Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (8 page)

I nodded.

“I was behind, and I tried to do . . . just a
little
 . . . bit of
magic. To make the dough rise?” His gaze dropped to the floor. “I know we’re
not supposed to use magic in the kitchen, but it was just a
small
magic. And something went wrong.”

“Something always goes wrong,” the little girl next to me
whispered. She had deep blue eyes, flaming red-gold hair and a pixie look. The
lilt to her speech implied an Irish family.

“I had to add more sugar, because the dough started to
collapse. I kept thinking I heard purring, and then growls. But there weren’t
any animals in the kitchen! So I cut biscuits with a cup, tossed pieces of
dough on a baking sheet, and made sure they didn’t burn.”

“And?” I asked when he stopped speaking.

“The biscuits were all jumbled on the pans when I pulled
them from the oven,” he muttered. “I thought they’d just slid around a little, but
they were hopping! By the time I got the basket of biscuits out here, they were
popping out of the basket and all over the place, into the trays of eggs, and
rooting through the bacon. They didn’t like that, though—they just got louder
and bounced faster around the room.”

This time when he paused, I said: “Did you offer them sugar?”
Sugar gave humans quick energy; what gave magical biscuits quick energy?

The boy stared at me, surprised. “Ah, no, miss, we didn’t.
One found a honey spill and it stopped there, so we could catch it easily.”

“If they were happy before, and you heard purring, then it
makes sense that what changed in your dough was related to the ingredients, the
temperature change, or perhaps to some wild yeast that got into the rising
dough.” I found a girl with hair the color of clover honey at my left shoulder.
“Let’s experiment. Would you get some sugar—no, that’s too valuable. Get some
honey or molasses and drip it on a plate? Bring the plate here and we’ll see
what happens.”

The girl—young woman, really—obliged and returned with a
honeyed plate in no time at all. I took the plate from her, and lifted the bowl
a tiny bit, setting the plate down next to the opening. The growling was
audible . . . and then there was a whining sound. I dropped the
bowl again.

“All right,” I said, trying to keep my words formal. “Everyone
back up two steps. Mr. Williams, bring me the big serving fork in the bacon
pan.” Daniel ran to fetch the fork. “Walk, please! Now. It knows we have honey,
and it stopped growling. We’re going to see if feeding it honey will calm it
down. The fork, Mr. Williams.”

The boy handed it over, handle first, as if offering me a
sword. To the others, I added: “If it attacks me, or tries to make a break for
it, I’ll jump in as the first defense. You, sir—” I pointed at the fair-haired
stocky boy who had just inhaled his oatmeal. “—Go get a teacher and say you
need a way to capture and confine a small, magical animal. Everyone else, stand
ready with your forks!” The utensils were actually silver, or silver plate.
They might break a spell—and their lovely, long double prongs might pin the
biscuit to the table.

I lifted the bowl.

Something brown dropped a half-moon over the side of the
plate, trying to slurp up the honey. “Bring me the honey jar!” I said, not
taking my eyes off the thing.

Lord and Lady, my brothers were going to want one of these
things. Shaw and Cousin Cory would want to know how to create one. Marta and
Papa would only smile and shake their heads.

Momma would be horrified.

Someone whispered, “I have it!”

“
Can
you put some on the plate?”

Carefully the young woman to my left pulled up the honey pot
wand, smearing the amber mess over the plate. I was impressed that her hand
trembled only a tiny bit. The biscuit . . . merciful Goddess, it
was
a biscuit! The biscuit opened its
mouth wider, trying frantically to clean the china.

The big teeth, I could see, actually were ragged clumps of
cooked bread, torn apart by the biscuit itself. I watched the little creature,
but it was no longer growling. The honey had what it wanted—fast energy—and we
had made it happy. It was like smoking bees to raid the combs. The biscuit’s
movements were slowing even as I heard steps rushing into the room. I kept my
eyes on the creature; the last thing we needed was for the biscuit to latch
onto someone.

“
What
is this animal you need caged—” The voice broke off. “Well, well, well, Mr.
Smith. I believe I recognize your unique touch. This is a . . . biscuit?”
A small cage appeared to one side of me, and was then set down on top of the
biscuit and plate. The tiny creature was apparently glutted—it burped and did
not protest when a piece of wood was pushed under it. The cage was tipped so
the biscuit slid to the back. Leaving the plate behind, the newcomer snapped
closed the bottom of the cage.

The biscuit burped again. The smell of baking bread rolled
across us. I could see from expressions on several faces that people wanted to
laugh, but they didn’t dare. I hazarded a glance at the man holding the cage.

He was fairly young—twenty, say, his face stern—with dark
blonde hair, pale blue irises and a trim, healthy physique. He looked prettier
than most women I’d seen! A high-waisted jacket, starched shirt with an
elaborate necktie, and tight deerskin breeches graced his form. Riding boots
finished off the spectacle.

“
Thank
you,” I said calmly, handing the fork to Daniel to return to the buffet.

“
You
were planning to skewer it if it proved hostile?” the man asked, his words
precise, like an educated teacher spoke.

“
If
necessary,” I admitted.

“
Professor
Tonneman, this is Miss Sorensson.” Daniel was already back at my side. “She is
a new student. Miss Sorensson, this is the rituals instructor, Professor
Tonneman.”

Well, I might be from the wild woods, but I knew better than
to sit in front of a new teacher. I started to rise, but the man stopped me by
resisting the slide of my chair. “No, don’t stand. You obviously haven’t
finished your breakfast.” He gave me a long look, longer than I was used to
seeing. “No doubt in the next few days Professor Livingston will bring you to
me for an evaluation. Whom have you studied with?”

Marta said not to mention Momma’s relationship to Esme, but
nothing about my training. So, how much . . . .
 
“I have studied with my mother, Garda
Schell Sorensson, as well as Mrs. Donaltsson.” I was not yet Cory’s pupil,
despite his introducing me to grounding and to throwing my thoughts into
another’s mind. No point boasting of chickens when all I had yet were eggs.

This man didn’t need to know that Death had taught me Wild
magic, either, unless Esme wanted him to know. I thought that the fewer who
knew that, the better for me.

“Marta Helgisdottir Donaltsson?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful, Professor
Tonneman said to the gathering: “Thank you all for calling me. We’ll see how
long this biscuit survives, and what it does when it is not looking for food.”

“
Mr.
Williams,” I said. “Where are the other biscuits?”

The youngsters exchanged glances.

“
And
the answer is?” Professor Tonneman said quietly.

Daniel Williams finally said: “In the slops bucket for the
pigs. We set a crock on top to keep them from escaping.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “Then let us make sure they have
not escaped and tracked rotted vegetables throughout the kitchen. Lead on, Mr.
Smith.”

The boy flinched. “Yes, sir. This way, sir.” He disappeared
around a corner.

“
Miss
Sorensson.” Another nod, this one sharp, and the rituals professor followed the
boy around the corner, the odor of fresh bread clinging to the small cage he
was toting. For the first time I heard a door shut. They’d probably had it
propped open.

“You hid them in the slops bucket?” I asked softly.

“We didn’t know what else to do.” Daniel said, his
expression a bit worried.

“Ask an older student for help?” I suggested. “Call a
teacher? Aren’t there spells to prevent magic in the kitchen?”
This will liven up the morning,
I
thought, but did not say.

“The fire is spelled so nothing catches fire except wood,
and the pump so it won’t freeze,” Daniel told me. “But otherwise, no one uses
magic in the kitchen, except to heat big pots of water. Why would they? It
would take more energy than cooking and washing up by hand.”

“Well, I suggest you ask an older student or teacher how to
take care of little problems like that. You were the practitioners in charge.
It was your problem to solve!”

“They would not tell us what to do—only that we should not
have done it to start,” the tiny redhead’s voice was resigned. “We do not get
to do fun things like that.”

“And your name is?” I asked her.

The child actually grabbed her skirt in each hand and dipped
in a curtsy. “I am Moira O’Donnell, Miss.”

“There is probably someone whom you could ask,” I said. “Did
you ask the person in charge of the kitchen?”

Every child’s eyes grew larger. So, asking the cook was not
a good idea. “She won’t know about magic?” I asked hesitantly.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Gardener is a practitioner,” Daniel said. “Most
people here are—or will be. But she never lets anyone do magic in the kitchen,
unless she’s asked for it. She says too many things like fire and knives could
get caught up in a magic mess.”

“And there was that chicken that got up, no head or feathers
or anything, and chased the kitchen cat . . . . ” Moira
murmured to the floor.

“Well, let’s finish eating. I’m sure you have other things
you want to do today.”

“Start dinner,” Daniel said gloomily. But his statement
seemed to free up the group, and the children resumed their meals or cleaning
up.

I remembered the young woman at my shoulder, and turned back
around. Our honey bearer waited quietly, a slight smile balancing eyes tinted
the soft blue of flax flowers. Small she might be, but her face was that of a
woman, not a child, her cheekbones sharp.

Mist clung to her, as if she could call for rain without effort.
Magic floated around us in a cloud.

Was it safe to offer her my hand? I rose to my feet.

“Thank you so much for your help with the biscuits with
teeth,” I started.

“I was happy to assist. I am Miss Smith. I have boundaries
duty this morning, but I look forward to furthering our acquaintance, Miss
Sorensson.”

Was she related to the boy who made biscuits? There was no
resemblance. “I look forward to visiting with you,” I said, smiling back.

I hoped that was formal enough for this place. The grandeur
was a bit intimidating.

“Welcome to Windward.” Another smile and a nod, and Miss
Smith walked briskly from the dining room, the soft mist immediately obscuring
her form.

She was the only one who approached me.

No longer the center of attention, I dug in to get as much
cereal in my stomach as I could before anyone else showed up at my elbow. The
tea was lovely, with the slightest hint of bergamot in its fragrance. I sipped
and listened to the conversation around me. Several children were going back to
the kitchen, and I saw a few wands coming out of pant and skirt pockets that
had been designed for something long and narrow. Now that the children were
back in their own little groups, I was left with fragments of etiquette running
through my head. Saturday breakfast was relaxed in more ways than one. I
remembered something about whom you spoke to during sit-down dinners . . . .

“
Miss
Sorensson?” I turned to see the pretty, slightly plump Miss Wolfsson. “Miss
Rutledge has gone to Professor Livingston.”

“
Should
I follow?” I asked.

Looking surprised, Miss Wolfsson paused and then said: “I
would just wait here—that way a footman could find you.”

“
Thank
you,” seemed the best response, which was how I left it. Miss Wolfsson thanked
me for my courtesy and moved down the table. After a huddled conference with
two other young girls, she headed for the food buffet and soon returned with a
bowl of oatmeal.

Apparently thinning the oatmeal had already improved the day
for several people, including my possible peers and elders. The students in the
back room were now heading for the buffet.

It was interesting that the older students had not appeared while
the professor was there. Students being punished cleaned up their own messes,
even if it left the place in shambles. Were the older students all off studying
or working in some fashion—on boundaries, as Miss Smith put it?

So far, so good. Even on the worst day, the food could be
made palatable, and the indoor, sweet-scented water closet was going to be a
wonderful gift. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t get my skirts dirty as fast as I did
going to an outhouse. Cousin Esme—Professor Livingston, I needed to remember
that—was willing to teach me ritual magic.

Otherwise? As I saw it, I knew just enough to get myself in
trouble. Like, don’t talk across the table to people on the other side, only to
the people to your left and right. That was a formal thing, but I suspected it
was better to be too formal than too casual. Clothing was going to be tricky,
what with “carriage gowns” and such, but I figured I had time to assemble
things, so I would not borrow trouble worrying about it. Miss Smith’s gown was
a simple pale green wool garment with long sleeves and a scallop pattern
embroidered on the bodice. If necessary I could make something like that.

Now I wondered if I should just sit quietly, or if I should
try another tea while I waited for a guide.