
, a witch, because Frieda could see the creatures frolicking in the water.

“Georg . . . Georg can see things, too,” she said, and hiccuped. “In the forest. Little gnome-men—
Erdgeists
—he told me. But he doesn't say that anymore. When
she
came, he swore he couldn't see them, and swore I was telling tales, and she beat me to teach me to not to lie.”

Klara knew that by
she
, Frieda meant their stepmother.

Klara gathered the girl into her arms and rocked her back and forth. “You're not a witch—not in the way that witches are bad and evil,” she said. “But you do have magic in you, a very special gift. You're a magician—a Water Magician, if I'm not mistaken, just as my Hermann was. And it sounds as though Georg is an Earth Magician.”

Frieda had stopped weeping, but she was still tense, still frightened, so Klara explained, in simple terms, how Elemental Magic worked.

Eventually Frieda's sobs and hiccups subsided. She rose and went to the marble basin of water on the beechwood washstand that stood between the two bedroom doors, a wedding gift from Hermann a lifetime ago. But instead of splashing her face, she stared into the bowl.

As Klara watched, Frieda bit her lip, reached out hesitantly with one hand.

The water in the bowl shimmered, rippled. Frieda sucked in an audible breath, but she didn't move, didn't pull back.

In contrast, Klara held her breath.

A swirl of water, a tempest in the proverbial teacup, and then a tiny naiad rose halfway out of the water. It cocked its head at Frieda, then held out one little watery hand.

Slowly, Frieda stretched to gently touch that hand with one finger.

The naiad giggled, the sound like a tinkling gargle of delight. It did a backflip, splashed into the water, and disappeared.

Frieda turned to Klara, her brown eyes enormous. She took in another deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Clearly she had come to a crossroads and made her choice.

“Will you—will you teach me?” she asked.

 • • • 

Klara taught Frieda as best she could, for all that Fire Magic opposed Water Magic. It helped that Frieda was determined and talented—and it seemed that the Water spirits remembered Hermann's kindness and didn't hold it against Klara that her own magic was anathema to them.

Klara watched Frieda grow stronger every day in many ways. Not that she hadn't always been strong—not everyone could have survived those days deep in the forest—but previously she'd had Georg to lean on, to share burdens with (and, Klara knew, Georg had shared with Frieda).

The girl blossomed as her relationship with the naiads and undines grew. She never shirked the work that needed to be done to keep the mill running, but when she had a spare moment, Klara always knew to find her down by the river, crouched on the mossy rocks, trailing her fingers in the chill water.

The only darkness was the loss of Georg, of not knowing his fate. Many nights Klara heard Frieda's sobs, no matter how hard she tried to muffle them in her pillow. They both asked their respective Elementals for assistance, but Earth Magic was weaker in cities, if that was indeed where Georg was.

Frieda transformed her fear into determination—determination to learn Elemental Magic, determination to make the mill a success, determination to find Georg, determination to face whatever obstacles came in her path.

At first, Klara and Frieda went to the market together; Klara was concerned about Frieda, an unattended and lovely young woman, as she had to admit Frieda was becoming, going alone. But even in that, Frieda eventually insisted she could handle herself. Georg had taught her to fight, she said.
Ach
, she could hold her own.

To Klara, Frieda was the daughter Hermann and she had never had. To Frieda, Klara was far more of a mother than her stepmother had ever been.

With the forest and the river, the mill and the oven, they were content. When Georg returned, as they both trusted he would, they would have a family together.

But when Georg returned, the reunion wasn't what any of them wished for.

 • • • 

Spring was turning into summer once again, the forest shifting from the bright green of new shoots to the mossy green of thriving growth. The river settled from early-season swollen to a steady flow, the undines playing in the mill wheel.

Frieda had just come in from the mill for lunch—fresh-baked rye bread,
Butterkäse
cheese, and sausage from last week's trip to the market—when the sharp rap at the door brought them both to their feet.

No one ventured this far into the forest.

Klara reached for the butcher knife. Frieda reached for the latch, then stepped back as she opened the door.

The figure in the doorway was silhouetted by the bright sunshine, but Frieda seemed to recognize his form, even changed and grown as it was.

“Georg!” She flung herself into his arms.

But Klara saw a stiffness in him. He held Frieda, his eyes closed, but his body was rigid.

He'd filled out. He was a man now, just as Frieda was a woman. Was that what made him tense?

Klara set the knife onto the table, stepped forward to greet him.

But he released Frieda and straightened, and if he'd been stiff before, now he was a board—no, a rock, braced forever against a stream, unyielding.

He took a few steps inside, and now she could see him more clearly. His uniform was blue, with a red collar and many buttons, and he wore it like a shield.

“
Frau
Klara,” he said, his voice distant, official. “I am to take you to the authorities for questioning.”

It was Frieda who responded. “Georg, what are you talking about?”

His eyes flicked to her, then back to Klara. “You are under suspicion of being a
Hexe
.”

Somewhere, deep down, she'd feared this. When Hermann was alive, their success with the mill and the baking hadn't been unusual to the outside eye. But alone, and then with Frieda's help, she'd wondered if their success would be questioned in these lean and terrible times.

“I am not a
Hexe
, Georg,” she said, her voice firm but laced with the affection she felt for him. “I am a woman trying to survive in these harsh times.”

“Your mill's production is unusually high,” Georg said. He lifted his chin. “And I believe I have seen you consort with demons.”

The salamanders in the oven flames.

Klara closed her eyes, shook her head. “You accuse me of something you don't understand,” she said. “And are you my sole accuser?”

An uncomfortable look crossed his face. “My regiment is in town,” he said. “I asked for time to see my sister and, if necessary, ensure her safety. I said I would bring you in myself, and my success could mean advancement in the ranks.”

“Georg, stop.” Frieda stepped up to him again. “You're not making any sense. Why would you want to do this?”

His spiked leather helmet made him look taller than he was, but when Frieda faced him, Klara could see that they were the same height. She thought with a small smile that Frieda looked just as formidable as he.

“It's my duty,” he said. “To protect. Rules must be followed.”

“It's your duty as much as it is anyone's to protect your family,” Frieda said. “Not just me;
Frau
Klara
saved
us, Georg. She's your family as much as I am. We've tried everything to find you, sent—” She broke off, bit her lip, glanced at Klara. Although Frieda had accepted and even rejoiced in her Elemental abilities, it was clear Georg's arrival had brought back memories of being beaten for even saying she saw creatures in the water.

And Klara didn't know what Georg would do if he learned about Frieda's magic. He'd no doubt locked away his childhood memories of seeing gnomes in the forest and Frieda seeing Water Elementals.

Frieda was right: You protect family above all else. She didn't need to be implicated. With Klara gone, Frieda could still run the mill, sell the flour.

Klara stepped forward. “I am not a
Hexe
,” she repeated. “Elemental Magic is not witchcraft.”

She opened the stove, welcomed a salamander, held it out, and tried to explain.

Her words fell on deaf ears. “Witchcraft,” Georg repeated, and now he stepped forward, shifting the rifle tucked beneath his arm. Not drawing it up, but preparing to.

“Would a witch have taken you in and fed you after you stole her last loaf of bread?” Klara asked. “Or would a witch have fed you to the fire salamanders?”

“Stop it!” Frieda's voice rang clear and firm. “She's no more a
Hexe
than I am. Her communication with Fire Elementals is no different from mine with Water creatures or yours with Elementals from the Earth. You can pretend they're not real, but they are. Look.”

She picked up the heavy marble bowl and brought it over to the kitchen table, its scarred wooden surface still covered with flour from the morning's baking. “Look,” she said, pointing.

The little naiad rose cautiously, glancing from person to person.

Georg's jaw clenched. “I see nothing.”

So Frieda grabbed his sleeve and marched him to the window, just as she'd pulled him around when they were children, Klara remembered, once they'd settled in with her. “Look there, then,” Frieda said, pointing at the river.

The naiads and undines, hearing her silent call, leaped from the water, then fell and rolled like playful otters on the current.

“And there,” Frieda said. On the mossy bank, an
Erdgeist
—a gnome—crouched, watching them.

“No,” Georg said, but his voice had lost its assurance. “It's witchcraft. She's making me see these things . . .”

“But
I'm
showing them to you,” Frieda said. “
I'm
calling the Water Elementals.”

“She's making you see them, making you believe you have power,” Georg said, clearly grasping at straws.

“No, Georg,” Frieda said softly. “I saw them well before we came here. You remember . . . I know you do. And you saw the forest creatures—the little
Erdgeists
, the dryad who sang to you.”

He shook his head, a sudden, almost desperate movement, and Klara saw the flash of young Georg in his eyes. The Georg who protected his sister however he could, who led her through the forest, who would have protected her from a witch if that was who Klara had turned out to be.

While they were at the window, she'd taken up the knife again, hidden it in her skirts. Her heart pounded; her mouth was dry as stale bread. She didn't want to hurt him. Didn't know if she had it within herself to hurt another human being. But if he decided Frieda was a witch, she'd defend Frieda, for Frieda was family.

She knew, though, that Frieda would never forgive her, because Georg was family, too.

But the erect military posture Georg had maintained up until now finally shifted; the stiff shell fell away.

“They made me believe . . .” he murmured. “I could believe it of Klara, but never of you. They're wrong, though, the soldiers, our stepmother . . .”

“If you'd stayed, Klara would have shown you what your abilities are, just as she did with me,” Frieda said. “They're not wicked or evil.”

He gathered her into his arms but still shook his head. “But what can we do? They're waiting for me in town. If I don't return soon, they'll come looking for me—for all of us. I can't protect you against an entire regiment.”

With a rush of clarity, Klara knew the answer.

It was an answer she'd feared, but now, she knew, she had to release her fears. Frieda and Georg had been so much braver than she, and they'd done it for each other, because they were family.

As much as she felt rooted to the mill, she knew it wasn't the place that mattered, but the family within it.

“We'll go to America,” she said. “We can pack our things and leave tonight. You can help us get through the forest and bypass the town, and we'll go to the city and find transportation there. There are so many people emigrating, we'll just be part of the crowd.”

Frieda glanced at Georg, biting her lip, but she was the first to nod.

“It won't be easy,” he said, “but you're right. I'll help you pack. We haven't got much time.”

Klara turned, hands on her hips, and surveyed the mill house, pondering what to take. Nothing more than what they could carry, she knew. Her possessions, though, weren't the most important thing.

She had lost Hermann and Otto, but Frieda and Georg had given her a new family.

A new chance. An opportunity to live again.

They called America the land of opportunity.

Here, their abilities were feared. There, they might find acceptance.

She smiled. Surely some town there needed a baker whose bread tasted like magic, and her two talented children.

Louisa Swann

San Francisco always made Nettie feel a little topsy-turvy. Nothing was as it should be. Canvas tents stood side by side with raw-looking buildings and grounded ships that had been turned into shops and hotels. Nettie preferred the mining camp outside where she lived with her adoptive Chinese family. In the mining camp, the gold miners had pitched tents. Ever since the gold rush had started a little over a year ago, it seemed that San Francisco couldn't decide whether to be a camp or a city.

Nettie sighed. There were more buildings than tents now, and the streets were busy with horses and wagons and people going about their business. The bay was filled with ships of all sizes—some bringing in new passengers and supplies, some readying for a return voyage, some abandoned at anchor when their crews took off for the gold fields. She was happy to see the roads were better than they had been; the muddiest places had been covered with wood planking. No more sinking up to her ankles in the slimy muck. But more buildings meant more places she had to search.

The midmorning fog was the same as it always had been, thick and damp and smelling of salty fish. Since it wasn't quite summer yet, there was a chance the fog would burn off later in the day, but Nettie wasn't counting on it. Sea lions barked somewhere out in the bay, and gulls squawked far overhead as horse-drawn wagons groaned up the hills.

She turned away from the world of fog and sea lions and stepped through the door of the dimly lit Palace of the White Tigress. She sang quietly to herself, taking strength from her mother's old lullaby, the song she'd taught her brother Li when she first came to live with her adoptive family.
“In the woods not far away, secret friends come out to play . . .”

The air inside smelled softly of herbs and incense, overshadowing the damp scent of the bay still clinging to her hair along with droplets of fog. She sighed. The lullaby always worked best when she and Li sang together. But her adoptive brother couldn't sing with her. He was missing, and no one seemed to care. That was why she was out in the streets, searching all the places she'd thought he could be. She'd finished looking in all the places she'd expected to find him yesterday. Now she was going from building to building, looking for someone, anyone, who'd seen her brother.

Nobody else, not even her adoptive mother, thought Li was in danger, although the doctor he was supposed to be visiting had died in a recent fire.

“Li is growing up,” Mama Wu had said. “Do not worry yourself about him. He is trying to find his own way. He will return when he is ready.”

That had always sounded so mysterious and unattainable—growing up. Nettie was growing up, too. She could feel it as her body rounded out in ways she did not particularly like. She'd been swimming and running every day since the weather warmed up, but the dresses she had made during the winter were already getting too tight. And she had let down her hems twice in the last two months.

Yes, they were both growing up, but that didn't mean her brother didn't need her anymore. Nettie raised her chin and moved farther into the high-ceilinged room, cautiously extending her senses.

She felt the man's dark shadow before she saw him—a huge man with deep, slanted eyes and a queue almost as long as his tunic. He stood behind a wooden counter, polishing small crystal glasses and setting them carefully on a shelf. Ignoring the sudden knot in her stomach, she carefully scanned the rest of the room. Crystal lamps of all sizes hung from the ceiling, smaller lamps around the outside of the room, and a large chandelier in the center. Silk paintings draped all four walls, and enormous painted vases stood in the corners. Round tables with chairs were scattered here and there. Other than the man behind the bar, the room was deserted.

Nettie didn't feel anything bad here, not like she'd felt at the first place she'd looked after leaving behind what Mama Wu called “the respectable part of town.” That first place had smelled worse than sick blankets and dirty men and dead rats all mixed together. She'd barely gotten through the door when a hand had reached out of the darkness, clawing at her arm. A glimpse of cracked lips spread wide over blackened teeth and a whiff of putrid breath was all she'd needed to know Li wouldn't be in such a place. She'd stumbled out the door and run across the street into another building, her feet thumping on the wooden planks and her eyes burning so badly tears ran down her cheeks.

It had been the opium, or so the proprietor of the Spider's Den had told her. The man had helped her dry her streaming eyes without asking why a girl of twelve years was wandering the streets of San Francisco alone. Mr. Bell was a kindly old man who loved spiders so much he let them run free in his establishment. Nettie wished she had found her brother with Mr. Bell. It was the only place she'd felt at home in San Francisco. The old man was not only friends with the spiders, he had little furry manlike creatures he called monkeys and a talkative parrot. He even claimed to have a bear, though it was on loan to a group of traveling entertainers.

Nettie took another step into the Palace of the White Tigress. It even looked like a palace from the outside, with tall towers and fancy woodwork. Mr. Bell had told her this was a gentleman's establishment, though Nettie wasn't sure what he meant. He said he ran a gentleman's establishment, too, but his was an honest place.

Implying, perhaps, that the Palace of the White Tigress was not.

Nettie gathered her courage and walked over to the big man, putting her hands up on the counter she could barely see over. “Excuse me. I'm looking for Wu Li.”

The big man tilted his head toward a broad stairway at the back of the room and grunted. Nettie dropped her hands from the counter and hurried to the stairs. She climbed the staircase carefully. A pain started deep in her chest, growing more intense with each step. It wasn't physical pain, Nettie knew that. She was worried that she wouldn't find Li waiting upstairs. And terrified that she would.

A long hall greeted her at the top of the stairway. She followed the ornate rug, quietly moving past a row of closed doors, that led to a room in one of the round towers she'd seen from outside. Thick red curtains draped gracefully along the sides of three enormous windows. The center of the room was taken up by a round table, its dark red surface polished to a shine that reflected the teacup-sized white flowers carefully arranged in a round red-and-white vase. Narrow shelves holding a variety of vases and figurines sat against the slender walls separating the windows. The scent of sandalwood incense was stronger up here, and Nettie stifled a sneeze.

A young man wearing an embroidered Chinese robe topped with a heavy leather vest stood in front of the center window facing her, hands tucked behind his back. The man's hair hung loose around his shoulders in a style she had never seen before. A woven band across his forehead held the hair back from his face, except for two thin sections allowed to drape over the band on either side of his forehead. The hair on top of his head had been gathered together, tied in a knot, then left to hang loose down his back with the rest of his hair.

Nettie peered at the man's face and swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. The hair and the clothes were different, but the face was definitely her brother's. “Li?”

“There is no one here by that name.”

Li's eyes were always full of light and mischief. This man's eyes were as flat as his voice.

She moved closer, step by step, until the only thing standing between them was the polished wooden table. She squinted at the man, studying the way he stood, the way he held his chin. Then she grinned. It
was
her brother, playing another one of his silly tricks. “You idiot. I was so worried. No one knew where you'd gone.” She started to walk around the table. “Mama Wu's worried, too, though she says she's not. She even made strawberry pie.” Mama Wu always said Li would climb mountains and swim oceans for a piece of her strawberry pie. Nettie waited for her brother to break into an impish smile, but Li didn't move.

“I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. Now leave before I have you thrown out.”

Nettie stopped, her chest tightening as if all the webs in the Spider's Den had dropped down and wrapped themselves around her heart. She drew in a deep breath. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. “Mama Wu said you were studying with Doctor Low.”

“Even if I were this ‘Li,' I would never seek teaching from someone like Low.” Li lifted his chin. “He is only an Earth Mage and not a very good one. The White Tigress”—he nodded at the woman who'd just entered the room—“is a great Fire Master. She can teach me things Doctor Low could only dream of.”

“Doctor Low's store burned to the ground two nights ago,” Nettie said quietly. “He couldn't get out. They found his body in the morning. The neighbors said you were gone, but I didn't know . . . I thought . . .” The words tied themselves into a knot in her throat.

The woman glided past her, moving around the table until she stood next to Li. “As you can see, my apprentice is just fine.” Not much taller than Nettie, the woman had glittering, almond-shaped eyes like Mama Wu's, a beautifully round face, and shiny black hair piled on top of her head in a round bun stuck through with sharp-looking needles. A brilliant red comb with gold chains draped across her brow. Her dark red kimono shimmered in the dim light, and the comb seemed to writhe in her hair. She tapped Li on the arm with a folded red fan. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your little friend?”

“I do not have any friends.” Li's face remained expressionless.

Nettie swallowed again. She watched Li watching her and cringed at the lack of warmth—of any emotion—in his eyes. Li had been excited every time he'd visited Doctor Low. Now he didn't seem to care that the doctor was dead. She took a deep breath. This wasn't the boy she'd grown up with, the boy who had held her when she woke crying in the night from unspeakable nightmares. The boy who had wiped blood from her knee when she had tripped over a log, too busy talking to watch where she was going. The boy who had visited the woodland creatures with her, who sang the lullaby so the creatures of the air and stream would come out and play . . .

“If she's not a friend, then why is she here?” The Tigress's smile didn't reach her eyes.

Fear crept up Nettie's back, all prickly and tingly, as if a nest of baby mice had suddenly decided to clamber up into her hair. She shrieked as something furry darted through the doorway and ran straight at her, lips drawn back from its teeth in an angry-looking snarl. It took her a moment to recognize the monkey she'd met earlier at the Spider's Den. Why on earth had it followed her here?

“Get that beast out of here,” the woman said, her voice so cold Nettie shivered.

Nettie looked down in surprise as the monkey grabbed her leg. The little creature gazed up at her, lips pursed. Then the lips spread wide, baring sharp teeth, and the monkey grabbed her hand, trying to pull her toward the door.

“I'm sorry,” Nettie said. “He must've followed me.” She pulled back, trying to get her hand free.

The woman flicked long fingers tipped with vivid red nails, and the flowers on the table in front of Nettie burst into flame. The monkey screeched, dropped Nettie's hand, and bolted back out the door.

Nettie froze. Part of her wanted to scream and run like the monkey; the other part was fascinated. She stared as the flowers shriveled in the flames and died. A tiny voice whispered in her mind.
Magic
.

Was that why Li was here? Because this woman could teach him magic?

In the air, a sheet of flame the size of a window crackled to life, sending Nettie back a step. Li stood beyond the flame, one hand stretched out in front of him as if pushing her away. The flame sputtered as he lowered his arm, then blazed to life when he brought his arm back up. “I told you to go.”

Nettie gazed at her brother as he repeated the motion. He was the one making the flames. But what was he trying to do—show her he'd finally learned some magic, or scare her off?

Ever since his trip to San Francisco last fall, Li had wanted to learn magic. He'd come home with an armload of books he'd gotten from Doctor Low and had spent most of his spare time reading. He started putting names to the unusual creatures only Nettie and he could see, calling the air creatures sylphs and the water creatures nymphs. He'd been excited about what he was learning and claimed he could do strange new things, but throughout all that learning and doing, he'd stayed her brother. Whatever had happened to Li here in the Palace of the White Tigress had changed him. He had learned how to use magic. But at what cost?

“Was it you, Li?” she whispered, gesturing at the flames. “Did you set fire to Doctor Low's store?”

A puzzled look crossed Li's face, and the flames vanished from the air. He glanced at the Tigress, his eyes wide and uncertain. Smiling slightly, she patted his arm. The uncertainty disappeared, and the coldness was back. He glared at Nettie.

“Of course not, you little worm. Now begone.” Li thrust his hand out, palm up. Nettie gasped as a ball of flame gathered between his fingers. He tossed the ball up and caught it again. With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw the ball at her.

Nettie leaped backward. The ball landed on the table, spilling across the wooden surface like a puddle of flaming water. She stared in horror as the puddle shrank in on itself, tighter and tighter until she found herself staring at what appeared to be a salamander made of fire. The salamander hissed, then slithered up into the air, weaving its way back to Li. The Tigress's dark eyes danced.

Her brother stepped to the edge of the table, his eyes blazing. “There is no one here named Li. Begone!” He thrust out his hand again.

Nettie backed up a step, then another. She couldn't leave him here, but she didn't know what else to do. “You remember our song, don't you?” she asked in desperation.