Lady of Magick (22 page)

“Did you,” Una began. She paused, then began again: “Did you know—”

“No,” said Sophie at once. “Or only a very little before the news was made public here, in a letter from my father; and at the same time he insisted upon silence, so of course I could not say anything about it to anyone.”

Una's gaze was steady upon Sophie's face, solemn and considering. “Good,” she said at last, with a sharp nod.

Sophie felt oddly as though she had just passed some sort of test, without at all knowing in what the ordeal consisted.

“And now,” said Una, her solemn face breaking into a grin, “you must tell us all about Lucia MacNeill's betrothed!”

In the lively discussion that followed, Eithne was oddly silent, but Sophie was so much encouraged by Una's reaction that she scarcely remarked it.

Gray was quite right,
she thought wonderingly.
It is a relief not to be hiding any longer.

Sophie was playing
something unusually mournful on the pianoforte, and Gray listening whilst reading and drinking tea, when Mór MacRury called in Quarry Close very early one January morning.

Apart from Sophie's choice of music, none of these circumstances was at all out of the common way. It had become a settled habit for many of their University acquaintance to call upon them at all hours, for the scholars of Din Edin shared with those of Oxford a general tendency to disregard those social conventions which they found inconvenient; and such visits had become more frequent in the past fortnight, as their friends chose this means amongst others to show that, manifestations against Lucia MacNeill's marriage notwithstanding, the Marshalls had been welcomed by the University and remained so. Goff and Tredinnick, and the various relief sentries lent to them by Lord de Courcy since the announcement of the betrothal, by now knew all of Gray's and Sophie's friends by sight, and so they were never hindered in their progress up Quarry Close by any inconvenient encounter with an apparent shipping-clerk or itinerant knife-mender. And Gray often asked Sophie to play for him when there was a particularly trying student essay to be read.

This one was very trying indeed, and Sophie's melancholic humour was becoming infectious. It was with some relief, therefore, that Gray rose from his armchair in reply to a more than usually insistent knocking at the front door.

His relief was short-lived, however, for upon opening it, he beheld Mór MacRury standing on the step, wearing a heavy woollen cloak and an anxious expression.

“Is Sophie here?” she said, in lieu of a greeting. “I must speak to her—is she—”

“She is here,” said Gray, cautiously. “Mór, are you quite well?” A thought occurred to him, and he added, “There has not been some new disturbance? You are not hurt?”

He stood aside to let her in and to shut out the heavy rain.

The melancholy music ceased, and footsteps succeeded it.

“Mór!” said Sophie, with uncomplicated welcome in her voice. “Come in and sit down! Oh, you are wet through—”

Mór only stared at her, a small frown creasing her brow; she seemed not to hear Gray's offer to hang up her damp cloak to dry, or Sophie's of a fresh pot of tea, and Sophie at last faltered into silence.

“Sophie,” said Mór, when the silence had gone on so long as to be nearly unbearable. “Why did you never tell me?”

Gray sighed; Sophie flushed an unbecoming crimson, and looked at her toes.

“I suppose you have been speaking to Eithne MacLachlan,” she said. “I am sorry; of course I meant to tell you myself, but you were ill in bed all the past se'nnight, and it did not seem—”

“So it
is
true, then.” Mór MacRury's vivid eyes were large with the aftermath of fever. “You are truly the daughter of King Henry—the Lost Princess—the sister of Lucia MacNeill's Prince Roland. Everyone is talking of it, Sorcha says.”

“Yes,” said Sophie, almost inaudibly. “And Eithne MacLachlan, it seems, cannot forgive me for it. That, I suppose, is the source of the rumours, for Lucia MacNeill I am sure has said nothing to anyone.”

Ah. That explains the melancholy music.
Sophie had told him very
cheerfully that Lucia MacNeill and Una MacSherry had taken the news in good part; why had he not remarked her (in retrospect, obvious) omission of her other close comrade?

Gray crossed the small sitting-room to stand behind her, laying a protective hand on each of her rounded shoulders. “Sophie is the Princess Edith Augusta through an accident of birth,” he said, frowning down at Mór MacRury, “and lost because her mother loved her too well to give her up to be raised by the Iberian Empress.”

His left thumb stroked the soft curve of Sophie's neck, skin against warm skin to draw strength and to give it. “She is Sophie Marshall through her own choice and promises, and a member of this University—if only a temporary one—on her merits as a scholar. I should hope, Mór MacRury, that you are a woman of sufficient sense, and stand enough our friend, to judge rightly which of these titles best reflect her character.”

As Gray's speech proceeded—his voice, despite his best efforts, growing rather edged—Sophie's left hand had come up to her shoulder to grip his fingers, and Mór's astonished gaze had transferred itself from Sophie's bent head to his face.

“I am sorry,” she said, low. “I meant no insult, Sophie. Only—”

Sophie straightened her spine and raised her head. “I beg you will think no more of it,” she said, with fragile dignity. “It is my own fault, for being so stupid as to attempt concealment.”

“Sophie—”

“Please, Mór.” Sophie's fingers tightened painfully around Gray's; he gently pressed her other shoulder, and at once she loosened her grip, glancing up in mute apology.

Mór dropped into Gray's chair and sat very still, studying her clasped hands. Gray nudged Sophie gently in the direction of her own chair, which faced his; when she had taken the hint and sunk down into it, he came round one side and, keeping one hand on Sophie's shoulder, perched on the upholstered chair-arm, both feet flat on the threadbare carpet beneath. Sophie leant briefly against his side.

“What do you mean to do now?” Mór asked, raising her eyes at last.

Sophie sat up straight. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “What should I mean to do, but what I came to Din Edin for?”

Mór MacRury frowned at Gray as though to say,
Surely
you
understand what I am driving at?
“If I were your father,” she said, turning her gaze back to Sophie, “I should not be at all easy in my mind as to your safety in Din Edin at present.”

“She is not unguarded,” said Gray, bristling a little. “His Majesty is not so careless, and nor am I.”

“Ah.” Mór MacRury's expression cleared a little; she looked speculatively at Sophie, who looked away. “They must be very discreet, these guards.”

“They are,” said Gray; “I daresay you have seen them dozens of times, without recognising them as such. Sophie does not like to feel . . . hemmed in.”

“In any case, Mór MacRury,” said Sophie, “I hope you do not think we shall be chased out of Din Edin by a few malcontents chanting slogans!”

“Sophie, if Mór thinks it truly dangerous—”

“If you have guards always by, that does put a different complexion on the matter,” said Mór MacRury. “It may well be that this present unrest is only a maelstrom in a millpond. I will say, on that head, that I have lived in Din Edin nearly half my life, and seen many public scandals come and go—I should not be greatly surprised if this one were no different.”

“There, Gray,” said Sophie, looking up at him.

Gray was not altogether persuaded; he did not choose to continue the dispute before an audience, however, and therefore shut his mouth until Mór MacRury had gone away.

*   *   *

“Eithne MacLachlan?” said Gray, when the front door had closed behind their visitor.

“Do you remember the Chancellor's dinner party?” said Sophie, à propos of nothing which Gray could divine.

“Ye-es,” he said.

“Then you will recall Eithne's cousin Conall MacLachlan,” said Sophie, “the collector of
Lepidoptera
who asked me so many questions about Breizh?”

“Oh,” said Gray vaguely, attempting to dismiss from his mind the arresting image of Sophie's fingers spread across the keys of a pianoforte. “Yes”—and then, making the connexion at last, “You thought he suspected you. Did he so, indeed?”

“So Eithne told me.” Sophie sighed, putting her face in her hands for a moment; on raising her head again she said, “After speaking to me at length, he concluded that he had erred—though by now I suppose he has discovered his mistake. Eithne had heard his verdict from her mother, and so she would not believe me until I showed her Mama's magick. And now I wish I had not done it.”

Sophie sprang up from her chair and began pacing in tight circles about the sitting-room.

Gray watched her for the length of three circuits, pondering his approach. Sophie in furious motion was, as always, a sight both daunting and alluring. He could, he suspected, stop this crisis in its tracks by distracting her with kisses—but only for the moment, and (though the temptation was strong, for many reasons) that of course would not do.

“Should you,” he began, cautiously, “have any strong objection to my consulting Lord de Courcy? Though I am sure that if he believed us to be in danger, we should have heard from him before now; he certainly was not laggard in—how did he put it?—
strengthening your security detail
after the announcement was made.”

“I have no intention of fleeing back to London with my tail between my legs,” said Sophie, folding her arms. “If Lucia MacNeill can walk the streets of Din Edin in safety, surely we can do so also? She is not better guarded than we are, with Courcy's men as well as our own, and she is far more directly concerned in the case.”

“But she is on her home ground,” said Gray, “and we are not.” He
was also reasonably certain that Lucia MacNeill was indeed rather better guarded than Sophie; he and his colleagues had remarked, if Sophie had not, the half-dozen new students, strapping young men (and one young woman) with the alert and serious look of those trained in arms and sworn to service, at least three of whom were now seen to inhabit whatever corner of the University Lucia MacNeill happened to be in. Lord de Courcy could not possibly spare so many; his household had no more than a dozen guards all told—the better, as Powell had explained, to reinforce his status as peaceful emissary rather than reconnaissance force—though the look of the Courcys' coachman and footmen suggested to Gray that they too might be good men in a fight.

He sighed. “If it were possible, I should wish you shielded from all possible harm,” he said, “though I am perfectly well aware how little you like my saying so; and I confess that I should think you safer in London, or in Oxford, or anywhere south of the Wall. You could pay a visit to Breizh, you know, if you do not like to go to London without me—”

Sophie huffed an exasperated sigh. “It is not
London
that I object to,” she said; and, softening her tone, added, “
Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.
You remember, Gray.”

She crossed the sitting-room to stand before him, so close that the fall of her skirts hid the toes of his boots, and taking his hands in hers, she looked up at him with her heart in her dark eyes.

“Yes,” said Gray, who had never held out much hope of winning this argument, and now had none. “I remember.”

Sophie let go his hands and for a moment leant her head against the buttons of his waistcoat, sliding her arms about his waist as he curved his around her shoulders. When she looked up again, she was smiling, and he was lost.

*   *   *

In the absence of Eithne MacLachlan's company, Sophie began to spend more of her time with Lucia MacNeill, who—though she was
on good terms with everyone, and her circle of friends appeared to embrace half the population of the University—had, Sophie discovered, very few trusted and intimate acquaintance.

Lucia MacNeill inquired, with a surprising diffidence, whether Sophie might teach her a little Français, and some English. Less surprisingly, she also wished Sophie to tell her all about Roland—not of his appearance (for she had seen a portrait) or his pedigree or his magickal talent, all of which must already have been discussed at some length, but of the man himself. Was he clever? Had he a head for politics, or did he prefer his books? What were his favourite poets, his favourite songs, his preferred recreations? Had he (and here Lucia MacNeill's voice faltered a little, and a flush spread across her delicate cheekbones) any particular favourites amongst the young women at his father's Court?

It was easier for Sophie to keep her countenance now that she felt free to use her concealing magick at need. “He is not sixteen,” she temporised. “I love my brother very much, Lucia, but do remember that he is only a boy.”

“You were married at seventeen,” said Lucia MacNeill. “Or so I am told.”

Sophie could not deny it. “It is not a course of action which I should necessarily recommend,” she said.

Lucia MacNeill's fine-drawn brows drew together in worry. “Sophie, surely if you were unhappy, your father—”

“No, no!” cried Sophie in some alarm. “That is not what I meant, at all. And I shall tell you, though I should not own it to anybody else, that my father
did
try to persuade me—to persuade both of us—to renounce our promises, knowing that they had been made in haste, and that I have never regretted refusing him. I only meant that had it been in my power to choose, I should have wished for a longer engagement. Though certainly we were well enough acquainted.”

“Longer than . . . ?”

Sophie blushed and ducked her head; it sounded so much more
absurd when spoken aloud to one who had not been there. “Than three days.”

Lucia MacNeill clapped one hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of startled laughter. Above her long fingers, her blue eyes danced.

“In that case,” she said, after a moment, “I believe I may undertake not to follow your example. But”—and here her voice grew hesitant, and her expression unexpectedly shy—“I hope I may rely on you for advice, as I have no mother or elder sister to guide me?”

“Of course you may.” Sophie smiled at her in a rush of real affection. “I have not said it before, but I shall be very glad to call you sister.”

Then, pointing to herself: “In Latin,
soror
; in English,
sister
.”

“Sister,”
Lucia MacNeill repeated.