Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (6 page)

The lit candle died as we passed it.

I will always follow her.

She has that effect on people.

o0o

The walls of this floor were made of wood painted white or
whitewashed, and that pale color kept the hallway from being gloomy. All
candles were positioned on hinged brackets above our heads, glass chimneys
protecting them from drafts and us from flame. I looked sharp as we walked, but
I did not see dust on the bronze arm or grime on the glass. Clearly my cousin
was a formidable housekeeper—or she had an army of helpers keeping up the
place.

I hoped none of them were slaves.

The third candle chimney caused me to look twice.

Did I see something look
back
at me?

I stopped and stared at the candle a long time. A steady,
yellow flame, nothing out of the ordinary . . . .

“Allie, come along!”

I hurried to catch up to Marta.

We reached a staircase that was wider than the hallway. “This
is the family wing of this mansion, which also houses students and servants. If
you keep walking down that hall, you will reach the central part of the house.
That central staircase takes you to the guest rooms, the professors’ private
workrooms, and the room warded for major spell casting. You won’t need that for
a while yet. For now, this staircase takes you to your world.” Taking hold of
the smooth, square banister, Marta moved quickly downstairs.

Only Marta would guess that this place felt like a strange
forest to me. I had no landmarks, knew none of the noises . . . .
 
I looked around as I walked
downstairs and realized that I was looking
for
someone. I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched.

Our destination was close by. Pausing before a door, Marta
murmured: “This is the north room. During winter Esme uses it for private
conferences with students and their families, and as a gathering place in the
evening. You do not have to curtsy, but you may if you’d like, it’s proper and
formal for a young girl.” With that, she knocked three times and then opened
the door.

We walked over polished oak floorboards into a room with
high walls painted robin’s egg blue. There was a mural painted on the ceiling
and the designs carved around the fireplace were beautiful, but I wasn’t going
to gawk like someone going to see the lions.

A cheery fire was burning, the occasional flame of blue or
green hinting at mineral salts sprinkled over the seasoned firewood. My gaze
skipped past a sewing chest, cloth, and hoop frames to the windows. They were
huge, and clear, and I cannot begin to tell you how wonderful those windows
were to me! I wanted to walk over and look through that glass. It was a
physical aching, remaining next to Marta and keeping my feet nailed to the
floor. Finally I turned my head, facing toward the fireplace and the slender
woman seated near the screen.

Cousin Esme was closer to Marta’s age than to my mother’s
age, but she looked no older than mother’s eternally beautiful older sister
Aunt Sunhild. Dark brown hair twisted gracefully from the knot up on her head,
ringlets cascading to brush her neck and shoulders. She had huge dark eyes
rimmed with dark lashes, and eyebrows that canted like bird wings.

Those eyes looked right through me and out between my
shoulder blades. There was nothing threatening in that look, precisely, but I
felt like I was being assessed like a cupboard—one layer at a time, top to bottom.

Marta had mentioned once that Cousin Esme did not tell
people she was half Irish. There was some prejudice against those poorer cot
holders who had come to the new world for a different life. I did not know how
she hid this—she looked very Irish to me.

But then what those of different gifts—those without magic—saw
when they looked at Cousin Esme might be very different. Even other magic-users
might see only what she chose to reveal.

The woman stood, the serenity of confidence wrapping her
like a cloak. It was as if she was in the heart of her power, and feared
nothing within its walls. She was shorter than my mother, but her presence made
her
feel
taller.

“
Esme,
I want to introduce Garda’s daughter Alfreda to you. Alfreda, I make you known
to Professor Esme Aisling Perry Livingston, your cousin through your mother’s
family.”

Good thing I’d practiced a curtsy.

I wasn’t sure if I should rise or not—she wasn’t a queen,
not in the sense most people used the word—so I bent my knee and my head, trying
not to bounce, and said, “Ma’am,” as I tried to lower myself enough to become,
if only for a moment, the same height as my mother’s cousin.

Cousin Esme extended a hand to me. “Stand, child. I am sure
that is hard on your knees.” I did as she requested, and tried to stand
straight, hoping the shawl would not take a flying leap off my arms.

Shaking hands with Cousin Esme was not like anything I had
previously experienced. Touching her hand reminded me of the time I struck at a
demon with an iron poker. A crackle of energy sparked from our hands. I didn’t
know if Marta knew; I didn’t see the movement of energy, I only felt it.

Cousin Esme’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and I felt a tiny
stab like a needle trying my defenses. For a moment the shield enclosing my
mind and soul slipped. The resulting shift in energy made both women flinch
back from me. I hastily threw up a wall against probing from anything watching
our meeting, and hoped neither Cousin Esme nor Marta would try that again.

Marta was smiling gently. She and Cousin Esme traded knowing
glances, and then Cousin Esme said: “I can see that Alfreda will help keep the
school lively! Sit, if you please.” Gesturing at the opposite chair and the
small couch, she sat down and poured tea.

And next? Well, I can tell you that I worked hard for my tea
and scones. One minute she was asking about the proper dosage of teas made for
ladies who were increasing, and the next she wanted to know would I make a
decoction, or perhaps a cold compress when using the herb boneset?

Oh, dear. I surely hoped this was a trick question. “Boneset
has a lot of uses,” I started. “But we use the herb, not the rootstock, so I
learned to make an infusion or a tincture of it. Cold, it is a mild laxative,
and warm it’s a diaphoretic and emetic, and is useful for breaking up a cold,
or for fever, and even for flu. Hot, you need to be careful, because it’s both
cathartic and emetic.” When no one spoke, I added: “It tastes nasty, very
bitter, so I would add honey to it to kill some of the taste.”

“
Good,”
Cousin Esme replied. “And how about wild carrot seed?”

“
Important
to lots of folks,” I started. “Infusion or decoction for the seeds, but the
rootstock can also be made into a soup or juice. Carrot seed starts up your
moon time, so you don’t want to use it when you want to be increasing. It is
very effective for most women in preventing a pregnancy, but you
must
take your dose of seed every day.
You miss a day, and it won’t prevent you from ending up in the family way.”

Cousin Esme smiled, and those expressions made her look very
much like Marta. For a moment, these two merged in my mind, and I found myself
wondering whose smile it was that had marked them. Had they shared a teacher at
one time? Or was it something women who were practitioners gradually acquired?
Then I thought back to see if Cory ever looked that way, which meant I missed
half her next question.

“
Ma’am?”
I said quickly; she’d caught me woolgathering.

Cousin Esme’s smile slightly opened her mouth; her
expression was amused. “Yes, we did,” she answered. “Now, your cousin tells me
that you have delivered several babies, including twins. Let’s speak of that.”

I wasn’t sure if she was answering my thought about being
caught flat-footed, or . . . the thought before it, about a
former teacher they’d shared. So I just plowed on.

I told her about delivering twins on Twelfth Night, with
Marta too far away to advise me, and the Wild Hunt between the Moore’s cabin
and Marta’s home. I gave Marta a quick glance, to see if she was starting to frown—meaning
I could leave that part out of my story—but Marta just sat there, nodding her
agreement at various points.

“
You
can mention your Good Friend,” Marta said when I reached a place to pause. “And
the poltergeist.”

I did not need to tell Cousin Esme that a Good Friend was a
spirit who willingly chose to help a practitioner work magic; she undoubtedly
had her own Good Friend. More than one Good Friend could appear for someone
overwhelmingly Talented.

And so I explained about losing Marta’s horse in the snow,
and my Good Friend, in his guise as a white stag, rescuing me from ghouls and
then carrying me through the horde of dark faery. The story about the
poltergeist that fled when my troubles with the Hudsons began was woven in
there somewhere.

“
Wild
Magic follows you,” Cousin Esme said abruptly, glancing at my cousin Marta.

“
More
than once,” Marta agreed. “Tell her about controlling the tornado in the snow
storm.”

Well, I was surprised I was jumping ahead of the story, but
I did, explaining how I’d caught a wisp of wind as I moved through a snowstorm,
holding onto it in case I needed a weapon. Yes, it sounds strange now, but then
I didn’t think about it. I had never willingly harmed anything, especially a
man—but that night Death itself used me as its weapon to reach an ancient and
corrupt evil that had once called itself human.

As I found a rock to cling to in the river of narrative,
Cousin Esme suddenly asked: “What is the first rule of wizardry?”

I just stared at her.

Marta said: “Actually we taught her the second rule first—in
her case, we thought it best. Do you remember, Alfreda, when we asked you which
plant was Queen Anne’s lace?”

Ah.

How to explain it simply? “The lesson was to realize how
much you don’t know. And that what you don’t know may be more dangerous than
everything you do know.”

Cousin Esme nodded, and said: “Drink your tea, child. You
won’t get that quality in the dining room on a Saturday.”

Then she turned her attention to Marta, and I took a nice
mouthful of tea (since it had cooled a bit) and nibbled on my buttered scone.
It was a lovely thing, moist and flavorful, with the smallest amount of lift to
the dough. Almost like pastry dotted with tart pieces of fruit. I wondered if
the cook would share the recipe, and if I could make it in a wood-burning oven.
I’d heard about “stoves” but hadn’t seen one yet.

“
I’ll
teach her,” Cousin Esme said, and I blinked. So, they hadn’t known for sure
that she’d take me. “You know how much is happening right now, but I lost my
herb and potions teacher, and she could definitely teach the first-year
students, and perhaps more. Her age doesn’t need to be known around the school.
I’ll do a thorough review later this week. Tell Garda and Eldon that her herbal
assistance will cover room and board. We’ll set her up with basic ritual work
and then talk about whether she’ll stay longer or return to your house.”

So Momma and Papa are
paying for some of this training
. I was glad that Cousin Esme thought I had
something worth trading. I wondered what my parents had traded—or were still
trading—with Marta.

I had not considered that Cousin Esme might be unwilling to
teach me. I hoped I could make it worth her time.

My scone disappeared and then I eyed the pile before me.
There were a dozen still there, despite the remains of scones on Marta and Esme’s
plates. After thought, I took another. Two wouldn’t seem like too much.

Cousin Esme then said: “Did you design that dress, Alfreda,
or did your mother make it?” Her look was a tad sharper than it had been, and
took in my feet, slightly tucked back under my own skirt.

“
Momma
wove the material, after we spun and dyed the wool,” I started out. “Marta and
I changed it slightly after we visited . . . Cloudcatcher . . .
to match the high-waisted dress the Squire’s daughter was wearing.”

“
She
did it herself,” Marta added. “I just double-checked everything new to her, and
showed her how to use an awl to make thread holes for her slippers. Her leather
interpretation of the silk shoes was masterful.”

But they’re not as
pretty as Jesse Gunnarsson’s French slippers
. I held my tongue while
discussion of American woven goods as compared to British and French materials
slipped back and forth around me. I finally sent a good thought to my shoes—I
didn’t want them to feel unwanted—and told them that I was glad I’d made them,
they were so warm and didn’t slip a bit on the rug. The tanned leather was a
beautiful golden brown, pale as early autumn leaves.

I didn’t want to be too different when someone looked over
Esme’s students.

“
Her
athame will be ready soon,” Marta said. “For her wand, of course she tested for
oak, but she doesn’t have one yet.”

“
I
think all Schell descendants use oak,” Cousin Esme replied, smiling at me
again. “Well, Alfreda Sorensson, are you ready to enter the study of ritual
magic?”

“
Probably
not,” I admitted.

Cousin Esme blinked.

“
I
probably have too many holes in my knowing, missing pieces that will be
dangerous. But if you and Cousin Marta think I’m ready, then I must be.”

Her expression solemn, Cousin Esme said: “She’ll do, Marta.
I suspect the goddess and the consort protect her. We’ll see what we can do to
help them out.”

I clenched my jaw to prevent a nervous giggle. The idea of
helping the Lord and Lady of Light just seemed too silly for words.