The Serpent's Shadow

worked. When she was finished, she went to her bedroom in a daze, and although she was bone-tired, she checked and rechecked her protections before she dared try to sleep.

But when she did sleep, it was a restless sleep, as mind and memory worked together to try to identify, out of the half-remembered tales of her childhood, the beings who walked in the guise of pets. Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva —Laksmi, Kama—surely not Ganesh— Skanda was obvious, and Hanuman, but the others—

The multi-limbed, multi-faced, multi-faceted deities

of India whirled in a complicated dance of confusion in her dreams. Only Kali, with her protruding tongue and her necklace of skulls, held aloof; watching, waiting, singularly uncaring. I am a healer, a physician! she wanted to cry to them. I am a Christian! I want no part of your quarrels, no part of your plans! But it was like arguing with a thunderstorm; you could shout all you liked, but you were still going to get wet.

And possibly struck down by lightning, unless you were careful, careful, and kept meek and still.

But even if you keep meek and still, the storm can wash you away. . . .

It was late when her mind finally gave up the struggle and her restless tossing became the oblivion of true sleep. And when she woke, she was no wiser than she had been when she went to bed.

For some, the light of day might have dispelled the fears of last night, and the strange revelations would have dissolved like frost on a sunny window. How could a stolid Englishman, full of port and beef and the assurance of his own special superiority, ever have taken seriously a monkey that spoke, let alone some nebulous threat from a female votary of a god he didn't believe in, whose power could not even exist by the laws of creation as he knew them?

But that surety was not for her. In India, real magic blossomed in sunlight and moonlight alike. Wonders happened in the full of day, and she had seen too many of them to ever doubt that what had happened by night would not be as real in the daylight. I am a physician, and English. But I am also Hindu, of Brahmin blood. I know that there are more things than can be observed in the lens of a microscope, weighed, and measured. I know that the world is not as we would have it, but as it is, and that is not always as an Englishman sees it.

She made her preparations and dressed, preoccupied with the events of last night, so preoccupied that she didn't bother with more than the simplest of French braids for her hair. She drifted downstairs in a fugue, rather than a fog, of thought. It was clear what she needed to do—but how to do it?

But she had completely forgotten the letter left for her last night, until it turned up on the tea tray in the conservatory where she usually took her breakfast.

Once again, she turned it over in her hands, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar handwriting. The stationery was ordinary enough, and there was no seal, only a formless blob of sealing wax holding the flap shut.

She opened it, separating the wax from the paper, and pulled out the single folded sheet, covered with neat, evenly spaced lines of precise handwriting.

Dear Doctor Witherspoon, it began. I believe that I have made and torn up a full dozen letters in attempting to couch what I would like to tell you in vague or indirect terms. Such an attempt is folly; I will be direct. When we met in your surgery today, we both recognized each other for what we were, and I do not believe that you will deny this. You and I are alike, for we are both magicians.

That last sentence arrested her eyes, and she had to read it over three times before she truly understood it, in all its bald simplicity. She put one hand to the arm of her chair to steady herself, feeling as if the earth trembled, or at least, should have trembled. For a moment, the letter lay in her lap as she collected her wits.

Then she picked it back up and began again at that extraordinary sentence. Yes; you and I recognized each other . . . for we are both magicians. Sorcerers, if you would rather. I am what is known as an Elemental Master; my mastery, such as it is, holds over the arcane creatures of water. I was trained and schooled, long and hard, to attain my Mastery, and there are others with whom I associate and sometimes work, Masters of other Elements, of creatures and magic that few Englishmen realize even exist side by side with their cozy bed sitters, their railways, and their cream teas.

This brings me to my confession. I was sent by others of my kind to discover what it was that had made such unexpected stirrings in the occult world, stirrings that none of them recognized or could effectively trace. Because of what and who I am, because I can travel streets in London where they would be set upon in moments, they asked me to find the source of this strange and unfamiliar magic. For this, I apologize; I was sent as a spy to find you and there is no polite way to confess this. For my defense, I can only offer that the Unseen World holds many perils, as I believe you know, and my fellows dare not let something they cannot recognize remain uninvestigated.

The bald, bold words reassured her, oddly enough. There was no doubt who the letter was from now. She did not even need to turn the page over to see the signature. And she agreed with him; in his position, she would have done the same.

Oh, yes. I would, indeed. If only I were able to sense the possible peril in the first place. . . . He had investigated, and finding her harmless, had honorably confessed the reason he had invaded her domain. What was more, had she been a man, he would probably have phrased his apology exactly the same