Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (39 page)

In Cousin Esme’s room I found a cheery blaze in the fire
loft, but no signs of tea. My cousin stood by her fireplace, beautifully
dressed as always. Her expression was serious.

“So you and Miss Rutledge can keep order in a kitchen,” she
said, her voice warm with amusement. “That is a good thing to know.”

I was pretty sure there was a basin of water somewhere in
the room.

“Please sit down by the fire, Alfreda. I have asked you here
to propose an expedition to you.”

Once we were seated, my cousin in her high-backed chair and
I on the small caned settee, Cousin Esme gave me a serious look.

“In the past week, I have learned that you are curious,
resourceful, intelligent, brave, and have a gift both for making friends and
inspiring envy. Your skills in running a home are formidable, and you already
have an impressive grasp of magic principles.” She smiled faintly. “You have
the two-edged gifts of saying exactly what is on your mind, and a strong dose
of common sense, which will not endear you to your more romantic peers. I do
not think privilege will ever particularly impress you.”

Clothes were going to
be a problem.

I wasn’t sure yet if the Mayflower Compact would also be
trouble.

“You also have a gift I think of as ‘hiding in plain sight’ . . .
the ability to be noticed, or not noticed. It is an impressive gift,
considering your height. That is a non-magical form of invisibility, and right
now that gift is pure gold to my husband and me. You see, we need a small
errand run. I think that you may be the person to accomplish what needs to be
done.”

Well, this might be
interesting.
One never knew with adults.

“I am about to tell you something that is a secret. Marta
tells me that you are good with secrets . . . and this one is
very important. A small thing in the history of our young country, but
something that needs to be . . . tided up, shall we say.” My cousin looked into the
fireplace, her face solemn. “Can you keep a secret, Alfreda? A secret that must
be kept a long time . . . perhaps past the natural deaths of the people involved?”

Slowly I said, “I am not good at secrets that might get
someone hurt or killed.”

“
My
hope is that this secret will keep people from getting killed,” Cousin Esme
replied. “We are trying to get our hands on definitive proof of someone’s
treachery, so that they will be frozen out of the palaces of power. Three
attempts have been made to get something, anything, proving this person’s
untrustworthiness. All have failed. In fact,” she went on,
sotto voce
, “We begin to wonder if that failure is intentional.”
After a moment Cousin Esme continued in a normal tone of voice. “The . . . professionals . . . at
retrieving information have turned to the magical community in hopes that we
can succeed where they have failed.”

She turned back to me. “We need to retrieve a message from someone
who cannot be connected to this household. It cannot arrive through magic or
post. We cannot penetrate by using magic to where this courier will be, because
the owner of the house where we hope to find him is a magician, and has
magicians working for him.”

She leaned toward me. “Our strongest practitioners are known
to these magicians. So we are sending a former student of ours, a brilliant lawyer
but a minor magical talent. He will attempt to pick up the item, which will be
left in a sealed cylinder in an inconspicuous spot.

“This attempt will be made at a large dinner party at an
estate not far from here.”

“What would you need me to do?” I asked.

“I need you to observe. We have failed to get any magic user
through the doorway of Darkwoods. But you look older than you are, and have
little ritual training. Ritual training is what imprints upon a practitioner
and makes them stand out in the magical world. Your wild magic . . . ” My cousin
reached, her hand hovering above mine. I felt warmth, as if we were touching
each other. “Wild magic has marked you differently. My hope is that by placing
a simple cloaking spell upon you, you would not register as a magician to them.

“And then—” Cousin Esme revealed a smile very similar to the
crooked one Marta occasionally wore “—a spell upon your cross would allow us to
see if the courier truly attempts to hand off the cylinder to my old student.
It may allow us to know if the courier is a double agent, working for two
masters. I cannot cross the threshold of Darkwoods—but you can.”

“
You
think I can pretend to be a maid?”

“
No.”
My cousin shook her head, the holly berries in her hair turning momentarily
blood red in the firelight. “It sometimes happens at this time of year that
servants become ill, or they have family members who are ill. Those servants
are told not to return to the house until everyone has recovered. The kitchen
staff at Darkwoods estate is very short-handed. Therefore several estates will
send over servants to help out during the party.”

“
Will
they take someone from a wizard’s house?” I asked.

“They will take someone who is the daughter of a friend from
rural Connecticut, in town for an extended visit.”

Connecticut?

Connecticut was a
place on a map!

“I don’t know
a thing
about Connecticut,” I told her.

“
There
will be no time for anyone to question you about specifics of Connecticut,” she
said, a flick of her fingers dismissing the problem. “You know the life of a
busy farmstead—you have stories to tell, if needed. I will lay a spell of suppression
upon you. If anyone tries to brush into your mind, they will find the tangled
tapestry of a young farm girl, worried about her chickens in the cold, because
who knows if her brother will see to their safety? And thinking about a boy who
might be making up to another girl in her absence, and what to do with the
material her parents gave her as a Christmas gift . . . . ”

I smiled in turn. “So they cannot tell what I am really
thinking.”

“
No.”

“
Or
that I can work magic?”

“
That
is the actual intent of the spell.”

I thought a long moment. And realized that this might
be . . . tricky. “Will I be able to work magic, if I need it?”

My cousin’s face stilled. “You will only be able to cast
magic if things go badly. If your fear overwhelms you or your actual safety becomes
paramount, you will be able to break free of the suppression spell. I hope that
is not necessary, because I suspect that if you broke through the spell, it
would be . . . noisy.”

Ah. Noisy if I used wild magic, in other words. I had little
control over anything else yet. Except maybe dough balls, and that would take
thought.

“
Who
will I be looking for?” I asked her. “Or will this person be looking for me?”

“
Neither,”
my cousin replied. “The courier should set down a package, probably a cylinder.
And my former student, a tall, red-headed man, will pick up that package during
the evening. I will know who we are watching. You will merely try to face
toward the party guests at every opportunity. If you do not know what the
courier looks like, you cannot give yourself away by your attention toward him.”

“
But
what if someone tidying up sees the package first?” I asked.

“
That
would be unfortunate, but not catastrophic,” was her answer. “If someone tried
to open the cylinder, the contents would be destroyed. Professor Lee would know
that someone had attempted to pass a message in his home, but would not know
who, or why. The courier will leave it someplace inconspicuous, such as behind
a vase. Professor Lee collects vases.”

“
Will
I know why?” I didn’t think I would, at least not now, but I was going to
wonder.

“Not yet,” she replied. “Let us say that the men and women
who helped this country at its birth were very human. They made mistakes; they
were governed by their history and their passions. Some will tell you that a famous
duel was rooted in politics. I believe that the duel was rooted in dishonor. We
live out here, not in town, because the Manhattan Company, formed to bring
clean water to Lower Manhattan, is a sham. Many people will die because of that
sleight of hand. The company’s aim was banking, not safe water.”

Cousin Esme stared into the fireplace again. “Better for now
that it be a secret even from you, Alfreda. Suffice it to say that we are
looking for proof of further dishonor by famous men . . . men who do not have the
best interests of our young country at heart.”

“
How
will you watch?”

“My
husband and I will watch in water, as you have seen done. Miss Rutledge will
assist us. We will send you in Livingston’s carriage, and retrieve you at the
end of the evening. With luck, your presence will allow us to confirm that the
courier is truly working for our cause, and we will have our message at last.
”

“
When
do you need me to go?”

“
Tonight.”

Hell, Hull, and
Halifax.
Exhaustion already clawed at my heels.

“
When
will you do the spell?”

“
Right
now, if you are ready.”

o0o

I ended up seated upon a chair in a ritual circle called
forth by my cousin merely by lifting her hands, palms up. It flared upon the
polished wood floor.
Magical fire?
I
wondered, but did not dare ask. It might be that the ritual had already begun.

“Now.”

Eight perfect, dipped, beeswax candles appeared at the
cardinal points, and halfway between each pair of cardinal points. She snapped
her fingers, and the candles lit.

How powerful does a practitioner have to be to light candles
with a snap?

Nor did she need a wand. I had seen Marta work without a
wand. Was that something about family lines . . . our level of power . . . the type of
ritual?

The fragrance of burning beeswax filled the room, as heady
as harvesting combs on a hot summer’s day. And then it was as if someone was
pouring warm honey over my head, the thick amber wave dripping down my face to
pool around me, fresh from a hive, a feeling like raindrops falling between my
fingers . . . .

It was freezing cold in my corner of the kitchen, but the
women working near the roaring fire sweated as if summer ruled outside the
country manor. I sent a quick prayer to the Lord and Lady of Light that I would
never have to earn my keep by working in such a place.

“’Ware the pot!” an older woman shouted, rushing from fire
to worktable with two full copper kettles. I swung sideways and crammed myself
between my bench and the wall, out of her way.

The kitchen at Darkwoods estate was barely contained chaos.
The workers were as noisy and busy as a flock of wild turkeys settling onto a
harvested field. I was properly planted in the magician Lee’s home, but I had
no idea how I was going to get out into the main spaces of the house.

I had been prepared as if I was a bride, from my gray dress
and a clean, starched, full apron to my hair braided and coiled on my head like
a crown.

You need to look as if
you could run an errand to the front of the house,
Dr. Livingston explained,
nodding his approval of my attire.
Not a
scullery maid, but a go-between. You must listen for opportunity, for a chance
to go to the front.

Scullery maids scrubbed pots; I knew that much.

The low-burning tallow candle sputtering on the soot-blackened
beam over the fireplace showed that it had been two hours since I’d arrived. To
casual eyes I was just a country girl delivered by carriage to protect her from
the biting wind. My oldest shawl hung on a peg in the mudroom. I had been given
a huge over-apron and immediately set to work peeling hardboiled eggs.

No wand. They could not risk my being found with one.
We will see what you see, Miss Sorensson,
Margaret told me as she tied my apron with a lovely bow. The spell on the cross
around my neck guaranteed that.

They could see . . . but not communicate. My magic was Cousin Esme’s
spell of invisibility upon my mind, a veil made of the thoughts of a kitchen
maid from Connecticut.

I carried with me two magical weapons, because they would
not let me carry my knife. The first, Shaw’s coin, I had shown to Cousin Esme.
She had studied it intently for a time, and then said, “From Mr. Kristinsson?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I had replied.

“A last defense,” she said calmly. “Do not throw it inside
the house. It smells like fire.”

I had gingerly placed it in my right apron pocket.

The other weapon, in my left apron pocket, I kept totally to
myself.

It was part of a cake of yeast.

“Are you done with those eggs yet?” the cook called as she
strode through the room. She was a big woman, enormously strong, and ruled her
small kitchen kingdom with a firm hand. I had not learned her name. I was not
important enough to be introduced to the head of the kitchen, so like the other
newcomers I called her ‘ma’am’. Privately I thought of her as Cook, as some of
the workers reverently referred to her.

Spooning the whipped yolk into the last egg half, I said “Yes,
ma’am, they’re ready!”

“Good girl,” was her response as she picked up the tray. “Well
done. Go help Lucy with the biscuits.” She hurried to give the tray to a young
man dressed in formal livery.

I searched for someone baking until a female voice yelled “Over
here!”

Once I reached the bread table I found a solid young woman
with a tense tilt to her blonde head dumping dough out onto the center of a
flour-covered butcher block. She tossed me a tin biscuit cutter and began to
roll out her dough.