Lady of Magick (23 page)

*   *   *

As January progressed into February, Sophie came to consider that, generally speaking, their circumstances might have been enormously worse. Eithne MacLachlan's retreat from their friendship still rankled, and there was a certain amount of staring and whispering to be endured as she went about her business at the University; still, the latter was no more onerous than it had been at Merlin, and to counterbalance the former, she felt more confident in the regard of those friends who had not turned their backs upon learning who her father was. It was not always pleasant to walk home through streets in which, two or three times in a se'nnight, she must pass by groups of Albans shouting abuse at her father, her brother, or her kingdom in general; but she told herself that it was only shouting and took comfort in the presence of the guardsmen dogging her steps, whom she had sometimes resented before. Perhaps best of all, she had Joanna's visit to look forward to—though she could not help feeling that perhaps she ought not to be so eager to involve her sister in the present mess.

On the other hand, it seems rather as though Joanna has been involved in it longer than I have.

Sophie's nights, however, had become something of a trial; it seemed her unconscious mind could not be entirely persuaded by her reason, and after a respite of many months, it began again—her prayers to Morpheus notwithstanding—to plague her with bad dreams.

In one such, one February night, she woke in chill, starlit darkness to find herself quite alone in the bedchamber of their Oxford digs. “Gray?” she whispered. Then louder: “Gray! Gray, where are you?”

There came no reply—no sound, no whisper of turning pages—no glow of magelight, no line of fire- or candlelight beneath the door. She threw back the bedclothes, padded barefoot across a floor as cold and slick as ice, on which her bare feet slipped treacherously; searched everywhere, panic rising, calling aloud with no thought for the comfort of others in the house. And at last she stood before the study window, through whose shattered panes the chill wind blew, each jagged point of glass tipped bright with blood.

Her howling sobs, as is the way of dreams, seemed like to choke her; she wailed and wailed, and made no sound, and could not catch her breath. Her bare feet slipped and slid on the floor; when she looked down, she found them cut about and bloodied, and the pain she had not hitherto felt rushed in swift and fire-bright, and she fell to her hands and knees amidst gleaming shards of window-glass.

She jolted into true wakefulness in the dark before dawn, her face wet with tears, and lay shivering and gasping as she tried to slow her rapid, panicked breathing. The details of the nightmare had already fled, but the panic and terror lingered, almost more distressing for the vagueness of their source.

On waking she had turned away from Gray, so as not to disturb him; behind her, still asleep, he reached for her, curling one arm about her. “Sophie?” he muttered sleepily. “'wake?”

Sophie drew a long, shaky breath. “No,” she said. “Go back to sleep, love.”

Gray's arm tightened a little, drawing her in close. The beating of his heart soothed her, as it always had before; but dawn had begun to light the sky when at last Sophie drifted back into sleep.

When they both woke in the morning, it was to the sound of Donella MacHutcheon indignantly demanding to know what coward had piled horse droppings on the step before their door and written
Go home, Sasunnach Princess, and take your brother with you
—and other sentiments far less polite—all over the frontage of their house.

On the heels
of this distressing, if not actually dangerous, instance of vandalism, Gray and Sophie were summoned to the residence of His Majesty's ambassador. The invitation—if such it could be called—arrived not in the post, nor by a messenger, but in the person of Lord de Courcy's confidential secretary, Mr. Powell; and so early in the morning that Sophie (who had tumbled into bed long after midnight, red-eyed from hours of translation and transcription which Gray could not persuade her to abandon) was yet abed. Donella MacHutcheon admitted him to the house and conducted him into the dining-room, where Gray was eating his breakfast.

Gray—deep in contemplation of Sophie's translation, which yesterday he had blearily promised her that he should read over for errors, as soon as he might—did not at once register the intrusion upon his solitude. Donella MacHutcheon cleared her throat and knocked on the door-jamb without success, and at last resorted to saying, very loudly, “Maighistir!”

Gray raised his head, blinking. “Yes, Donella MacHutcheon?” he said.

His gaze found her, and only then remarked the presence of
Powell looming at her shoulder. On the heels of this observation came the remembrance of his having dispatched a rather heated note to Lord de Courcy, following the unpleasant discovery. Was this Courcy's reply?

“Mr. Powell!” he exclaimed. “Er . . . have you breakfasted? May I offer you—”

“I am not come to pay a morning call, Mr. Marshall,” said Powell, stepping forward around Donella MacHutcheon, “only to convey a message.”

Gray raised his eyebrows in invitation; Powell looked pointedly at Donella MacHutcheon.

“Thank you, Donella MacHutcheon,” said Gray. She gave Powell a look of pointed disapproval as she left the room, having first briefly altered her trajectory in order to bestow a motherly pat upon Gray's shoulder.

Powell looked after her, frowning in bafflement. Perhaps the Ambassador's household had all come with him from Britain, and he had had no opportunity to become acclimated to the customs of Alban servants? Or perhaps Donella MacHutcheon was in fact particularly egregious in her familiarity, which Sophie (it must be conceded) never made the least effort to curb.

“The Lord Ambassador's compliments,” Powell said after a moment, seeming to recover his sense of purpose, “and he invites you to call upon him today at the first hour after noon.”

Gray blinked.

“The word
invite
,” he said, “ordinarily implies the possibility of refusal.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” said Powell, steadily meeting Gray's gaze.

“I see.” Gray took refuge in a large swallow of tea, unfortunately now rather tepid. “This . . . invitation . . . has I suppose some connexion with the . . .
offering
which we found on our doorstep three days ago?”

In addition to Gray's note, Courcy must have had a report of the incident, either directly from one of his own men or through some back channel.

Powell inclined his head.

Gray was coming more fully awake now, under the influence of strong tea and the need to think rationally and carefully about present circumstances. “I have a bone to pick with your master,” he said.
And not in front of Sophie.
“As I am sure you know. How was such a thing permitted to occur? Must we now fear being attacked the moment we step foot outside our front door—or worse?”

Powell had the grace to look—if not so guilty as Gray felt he ought—at least discomfited. “The persons responsible have been detained,” he said, “and, I believe I may promise, shall be suitably punished—”

“I should not care if they were not punished at all,” said Gray, waving this away, “so long as nobody else follows their example. I am only concerned for my wife's welfare—though of course I wish His Majesty's guardsmen no ill, either. Her younger sister is to come to us for a visit in March, and I shall write at once to my brother-in-law to stop her departing London, if I cannot be assured that they shall both be safe.”

“Mr. Marshall—”

Footfalls on the staircase, the creak of the last step from the bottom, silenced Powell and heralded the arrival of Sophie, soberly attired and still blinking sleepily.

“Good morning, Mrs. Marshall,” said Powell, with a little bow.

Sophie gaped at him. “Mr. Powell,” she said. Gray could almost see her suppressing the words
Whatever do you here?

“I must be going,” said Powell. He offered Sophie a brittle smile. “I shall see you both at the first hour after noon.”

“I expect you shall,” said Gray, grimly, and rose to see him out.

*   *   *

They presented themselves once again at the gate of the Ambassador's house, a little before the appointed hour, and this time were admitted at once, with a deferential alacrity quite unlike their previous reception. Mr. Powell met them at the front door and ushered them
within, where they found Lord de Courcy just rising from behind his desk to greet them.

Tea and
petits fours
appeared as though by magick; indeed, Sophie was not at all certain that Mr. Powell had not summoned them before setting his wards upon the room, for surely she had not been so deeply absorbed in Lord de Courcy's greeting as to fail to remark the arrival of sufficient servants to convey refreshments for four people. Sophie accepted a cup of tea and a plate of cakes—despite a rather childish wish to owe nothing to her father's emissary, even so much as a bite of cake or a swallow of tea—because she was in fact very hungry, Mr. Powell's untimely visit having rendered her too anxious to eat much breakfast. The tea was, she grudgingly conceded, very good, in the English way, and the
petits fours
a not unwelcome change from the ubiquitous oatcakes and butter shortbread.

“You must be eager to know the reason for my invitation,” Lord de Courcy began, tracing a long forefinger along the edge of his saucer.

Gray snorted softly at the word
invitation
.

“I hope,” said Sophie, “that it is to beg our pardon for having failed to prevent the recent incident, and to assure us that such a thing will not occur again.”

Lord de Courcy raised his eyebrows at her. “I regret very much that you should have been subjected to such an indignity,” he said. “In fact, however—”

He set aside his teacup and reached for a letter that lay open upon his desk. As he picked it up, Sophie saw at the top edge of it, upside down, the lower half of her father's seal, and her heart clenched.

“Is my father ill?” she demanded. “Has something befallen one of my brothers? Or my sister? Or—”

“Calm yourself, Madame Marshall, I beg,” said Lord de Courcy. Sophie drew in a deep, trembling breath, only now registering the warm pressure of Gray's hands enfolding hers.

“I beg your pardon, my lord Ambassador,” she said, when she felt able to speak again without shouting.

“Your father and your brothers are all perfectly well,” he said, “and your sister also. I assure you that, had there been any news of the kind, I should not have required you to wait upon me to receive it.”

Sophie nodded, unspeakably relieved. But if not that, then—

“Your father, however,” Lord de Courcy continued, “in light of recent developments, supposes that you and your husband must wish to return to London, if not at once, then certainly at the end of the present University term; for which purpose, he has dispatched one Edwin Cooper, who apparently is known to you, to convey you thither. Regrettably this also requires that your sister's visit be abandoned; but, however, I trust this will be no hardship to either party, as you shall after all meet in London so soon.”

*   *   *

To look at Sophie now, Gray thought, one could not possibly guess how lately she had been fretting over the very question of Joanna's safety, and asking him whether he thought they ought not to advise her against coming to Din Edin.

“We shall do no such thing!” she exclaimed, sitting up straight as a pikestaff, and clenching her hands into ivory-knuckled fists. “I am sorry for Cooper's trouble, in coming so far for nothing, but what my father asks is quite impossible.”

Courcy raised his eyebrows. “You understand, Madame Marshall, that this is not a
suggestion
on His Majesty's part. Not only is he your father, and thus within his right to command you—”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Sophie interrupted him. “You forget that I am a married woman.” She turned to Gray and said evenly, “Gray, do you wish me to return to London?”

Gray sat straighter, conscious of the role which Sophie apparently needed him to play. “I should be loath to forbid you, if you truly desired it,” he said carefully, “but no.”

Sophie turned back to Lord de Courcy. “I am a married woman,” she repeated. “You surely cannot wish me to dishonour my husband by obeying my father's wishes in preference to his.”

Had Lord de Courcy (or, for that matter, had Sophie's father) sought Gray's advice beforehand, Gray might have explained that Sophie's peculiar upbringing had given her a pronounced contrarian streak; that though she might sometimes seem a biddable young woman, this was only the effect of the dramatic contrast provided by her younger sister; that, in fact, perhaps the most effective means of persuading her to do a thing was to set oneself up in authority over her and command her to do its opposite. Though of course he should not have given anyone any such advice, absent a strong conviction of its being necessary to Sophie's well-being.

Courcy, however, did not seem cowed either by Sophie's reasonable tone or by her logic. “
You
forget, Madame Marshall,” he said, “that His Majesty does not speak only as your father.”

There was a silence as all present contemplated his implication.

“Do you tell me,” said Sophie at last, speaking carefully and quietly, “that in remaining in Din Edin to continue our studies, my husband and I should be expressly disobeying a royal command?”

“No,” Courcy conceded, after another long silence. His expression suggested that he should have liked very much to return a different answer. “His Majesty's letter is not so phrased as to give you no choices but obedience or treason. But, Madame Marshall, I beg you will consider—”

Sophie held up a hand—the Princess Royal, now, as suddenly as the sun breaking through storm-clouds—and he fell silent.

“We have considered the question at length already,” she said, “and have determined that unless circumstances should change materially for the worse, we had rather remain where we are. And you may tell him, too, that I am considering his reputation. Lucia MacNeill is my friend, and we are very nearly the only British subjects of her acquaintance; what must she think of us, and of my father and Roland, if we turn tail and flee at the least sign of trouble?”

Gray looked at her in some surprise. It was a sound argument, in its way, and one far more sensitive to the political circumstances than he should have expected Sophie to make.

Courcy, for his part, looked very thoughtful, and as he made no
move to argue with her, Sophie unbent so far as to say, “I shall write to my father myself, of course, and make certain that no blame for my recalcitrance attaches to you, my lord.”

Courcy's mouth quirked briefly. “I thank you for that favour, Your Royal Highness.”

“I shall undertake to inform you, my lord,” said Gray, before Sophie could react to this mockery (if mockery it was), “should any circumstance arise to alter our decision.”

“Yes,” said Sophie; more bluntly, she added, “If we wish to depart, in haste or otherwise, you shall be the first to know it.”

“Very good, madame,” said the Ambassador, offering Sophie a little bow. “And now perhaps you will permit Monsieur Powell to provide pen and ink, so that your letter may be conveyed to His Majesty with all possible speed?”

Sophie visibly set her teeth for a moment, then smiled politely at Lord de Courcy and said, “Certainly. I thank you.”

*   *   *

Sophie held her peace the length of the return journey to Quarry Close, for which Lord de Courcy had insisted on providing his carriage-and-pair, together with the quite unnecessary company of Mr. Powell. The latter made one or two efforts to engage her in conversation, but upon her saying, civilly enough but with great determination, “Mr. Powell, I beg you will excuse me; I am very tired,” instead favoured Gray with a disquisition upon the subject of University politics—one which Gray had hitherto steered wide around, as likely to be hazardous to his health.

“You are very well informed about the University,” said Gray, “for a man who has never so much as attended a lecture there.”

“It is part of my purview,” said Powell, who seemed to have taken no offence, “as milord's secretary, to keep an eye on the University, which is more my milieu than his.”

He eyed Gray speculatively. “I do not suppose . . .”

“I hope,” said Gray, “that you do not mean to ask me to spy upon my colleagues.”

Powell looked genuinely startled, and Gray at once regretted his readiness to jump to unpleasant conclusions. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

“No, no,” said Powell, waving a dismissive hand. “I am a diplomat, and you are perfectly placed to engage in covert observations; it was a natural enough conclusion, I suppose. But I think you do not understand the unusual status of the University. You will of course have remarked that it was your letter of invitation from the head of your School which gave you passage into Alba?”

“Yes,” said Gray, who had not; they had carried so many letters northward with them—including his brother-in-law's missive to Courcy, which Sophie had so long concealed from him—that it had not occurred to him to wonder which of them might be most persuasive in the eyes of the guard captain on duty at the time of their arrival.