The Gates of Sleep

descriptions of the glittering parties, the events, the receptions. She had pored over the sketches and photographs, and wished that her sketch or photograph could be among them… not that she aspired to the status of a PB, but the exciting round of the social scene beckoned so beguilingly.

Arachne chuckled, as if she could read Marina’s thoughts. “Well, niece, your parents might have shunned my company, but I can assure you that no one else looks askance at the source of my wealth. The day, thank heaven, is long past when those who were born to rank and wealth can sneer down their noses at those who merely acquired it through hard work. And let me put one more possible fear of yours to rest—I have no interest in your inheritance. I am probably worth twice what you are; I own three pottery manufactories outright, and am partner in a fourth. I am also accepted in the best company; and I have every intention of seeing that you are accepted there as well. But first—” she sighed theatrically “—it is just as well that you are in mourning and cannot be expected to appear in public for the next year, because you will need to work very hard before you are ready for that society.”

Oh, really? Anger flared at her aunt’s assumptions, and Marina felt her chin jut out stubbornly. “I know Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and German, ma’am,” she objected, anger making her speak in a formal and stilted manner. “I am familiar with a wide spectrum of literature and enough science to satisfy a university examiner. I have read every London paper published for the past five years. I am hardly ignorant.”

“Do you know how to properly address a duke, a countess, or a bishop?” Arachne countered, sharpness coming into her voice for the first time. “I am painfully aware that you do not know how to dress—do you know what to do at a formal dinner? Could you eat ortolan or escargot or lobster without disgracing yourself? Can you compose the appropriate invitations for a garden party, a masquerade ball, and a formal dinner? Do you know when it is appropriate and when it is inappropriate to discuss politics? Could you sit at dinner with the Archbishop of Canterbury on your left and a professional beauty on your right, and entertain both with your conversation?” As Marina sat there, eyes wide, Arachne continued ruthlessly. “How much is it appropriate to leave as a tip for the servants of your host at a shooting party? Do you know how to decide which invitations to decline and which to accept, and how to do both in such a way that your would-be hostess is neither left feeling that you are fawning on her nor insulting her? You may have a great deal of knowledge, child, but you have no learning’ And you have a great deal to learn.”

Finally she released Marina’s hands. “Never fear. I am going to see to it that you are fit for society. By the time you are out of mourning, you will be able to take your place among polite society with confidence. Now, I have work to do, and so do you.” She rang a bell on her desk, and the maid Mary Anne opened the door promptly. She must have been waiting just outside. “Mary Anne will take you to the dining room, where you will begin your education with your luncheon.”

Marina rose, feeling as limp as a stalk of boiled celery. Arachne picked up a paper from her desk and began to read it. Seeing no other option, Marina turned and followed the stiff back of the maid out of the room.

It seemed that lack of options was going to be her life for the foreseeable future.

But not forever, she promised herself. But not forever…

Chapter Nine

ARACHNE felt that her first interview with her niece had gone quite well. She’d kept the girl off-balance, inserted some doubts in her mind—and despite the girl’s protestations to the contrary, she was not particularly impressed with Marina’s intelligence. On the whole, she was, well, naive. Which was exactly how Arachne wanted things to remain.

She had the upper hand and kept it throughout the conversation—and discovered within the first couple of sentences that, contrary to her expectations, evidently no one had told the child anything about the curse or her aunt. How and why that had come about, she could not guess, but it gave her an advantage that she had never dreamed of having. With no expectations to counter, no preconceptions about her captor, it would be child’s play to manipulate the girl and her emotions.

Arachne was no fool; within a year she had known that her curse had somehow misfired, and that the child had been removed into hiding. After an initial campaign to find the girl failed utterly, she had sat back and reconsidered her options for an entire year.

She had concentrated on consolidating her financial—and magical—position for the first five years. At the end of that time, she had solidified her social position, ensuring that any odd tales or accusations would be dismissed as lunatic raving. She had competent overseers in place who were absolutely terrified of her, enabling her to take her immediate attention off her manufactories and simply let the money accumulate. She had a very great deal of that money. And she had an impenetrable magical sanctuary. If she had been able to baffle her brother and his Elemental Mage friends before, she would be completely invisible and invulnerable now.

That was when she insinuated one single agent of her own into the office of their legal man and had their will destroyed. Then she worked one single, very powerful spell, to make everyone who had ever touched that will forget that it had ever existed. With Hugh and Alanna certain that, no matter what happened to them, Marina was safe until her majority—with the instrument of that safety gone—Arachne had ten years, more or less, to allow her campaign to mature.

So she bided her time, installed her own spies in Devon and Tuscany, and awaited the opportunity to strike —not at the child, which they were expecting, but at Hugh and Alanna themselves. She’d had plenty of practice already. After all, she had already eliminated her own parents, and Alanna’s, though by means more mundane than magical.

She had known that the moment Hugh and Alanna were gone, the legal men would contact her—and once they were gone, intestate, leaving Arachne the only possible legal guardian, the law would give Arachne access to everything. Then it was just a simple matter of going through the carefully saved letters; putting them under lock and key did no good when Arachne was the keeper of the keys. Then, before the Tarrants got word of the tragedy themselves and spirited the child away—pounce. Stun them with the news of the deaths of their friends, and snatch the girl away with the backing of lawyers and police—that was the plan, and it worked to perfection. More than perfection, she had anticipated that the girl would have been warned, and that she might have to resort to any one of a number of complicated schemes, and at the least she would have had a dreadful struggle keeping her under control, until she decided what was to be done about her. Instead—the chit knew nothing—and Arachne’s task had just been simplified enormously.

After she called Mary Anne back into the room to take the girl in charge, she pretended to read an invoice while the footsteps receded into the distance. She wasn’t the only one waiting; after a moment, the door into the next room creaked, and her son Reggie stepped through.

She put the invoice down, and smiled at him. She was quite proud of him; he took entirely after her, and not after her late husband, who had been a pale and colorless sort of chap, although he’d been as cunning as a fox when it came to business.

Not cunning enough, though. Not at all curious about her associates, and what he called her “little hobbies.” Not at all careful about what he ate.

Reggie had inherited his cunning, which he turned to all manner of things, not just business. He had sailed through university, not troubling to make the effort for a First or Second because all he wanted was the degree. It wasn’t as if he was going to have to earn a living by means of it, so he enjoyed himself—and made social contacts. A great many social contacts. He was greatly sought after for every sort of party; facile, well-spoken, beautifully mannered and handsome, he made the perfect escort for any unaccompanied woman, and was guaranteed to charm.

Reggie could have any young woman he chose, to tell the truth, between his darkly stunning good looks and his—her—money. His only faults were that he was lazy and arrogant, and women were more than inclined to overlook both those flaws in the face of charm, wealth, and ravishing features.

“Well?” she asked, as he dropped carelessly down into the chair that the girl had just vacated.

“She’ll do—once your people bend her into the proper shape of lady.” He examined his fingernails with care, then graced her with a dazzling smile. “Properly subdued, she’ll be ornamental enough, for as long as we choose to keep her. But I confess, I cannot imagine why no one ever told her about you!”

“Neither can I,” Arachne admitted. “And for a moment, I toyed with the idea that she was feigning ignorance. But that child is as transparent as crystal; she couldn’t hide a secret if her life depended on it.”

Reggie laughed, showing very white teeth. “Appropriate, considering how much her life does depend on your will. How long do you intend to keep her?”