The Gates of Sleep

the ‘Reverend’ Davies—but the village has welcomed me beyond my expectation.”

“So both of us are new to Oakhurst—I shan’t feel so completely the stranger,” Marina replied, and as Mary Anne smoldered, continued to make conversation with the young Mr. Davies. In no time at all she had learned that he was as fond of chess as she was—”And you must come to the vicarage to play!”—passionate about music —”Although I cannot play a note, sadly”—and unmarried. Which accounted for the amused glances of the parishioners lingering purposefully about the door. Well, those were for the most part older parishioners. She rather thought that if any of the young and unmarried women had been lingering, she wouldn’t have been getting amused glances. They would think her a rival, and a rival with advantages they would never have. If she told them that she was not, they would never believe her.

But she was delighted to discover that Mr. Davies was well-spoken, friendly, intelligent. And the more that Marina spoke with the young vicar, the better she liked him.

Finally Mary Anne had had enough. “Excuse me, Miss Marina, but I think I had better fetch the carriage,” the woman said, interrupting the vicar in midsentence, then pushing past her charge as the young man looked after her with a bemused glance.

“I suppose I’ve monopolized your time unforgivably—” he began with a blush.

“You have done no such thing,” Marina replied with warmth, then seized her chance. “Mr. Davies, I should like very much to visit you, and play for your enjoyment or have a chess game with you, but my Aunt Arachne has some very strict notions about my behavior. Please send me or us actual invitations for specific days and times, so that she cannot put me off and must either be rude and decline, or gracious and accept. Please come up to Oakhurst Manor to visit—teatime would be ideal!”

“Forgive me, but you sound rather desperate,” the vicar said hesitantly, warily.

“I am—for intelligent company, and conversation that isn’t confined to the few topics considered appropriate among the fashionable elite!” she said, allowing him a brief glimpse of her frustration.

Just a flash—but Clifton Davies was not at all stupid, and very, very intuitive. She saw something like understanding in his eyes, a conspiratorial smile, and he gave her a quick nod.

“In that case, I believe I am overdue to make a call upon your aunt—and you,” he said, with a little bow over her hand. Then he released it, and stepped back, and turned to another of his flock. It was all perfectly timed, and she turned away, hiding a smile of satisfaction, to make her way up the path to the waiting carriage and the fuming Mary Anne. Now she would have a reason to come to the village; now there would be an outsider in Oakhurst to free her from the endless round of supervision and etiquette lessons.

And she just might start to get a decent tea now and again, with the vicar coming to call.

“And how did you find the little vicar?” Arachne asked over luncheon—how could anyone make roast beef so bland?—with a very slight smile.

Mary Anne told her how long I stayed talking to him, she realized at once. “I found him polite and well-spoken, who composes an intelligent sermon and delivers it admirably,” she replied casually. “And although he did not know my mother and father well, he wished to properly express his condolences and asked me to convey them to you as well, Madam. He intends to pay a call here soon, to impart them in person, and tender his respect to you and welcome you here.”

“Ah.” Arachne gave her a measuring look. “And did he say anything else?”

“That he plays chess and hopes that one of us will indulge him in a game,” she said truthfully. And added, “I expect that he will want one or both of us to help in church charity work. That is what my mother used to do, all the time. She used to write to me about it, pages and pages.”

There was a spark of something in Arachne’s eyes. “Really? That surprises me. I would not have expected Hugh’s wife to be so closely concerned with village life.”

“She enjoyed doing it; she enjoyed being able to help people,” Marina replied. “I suppose—I should do something too, but—I don’t know what. There’s an obligation, you see, responsibilities between the house and the village. We’re responsible for a great deal of parish charity, either directly, or indirectly.” Since Arachne had not interrupted her, she assumed that this must be appropriate conversation and continued. “I’m not good with sick people—my mother used to take food and other comforts to sick people. Perhaps you should, Madam.”

“I think that there are better uses of our time,” Arachne said, dismissively. “We can send one of the servants with such things, if the vicar wishes the custom to continue. Still… if it is the custom…”

Marina actually got to finish her course in peace, as Arachne pondered this sudden revelation of the linking of house and village. Evidently it had not occurred to her that there could be such a thing.

“You, I think, will be taking the responsibility of our obligation to the village,” Arachne said into the silence. “I am sure Mr. Davies will know what is best for you to do. It will give you something constructive to do with your time.”

Since that was exactly what Marina had been hoping she would say, she simply nodded. Another reason to be out of the manor!

“You will, of course, direct the servants to do as much as possible in your stead,” Arachne added. “The responsibility of directing them will be good for you.”

She stifled a sigh. Oh well—I’ll still have some chances to get away from here, if not as many as I had hoped for.

Still—still! She had gotten away, if only for the duration of the church service. She had made a friend of the vicar, and now there would be an outsider coming here. The bars of the cage were loosening, ever so slightly.

When Arachne was finished with luncheon, she did not immediately leave. Instead, she fixed Marina with an oddly penetrating look, and said, “Come with me, please, to the drawing room.” She smiled; it did not change the expression of her eyes. “We haven’t spoken of your parents, and I think it is time that we did so.”

Obediently, Marina rose when Arachne did, and followed her to the drawing room, which was between the library and the smoking room and connected with both. She knew the plan of the house now; she was in the north wing and Arachne and Reginald were in the south; in between lay the central portion of the house which contained the entry hall and the other important rooms. Most of the servants were also quartered in the north wing, all except for Madam’s personal maid, Reggie’s valet, and Mary Anne.

Like most of the house, this was a finely appointed, but comfortable room—not one designed for a particular Elemental Mage, either, so at least Marina didn’t feel stifled. The furnishings were from the middle of the last century, she suspected; they didn’t have the ornate quality of those more recently in vogue. Arachne took a couch with its back to the window, which perforce made Marina take a chair that faced it. With the light behind her aunt, she could not easily see Arachne’s face.

“How often did your mother write to you, child?” Arachne asked, as Marina settled uneasily into her chair.

“Once a week or so, except when she and my father were in Italy; less often then,” Marina replied, trying to keep her tone light and conversational. “She told me what she was doing, about the books she had read, the friends who had visited. Not when I was a child, of course,” she amended. “Then she told me mostly about her garden, and made up stories to amuse me. At least, I think she made them up, although they could have been stories from the fairy tale books she read as a child.”

“What sort of stories?” Arachne asked, leaning forward.

I wonder why she’s so interested?

“Oh, fairy tales and myths, about little creatures that were supposed to live in her garden, gnomes and fauns and the like,” she replied with a slight laugh. “Entirely whimsical, and perhaps that was the problem, why I never cared much for them. I was not a child much given to whimsy.”

She thought that Arachne smiled. “No?”

“No. I preferred the myths of Greece and Rome—and later, the stories about Arthur and his knights and court and the legends of Wales and Cornwall,” she said firmly. “And serious things; real history, Shakespeare and adult books. And poetry, which I suppose, given that I lived with artists, was inevitable, but the poetry I read was mostly Elizabethan. I was a serious child, and mother didn’t seem to understand that.” She chose her words with care. “Oh, just for instance, she seemed to think that since I lived with the Tarrants, I should be a painter, when my real interest is music. She would send me expensive paints and brushes, and I would just give them to Sebastian Tarrant—and he would buy me music.”

“An equitable arrangement. How very businesslike of you.” Arachne chuckled dryly, a tinkling sound like broken bits of china rubbing together. “And when you were older, what did your mother write about then?”