Guardian - Stolen Magic Part 8

Meg did lie down briefly, but her mind was too active for her to rest, so she rose and began exploring her new home. Occasionally she met servants and inclined her head in a friendly way, but she didn't ask any for directions. It was more interesting to wander.

And she did, from the kitchens to the attics. Though she avoided Simon's study, where she heard the murmurs of him and his secretary, there were plenty of other things to discover. The house was richly furnished, but it had an air of disuse, as if it longed for more people to move through the high-ceilinged rooms or to dance in the long gallery.

At the back of the second floor, she found a small room containing a frame and sewing box that had been used by Simon's mother many years ago. Meg scooped up a handful of the richly colored silk thread and had a faint, clear sense that she had done embroidery in the past, but she had never enjoyed it. She tried to envision a scene when she had embroidered-a place, a time, a teacher-but with no success. She returned the silks to the box, frustrated.

At length she ended in the library, thinking she could at least practice her reading, which was improving swiftly now that she was no longer bespelled. She was absorbed in a volume on gardening when a footman entered the room and presented a silver tray with a card placed precisely in the middle. Remembering that this was how visitors made their presence known, she took the card and read "The Honorable Jean Macrae." There were Macraes among the Guardians. "Please show the lady in."

She expected an older woman like Lady Bethany, so she was surprised when a pet.i.te redhead of about Meg's age was shown into the library. "Forgive my calling without a formal introduction," the newcomer said with a charming hint of Scotland in her voice, "but your husband and my brother have been lifelong friends so I am peris.h.i.+ng of curiosity to meet Simon's bride."

Remembering the storm that saved her and the unicorn, Meg said, "Is your brother Duncan Macrae?"

The visitor nodded. "You've heard of him, I see."

"Please sit down, Miss Macrae. Shall I ring for refreshments?"

"Later, perhaps. And please, call me Jean. We Scots are an informal lot." Jean perched on the sofa. "I'm staying with Lady Bethany. When she returned today from a mad dash to the country, she suggested that I call on you."

"Are you here to teach me?" Meg a.s.sumed her visitor must be a Guardian, but didn't want to be specific until she was sure.

Jean grinned. "Though Lady Beth is a.s.sembling a team of tutors for you, I would be useful only as an example of what not to do. Lady Beth thought we might offer support to each other, since I am also new to London."

So Lady Bethany had sent this charming young woman to be a friend. Beginning to relax, Meg asked, "Why are you a bad example?"

"I have some power, but I've never learned to use it well. I was always busy running the estate, since no one else in the family was of a practical turn of mind." Jean shrugged. "My brother was so gifted that I decided it was easier to concentrate on cattle and cottages."

"I'm told I have a great deal of power, but I need to learn to use it. My . . . my husband has been teaching me the basics, but he'l be busy now that we're back in London. I look forward to having other tutors as well." Meg thought of the flowers that she'd accidentally turned into dry husks. "I hope that happens before I do damage!"

Jean nodded vigorously. "Magic is alarming, isn't it? We Guardians are supposed to be blessed, but it seems to me that power is usually more trouble than it's worth." She paused. "There are times when it's useful, though."

Meg felt a distinct wave of pain from Jean as she spoke. There was more to Jean Macrae than a saucy hat and green eyes. "Some dreadful thing happened to you," Meg said slowly. "Or should I pretend not to have noticed?"

"You really are talented." Jean glanced away, her expression flat. "I lost my sweetheart in the Rising. At the Battle of Culloden Moor."

"I'm so sorry," Meg said, feeling the sorrow of that death as vividly as if it were her own. Even as simple Mad Meggie, she had heard the stories of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the b.l.o.o.d.y battles that surrounded his rebellion.

"Aren't you going to ask which side he fought for?" Jean said dryly. "Most people do."

"Grief is grief," Meg replied. "The politics don't matter to me."

"That's . . . refres.h.i.+ng. The politics matter a great deal to most people." Jean began twisting a ring on her right hand. "Ever since Robbie's death, my family has been trying to persuade me to come to London. In theory, to broaden my horizons. In truth, they want me to cease mourning and look for a husband. I wasn 't ready to come to London until now, and I still have no interest in the husband." Her smile returned. "But London is definitely entertaining."

Meg decided that she and Jean had a great deal in common. They each had experiences that set them apart from other young women, and neither of them was keen on matrimony. "Shall we get into trouble together?"

Jean burst into laughter, her shadows lifting. "What a splendid idea. Duncan and Simon shall be sorry we met."

"Already I am shuddering," Falconer said as he entered the library, tall and devastatingly elegant in what was clearly a costume tailored for him rather than borrowed. "h.e.l.lo, Jean. It's good to see you."

"Simon!" Unintimidated by his grandeur, Jean bounced to her feet and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. "It's been too long since you visited us at Dunrath."

He smiled down at her. "I shall refrain from pointing out how long it has taken for you to get the courage to come to London."

Jean laughed. "London doesn't require courage, merely an ability to ignore noise and smells."

Meg found herself envying the easy banter between Jean and Falconer. Her relations.h.i.+p with him was far more . . . complicated.

Jean continued, "Lady Beth is enlisting teachers for Meg. Mrs. Evans for healing, Lady Sterling for communicating, Sir Jasper Polmarric for illusions-the best mages now in London. She thinks they will help Meg get a sense of her strengths and weaknesses."

"Will you give Meg a lesson or two on protection?" Falconer asked. "You're particularly good in that area, I believe."

Jean's fair complexion pinkened. "I thought you didn't know about that."

"I do my best to cultivate a reputation for omniscience," he said gravely while Meg wondered what the byplay was about. Something to do with the rebellion, she guessed.

Firmly burying the topic, Jean said, "I'l be happy to discuss protection with Meg, but first I must warn you that Lady Bethany is planning a ball in honor of your marriage."

Falconer sighed. "I was afraid of that. Meg, do you think you can face a vast crowd of people anxious to admire you?"

In that moment, Meg truly understood why Falconer had been so reluctant to accept a mock marriage. They were living a lie. They were lying to Jean right now, they would lie to dozens, even hundreds, of people who wished them well. No wonder Falconer hadn't wanted to do this-it felt wretched. In the abstract, Meg hadn't minded, but she found that she hated lying to a generous, good-hearted person like Jean.

Yet she saw no other alternative, since she still had no desire to marry, not even Lord Falconer. So she must lie. "I hope Lady Bethany's lessons in London manners will prevent me from disgracing you."

"It will not be so difficult," Falconer promised. "Beauty is the best and oldest protection, so you will be much admired."

He thought her beautiful? Though she told herself that was only lingering unicorn magic talking, Falconer's words gave Meg a warm glow. "A splendid gown will help."

"And you shall have that." Falconer glanced at Jean as he prepared to leave. "Will you dine with us later?"

"I don't want to wear out my welcome the first day," Jean said. "But if Meg is interested, I will give her a lesson on protection now."

"I would like that. London makes me crave as much protection as I can find. Until later, my lord." Meg gave Falconer her warmest smile, hoping she looked like a besotted bride. She must have succeeded, since he blinked before inclining his head and taking his leave.

When they were private again, Jean asked, "What have you been taught so far?"

"Well-how to talk to a ghost. And how to s.h.i.+eld myself." Meg thought. "And how to create globes of light. Though I wasn't really taught that. I saw Lord Falconer do it, and found it wasn't hard."

Jean's brows arched. "Excellent. I a.s.sume Simon explained that the underlying principles of magic are nature and willpower. Spells are useful because they concentrate will and magic. A good spell can help you achieve something for which you haven't much natural ability. For example, there are only a few truly powerful healers, but any Guardian can learn time-tested healing spells that will reduce bleeding and inflammation. When Mrs. Evans tutors you, she'l teach you the most effective spells and help you discern how much natural healing ability you have."

Meg nodded. Healing would always be valuable, though she suspected she didn't have much talent in that area. "Is protection more than the s.h.i.+elding I've learned?"

"s.h.i.+elding is protecting yourself from magical attacks. Protection is a broader subject and usually implies protecting other people," Jean explained. "For example, say you are trying to save a group that is being pursued by enemy soldiers who want to kill them, and you're traveling through hill country with few places to hide so many men."

Meg doubted that the example was chosen at random. "What would one do in such circ.u.mstances- make them invisible?"

"That's almost impossible. Much easier is a look-away spell, which makes pursuers disinclined to look at the person or object you've bespelled."

Meg thought of the escape from the castle. If she'd known this magic, they might not have been wounded. "If this spell makes it possible to hide in plain sight, I most certainly want to learn it."

"There are limits, but it's surprisingly effective." Jean's eyes narrowed. "Can you tell me what is hanging on that wall?"

"Well . . ." Meg examined the wall in question. "There are two paintings of the countryside. And . . ." She hesitated, realizing something wasn't right. What? She forced herself to concentrate. "How remarkable! There's a framed map of the world to the left, but I didn't notice that at first."

"That's what a don't-see spell can do. I'l show you how to create one later." Jean gave a pleased smile. "When hiding my . . . my imaginary group of men, I did more. Would do more. Having men lie down and use whatever cover they can find, even if it's only a shrub or a rock, is surprisingly effective because a good protection spell can multiply the effect far beyond the shrub's physical size."

"If I understand correctly, an illusion spell could create a different hillside. Wouldn't that be better than a don't-look spell or increasing the hiding power of shrubs?"

"Convincing illusion spells require a great deal of magic, and they're difficult to maintain for long," Jean explained. "The rule of thumb is to choose the solution that requires the least power. You never know when you might need it for something else."

Meg frowned. "Falconer said that Drayton had put an illusion spell on me to make me ugly, and he used my power to maintain it."

"That was clever of him. How did you look?"

Meg hesitated, trying to remember. If she let her energy flow . . . yes, it went into a familiar pattern. "Like this."

"Goodness! The changes are small-the texture of your skin, the planes of your face, the dullness of your hair-but the effect is enormous. You look like a different person entirely." Jean considered. "There may be times when creating this false appearance quickly could be useful."

"No, thank you," Meg said dryly as she returned to her natural self. "I'l invent my own ugliness if ever that is needful. I want nothing of Drayton's around me."

"Understandable." Jean stood. "Self-defense spells protect from physical harm. My brother's wife, Gwynne, is a master of those. Ask her to show you how to do them when she and Duncan come to London. Some self-defense spells strike at the attacker, others are designed to prevent harm. I'l create one of those so you can strike with your magic. You'l find that it's like hitting soft gla.s.s with your mind. Very odd."

"I don't want to hit you," Meg said doubtfully.

"You won't hurt me, I promise," Jean said firmly. "You need to practice with power, not just listen to me chatter. Go ahead, visualize striking me with power."

Meg closed her eyes and imagined gathering power into a glowing white club. When the image felt strong, she opened her eyes and mentally whacked Jean with it.

The imaginary club swept forward, and Jean was knocked sprawling.

"Dear G.o.d!" Horrified, Meg knelt beside the other woman. "I'm so sorry!"

"I'm fine, truly." Jean pushed herself to a sitting position and shook her head. "The protection spell spared me from real injury, but I'm amazed that you had the power to knock me down."

Meg offered her hand to help Jean up. "I don't want to do this again-I can't bear the thought of hurting someone. You're right that magic is more trouble than it's worth!"

"You can't stop now! This is just getting interesting." Jean grinned. "Instead of me being a bad influence, you're becoming a good influence on me. I actually want to study more magic!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

David, it's time for you to call on Lord Falconer."

David White glanced up from his workbench. "There's no more reason to believe he'l be at home today than any of the other days since he failed to appear for our original appointment, Sarah."

"Earls do not break appointments, my love. They are called to higher duties and with luck they'l turn up eventually," his wife said pragmatically. "At least Falconer responded favorably to your original letter, and he has a reputation as a fair man. He's our best hope."

"At this point, he's our only hope." David stood and studied his appearance ruefully. He looked like a tradesman who was down on his luck, which was not far from the truth. He must hope that his ideas would attract the earl's attention and patronage, for without a patron, David would be unable to continue his work.

As he pulled on his coat, he glanced around the cluttered room and wondered how much longer the landlord would allow them to stay before eviction. Mr. Scully had been impressed by the letter bearing Falconer's own seal, but not impressed enough to allow them to stay much longer without paying rent.

Sarah brushed his dark blue coat to neatness, handed him his hat, then kissed him lightly. "Have faith, David. Someone will see the value of your ideas."

"It's amazing how many people think that steam engines are already as good as they can be," he said with a sigh. "So I hope I find that someone before we starve. I know you can stretch a sixpence until it squeals, but first you need sixpence to stretch."

"Mrs. Lewis gave me some more sewing and that will take care of food for another week."

He hated seeing Sarah, with her fine mind, reduced to seamstress work, but without it they wouldn't be eating. Impulsively he wrapped his arms around her. Short and pale and unremarkable, Sarah never attracted a second glance from men on the street. Yet the luckiest day of his life had been when she agreed to be his wife. "Someday I'l be able to keep you in silk and lace, Sarah, I swear it."

She chuckled. "One step at a time. First the rent, then the equipment you need. Silk and lace can wait." She handed him his portfolio of papers and design drawings.

Though very worn, the leather portfolio was good quality, one of Sarah's finds at a ragman's stall. "I am so lucky to have you, Sarah."

"I know." Her eyes twinkled. "Now go forth, and let's hope that Lord Falconer has decided to return to London."

He set off on the long walk across London as he had done every day for a week. Despite Sarah's encouragement, it was hard to maintain hope. He had already approached manufacturers, mine owners, and the handful of aristocrats who patronized mechanical development. None had shown more than pa.s.sing interest in his designs.

Building a model would take time even with sufficient funds. If Falconer rejected him, he would have no choice but to look for a job to support himself and Sarah. Despite his mechanical skills, he had never had formal training, so it would be hard to find decent employment in London, which was governed by strict guild rules. He would have to take what work he could find and labor long hours for little money, leaving him with neither time nor funds to work on his engine.

He cut off the familiar circle of his thoughts. His pa.s.sion for mechanics was a demanding mistress, but he would have it no other way, and he was blessed to have a wife who supported him in his ambitions. Someday he would build a better steam engine, even if it took his whole life.

Tired and dusty, he finally reached Falconer House and rapped on the door. The heavy bra.s.s knocker was forged in the shape of a wicked-looking falcon. As always, several minutes pa.s.sed before the door was opened by a stone-faced footman who made no sign of having seen David daily for the last week.

"I have an appointment with Lord Falconer," David said, as polite as he'd been the first day but no longer hopeful.

He was so accustomed to failure that it took a moment to register when the footman said, "I shall inquire if his lords.h.i.+p is in." The footman stepped back to allow David to enter.

Startled, David stepped across the threshold into a magnificent two-story entry. So the earl had come back to London. Would he have time to see a pet.i.tioner so soon after his return?

The footman led David to a spartan reception room, then withdrew. David paced the floor and mentally reviewed the points he wished to make if he had a chance to speak with the earl. He would list the potential uses of a better steam engine, the savings in fuel and labor. . . .

After waiting so long, now it seemed too short a time until the footman returned. "His lords.h.i.+p will see you."

Heart pounding, David followed the servant upstairs and to the back of the s.p.a.cious house. There the footman opened a door and announced, "Mr. White, my lord."

David took a deep breath, then entered a handsomely furnished study. The earl sat at a desk scattered with papers. As the footman closed the door, Falconer stood and inclined his head politely. His fine-boned face was aristocratic and he dressed with the richness of a fop or a courtier, but his deep blue eyes seemed to see right through David. "Mr. White. I'm sorry to have missed our original appointment. I was unexpectedly delayed in the country and only returned yesterday afternoon."

An earl was expressing regrets? David was so shocked that he immediately forgot the speech he had prepared. It didn't help that seeing Falconer made him acutely aware of his shabby clothing and rough Birmingham accent. "It is no matter, my lord," he stammered.

"Pray be seated, Mr. White." The earl settled in his chair again. "You said you have a design for a more efficient steam engine. Do you have plans to show me?"

Reminded of his portfolio, David pulled out a pair of drawings and spread them on the earl's desk. "I do, my lord. As you surely know, the Newcomen engine is often used in mines to pump out water, but it is most wasteful, requiring large amounts of coal. I believe that efficiency could be greatly improved with a better-fitted piston and cylinder. Also, much heat is lost each time cold water is injected into the cylinder." Forgetting his nerves, he opened the drawing of his proposed engine.

Falconer studied the design with the care of a man who knew what he was looking at. "How much more efficient do you think your design will be?"

David produced a sheaf of paper. "Here are the calculations made for my piston and steam engine." At the top of the first page was a brief written summary, since few people would understand the mathematics involved.