The Gates of Sleep

the gay old social whirl as soon as you’re out of mourning, don’t you know. So, I’ll be giving you my coaching for a while.” He laughed. “Now, don’t you go pretending you haven’t learned anything just so you can keep the lessons going! The mater isn’t fooled that easily.”

She dropped her eyes to hide the contempt she felt for his assumption that she would do anything just to be in his company. “I won’t,” she murmured.

“There’s a good gel,” he said, patting the back of her hand. “Well then, I’ll be pushing off, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And as Marina followed Mary Anne to wherever her aunt was holding court among the teapots, she found herself resolving to learn these new dances in record time. The sooner she learned them, the sooner she’d be rid of Reggie, and by her way of thinking that could not possibly be soon enough.

Chapter Eleven

MADAM Arachne, I’ll be going to church tomorrow,” Marina announced over dinner, as the soup was cleared away. By the second day, she had begun calling her aunt by that name, and since the woman didn’t object—

I can’t call her Aunt, I just can’t. Aunts were nothing like this cold woman, who held the household at Oakhurst in such an iron grip that the servants leaped to obey her. Aunts were warm and loving, and were more likely to indulge a niece than correct her.

“I suppose I’ll need a carriage? It seems rather far to walk—I could, easily enough, but it’s an hour to the village at least. I don’t suppose I could ride—I’d have to stable the horse, and I’m not sure where in the village I could do that…” The riding-habit had just been delivered today, too late for her to go out for a ride. So far, she’d been out of the house itself only twice, both times for a walk in the gardens. She supposed that they were lovely— and she certainly detected the now-fading magic of an Earth Master in the robust health of all of the plantings. But the gardens weren’t her half-wild orchard, and the only water in them was a tame—and at the moment, inactive— fountain. It was all very lush, but very planned and mannered—reflective of the woman of all those letters.

None of this was much like Margherita; Margherita’s magic was cozier, more domestic, and at the same time, wilder—Alanna’s broad and wide, and controlled. Marina could only compare her mother’s magic to that of the goddess Demeter, a thing of ordered, rich harvests and settled fields.

And her own? She didn’t know—except that it wasn’t tame.

She wasn’t sure why, but she felt very uneasy about using any magic of her own here at Oakhurst.

What was it about this place here, Oakhurst, that made her so afraid—yes, afraid —and made her hide her power behind those masking shields that Elizabeth had taught her?

She glanced at Arachne from under her lashes, waiting for a response to her announcement, and realized that it wasn’t Oakhurst that made her feel as if she dared not work magic—after all, it was plain enough that magic had been worked in plenty here. No, her unease was centered around using magic near her aunt. Not that Arachne showed any signs of magic herself, nor did Reggie, nor the supercilious Mary Anne. But Elizabeth had taught her when to trust her instincts, and her instincts told her that any magic use should be kept under heavy shields and never, ever, where Arachne or her people were.

Which was everywhere, it seemed, within the walls of Oakhurst.

Tonight, not only was Madam Arachne present at dinner, so was Reginald. At Marina’s announcement, which he evidently found surprising, his eyebrows rose.

“It is too far to walk, and it would be in poor taste to display yourself at a church service in a riding habit,” Madam admitted, without betraying any expression. “But is this really necessary?”

Marina’s chin rose, and she looked her aunt directly in the eyes. A confrontation of sorts—a testing. “Yes, Madam, it is,” she said, and did not elaborate on why. Let Arachne assume it was because she was religious. That might even confuse her a bit, for she surely wouldn’t expect a religious upbringing out of pack of wild artists!

It was just an excuse to get out of the house and grounds, and she knew it, although in Killatree she and the other inhabitants of Blackbird Cottage had been regulars at the village church, except when the weather was particularly foul. She was curious about the village from which Oakhurst took its name; as much to the point, the people of the village were probably curious about her, the daughter that no one had ever seen. She might as well go to church where they could look their fill at her. It would be better and more comfortable to have her first encounter with them in the church than in the village street. And besides—there was one inhabitant of the village that Madam could not possibly object to. The vicar was the one man in a village whose position allowed him to cross class lines. He was as welcome a guest at dinner in a great house as he was at tea in the smallest, lowliest farmer’s cottage. Once Marina actually introduced herself to him, he would have to pay a visit. And at the moment, she didn’t care if he was the most boring old snob imaginable, he would at least keep Madam’s corrections to a minimum just by his presence.

“Well, you might as well go if you really want to, and let all the gossips and clatter-tongues look their fill at you,” said Madam dismissively, in an unconscious echo of Marina’s own reasoning. “At least they will know that you haven’t got two heads, or devil’s hooves, or any of the other nonsense that has probably been mooted about in the teashop and the pub. I will order the carriage for you.”

“Thank you, Madam,” Marina said, lowering her eyes to her plate—which was promptly whisked away. Not that she minded; this course looked like chopped pasteboard and mayonnaise, and tasted about the same. She had figured out by now that there were no more than two or three dishes in a meal that she found palatable, and she took care to get exactly the right implements for them and to eat them quickly when they appeared. Usually she got at least half of the portions set in front of her that she wanted to eat, if she managed to maneuver bites around Madam’s mandatory polite conversation.

That, and her hearty breakfasts and midnight feasts supplied by Sally, kept her from feeling as if she was going to starve to death any time soon. Perhaps when spring and summer arrived, she could convince her aunt to let her have picnic luncheons or teas out of doors.

But I suppose that will only happen if they’re in fashion.

“What was that telegraph about, that you ran off so quickly today?” Arachne asked her son, who was eating his portion of the next course with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Another one of the paintresses left the Okehampton works—or, as their foreman said, ‘disappeared,’“ he said, setting his fork aside. “That’s two this week, and there’s been some talk that somehow we’re responsible for the disappearances. The manager reckoned I’d better come deal with the talk before it got out of hand. He was right; not only did I have to talk to the girls—all of them, not just the paintresses—but every one of the shop foremen cornered me before I left. They all wanted to know if there was any truth to the talk that for some reason we’d gotten rid of her and hushed it up.”

“Talk?” Arachne said sharply. “We’re the ones who’ve been injured! Doesn’t it occur to those people that it takes time to train a paintress? Why would we want to be rid of trained ones? It costs us time and money when one of the little ingrates decides to try her prospects elsewhere.”

“That’s what I told them,” Reggie replied with a shrug. “And eventually they all admitted what I’d already known—” He gave a sharp glance at Marina, who was pretending great interest in her plate. “Once those girls start the easy life of a paintress, they start getting airs. You know what I mean, Mater.”

Arachne laughed, and actually looked fully at her niece. “This, Marina, is not considered polite conversation. For one thing, it is about the inner workings of our business, and it is not polite to discuss these things in front of those who are not involved in the business themselves. For another—well, the petty lives of little factory girls with money to spend who find that they have become interesting to men are not appropriate subjects for conversation at any time.”

“Yes, Madam,” Marina murmured.

“However, this is something that Reginald and I must discuss, so—well, remember that this sort of thing is not to be brought up in public.”

“Yes, Madam,” Marina agreed, softly.

She turned back to Reggie. “Now, there has to be some reason why these foremen were convinced we had anything to do with these girls running off,” Arachne continued, fixing her son with a cool gaze. “You might as well tell me what it is.”

Reggie groaned. “Never could get anything by you, Mater, could I? Some pesky Suffragists brought in their pet female doctor and commenced whinging about the entire painting room, especially about the paints and glazes, saying we’re poisoning the girls and that’s why they disappear. Some of the men were daft enough to listen to