The Gates of Sleep

that was painting so feverishly, or so he often told her. His eye and his hand were practically connected when he worked, and the less interference from the thinking part of him that there was, the better and truer the painting.

She hardly noticed the ubiquitous scent of linseed oil and paint in here anymore—except, as now, when a particularly strong waft of it drifted over to her and she had to fight to keep from wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“At any rate,” she sighed, “I haven’t managed much, yet. But I will. It’s awfully tiring, though—I have to use everything I have to I control the energies I’m calling up. Should I have my eyes open, or closed?”

“It will be less tiring with practice,” Sebastian promised. “Open eyes, please. You’re not supposed to be quite dead yet.”

“Am I going to get better?” she teased, staring up at the beams and boards of the ceiling. It felt very good to be lying down, even if it was in this odd position. Uncle Sebastian had found a small, flattish cushion that didn’t show under her hair for her to rest her head on, and for once, this was a position where nothing had gone numb—or at least, it hadn’t the last time she’d taken this pose.

“No, as you know very well, minx, since you translated Werther’s story for me. But I want the lady who buys this painting to fantasize that she might save him,” Sebastian replied, and that was the last she got out of him, as the rain finally cleared off and the clouds thinned. In fact, he didn’t say a word until the light of the setting sun pierced the many leaded panes of the studio window, and he sighed and stuck his brush behind his ear.

“All right, my wench—that’s enough for today. You can get up now.”

She did so—slowly. Nothing was numb, but after three hours of posing, broken only briefly by two breaks to get up and walk around, she was stiff. At least the posing-platform was wood rather than the flagstones of the floor, and Werther’s clothing, a shabby boy’s suit, was comfortably warm.

“Don’t be discouraged in these shielding lessons of yours, even though it’s likely to take longer than you think, poppet,” Sebastian said, taking up the conversation where it had left off—a disconcerting habit of his, but one that Marina was used to. “Where’s my brush?”

“In your hair,” she answered promptly. “How long do you think it’s going to take?”

“Ah—” he reached up and retrieved the brush, and began to clean it carefully. “I suspect you won’t have mastered shields before Elizabeth has to go home for the Christmas holidays with her family.”

She couldn’t help it; her dismay must have shown on her face, as he shrugged sympathetically and pulled the brush from behind his ear. “It took me at least that long,” he admitted. “And I was reckoned to be quick at learning magic.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment, but she decided she might as well put a brave face on it. “I had no idea,” she admitted, squaring her shoulders and trying to look as if she was prepared for that much work.

“Proper shielding is hard, poppet.” He grimaced, and ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a set of ocher streaks to go with the vermilion ones already there. “Really, it uses everything you’ve ever learned about magic. Once you learn personal shields, then you have to learn how to expand them to fit your work space or your home, how to make them permanent, and how to disguise them inside the common shields you already know. Then you have to learn how to make them seem to disappear altogether, so that you look perfectly ordinary to anyone who might look at you with the Sight.”

She’d had no idea, and for a moment, the mere thought of all the work that still lay ahead of her made her heart quail with dismay.

Her uncle seemed to sense that, and put a supporting arm around her shoulders. “You can do it, Mari. If I could, you certainly can.”

She leaned her head against him for a moment of comfort, then managed a laugh. “Oh, Uncle Sebastian, you just said you were quick at learning magic!”

“I was. I was also lazy.” He gave her a quick squeeze and let her go. “Why don’t you hop upstairs and change for supper? You’re probably hungry as well as tired, and you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

“You’re probably right,” she agreed, and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, Uncle Sebastian.”

“I love you too, poppet,” he said, as she left him among his paints and canvases. “Never forget that.”

As if I ever would!

The rains of October had given way to the cold of November, and then to the deeps of December. It didn’t rain nearly as often, but the skies still remained gray and overcast most of the time. Every morning the ground was coated with a thick cover of hoarfrost, and the windows bore delicate, fernlike traceries of frost on the inside.

Marina had finally progressed to the point where she could bring up and maintain a single shield, and was just able to bring up a second one inside the first, though she could not yet manage to juggle the complicated structures for very long.

It was far easier to build the common shields and disguise her special shield within them—and for some reason she had mastered the ability to camouflage the common shields as the random and chaotic patterns of a perfectly normal person almost immediately. Why that should be, she couldn’t begin to imagine, but it seemed to make her guardians happy.

In spite of the fact that she no longer had formal schooling, she was working harder, and she had less leisure, than ever before. During the best hours of daylight, she posed for Sebastian; the morning and late afternoon and sometimes even the evening belonged to Elizabeth Hastings. There were no rest days for her, and she found herself almost looking forward to the second week of December, when Elizabeth would leave them for Christmas, and not return until after Boxing Day. Almost, but she enjoyed Elizabeth’s company so much…

But the work was so hard. It wasn’t just physical work, either, it involved everything: mind, body, spirit—

And now she wasn’t just sitting there when she posed for Uncle Sebastian, she was practicing those shields; not the full and strong ones that she practiced in the work-room, but wispy little things that were easier to bring up.

Yet Elizabeth was working just as hard, and for no personal gain that Marina could see. When Marina was posing, Elizabeth would either be down at the village making good her pretense of collecting folk ballads, or in the workroom doing—

—well, Marina wasn’t quite sure what she was doing. It obviously had something to do with magic, but she couldn’t tell what it could be.

She was tempted, more than once, to cry halt to all of this. She was so tired that she fell asleep without being able to read in bed as she liked to do for an hour or so at bedtime, and she hadn’t a single moment to herself when all was said and done. But there was some palpable tension in her guardians that made her hesitate whenever she considered asking for a respite. They weren’t saying anything, but for some reason, she sensed that they were extremely anxious about her progress, and she couldn’t bear to increase their anxiety with any delay.

It was, after all, a small enough price to pay for their peace of mind. After all the years that they had given to her, it was something of a blessing that she could finally give something back to them.

The faun tapped his hoof on the floor, and shook his shaggy head. “I am sorry, Lady. It is a Gordian Knot, and there is no sword or Alexander to cut it.” His slanted eyes—normally full of mischief in a faun—held regret, and his mobile, hairy ears drooped a little. Margherita had an extraordinarily good relationship with the fauns; normally around a woman they were ill-mannered and lewd, but they called her Lady, and seemed to consider her as a sort of mother-figure.

Margherita sighed, and dismissed the little goat-footed faun with her thanks. He bowed to her, sinking down on his heels, then continued sinking, sinking, into the stone floor of the workroom, until he was gone. She looked to Elizabeth, who shrugged, and spread her hands wide.

“I had no better luck than you,” her friend said, grimacing. “The curse is still there, and I can neither remove it nor change it further. What about Sebastian?”

“In this case, a Fire Master is no use to us.” Margherita rested both her elbows on the workroom table and propped her chin on her hands. “It’s the inimical Element, remember? His Elementals refuse to touch her for fear of