The Gates of Sleep

“What I’ve told you—mostly about her everyday life. Her letters were very like journal entries, and I tried to write the same to her, but it was difficult for me.” She shrugged. “I think, perhaps, that she was trying to—to bring us together again. To make us less than strangers.”

“I believe you could be right.” Arachne shook her head. “Poor Alanna; I knew her even less than you, for I did not even have the benefit of letters, but all I have gleaned since I arrived here makes me think that she must have been a seriously troubled young woman. I begin to wonder if the estrangement between my brother and myself might have been due in part to her.”

“Surely you don’t believe that my mother would have wanted to come between a brother and sister!” Marina exclaimed indignantly. “That doesn’t sound anything like her!”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Arachne replied, unruffled by the outburst. “No—but I must wonder if—if my brother was afraid that if I saw her, I would—” She shook her head again. “No, surely not. But if I saw that he had bound himself to someone who was—not stable—well, he must have realized that I would urge him to—”

“It puzzles me, but that I really did not know them,” Marina said, sitting up straighter. “If you have any guesses that would explain why I was sent away, I would be interested to hear them, and I assure you, I am adult enough to deal with them in a mature manner.”

Oh, very pompous, Marina. On the other hand—I’m tired of being treated like I’m still in the nursery.

Arachne paused. “You know that I told you how your mother seemed to have a—a breakdown of her nerves following your birth. Now, when you tell me of these letters of hers, well—what if she was not telling you whimsical tales as a child? What if she actually thought she saw these creatures in her garden?”

Marina for a moment could not believe what her aunt was trying to tell her. “Are you suggesting that she lost her wits?” Her voice squeaked on the last word, making her exclamation a little less than impressive.

“It would fit the facts,” Arachne said, as if musing to herself. “My brother’s refusal to see, speak, or even write to me, their reclusiveness, the fact that he sent you away. He could have been protecting you—from her.”

It was a horrible thought. And one which, as Arachne pointed out, did fit the facts.

And it would explain why the uncles and my aunt wouldn’t tell me why I’d been sent away. And why the reason was never, ever brought up in those letters.

Now, Marina knew that the little whimsical creatures that her mother had described really did exist—and had lived in her garden. But just because an Elemental Master was able to work magic and see the creatures of her element, it did not follow that she was sane… in fact, Elemental Masters had been known to become deranged by the very power that they wielded. Especially after a great stress, such as a death, an accident—or childbirth.

So what if that had happened to Alanna? Then Hugh would have wanted to get the infant Marina as far away from her as possible—he was protected against anything she might do, magically, but a baby would not be. And who better to send her to than the Tarrants, whose power could block Alanna’s?

It all made hideous sense. “I have to wonder if you are right, Madam Arachne,” she said slowly. “It does explain a number of things. In fact, it is the only explanation that fits all of the facts as I know them.”

She felt a horrible guilt then; here, all this time, she had been blaming her parents for sending her away, when they were protecting her, and in the only way possible! And those letters, filled with anguish and longing—had they come from a mother who dared not bring her child home lest she harm it? What worse heartbreak could there be?

Without Marina realizing it, Arachne had bent forward, and now she seized Marina’s hand. “It is only a theory, child. Nothing more. And I know—I know—that if nothing else, your mother must have been quite well and in her full wits when they went to Italy this year. I am certain, as certain as I am of my own name, that your parents intended to bring you here after your eighteenth birthday. Everything that I have found in their papers points to that.”

When I would be able to protect myself, even if mother wasn’t quite right yet. She nodded. “I think, from the letters I got, that you are right.”

Arachne released her hand. “I hope I haven’t distressed you, child. I didn’t intend to.”

“I’m sure not—” Marina faltered. “But you have given me a great deal to think about.”

Arachne made shooing motions with her hands. “In that case, dear child, perhaps you ought to go to your room where you can think in peace.”

Marina took the hint, and rose. “Thank you. I believe that I will.”

But as she turned to leave, she caught sight of her aunt’s expression; unguarded for once.

Satisfaction. And triumph. As if she had won a high wager.

Chapter Twelve

MARY Anne did not ride. Mary Anne was, in fact, afraid of horses. It was all very well for them to be at one end of a carriage, strapped in and harnessed up, while she was at the other, but she could not, would not be anywhere near one that was loose or under saddle. And for once, not even Arachne’s iron will prevailed. When confronted with the order to take to saddle, Mary Anne gave notice. Arachne rescinded the order. Or so Sally had told Marina, in strictest confidence.

Supposedly a groom was detailed to ride with Marina for her safety. Supposedly, in fact, a groom was to lead her horse (as if she was a toddler on a pony) in a parody of riding. In actuality, the stableman took one look at her firm and expert seat, her easy control of the reins, and the way in which she could handle every beast in the stables (not that there were any horses that Marina would call troublesome) and snorted with contempt at the very idea. “I’m shorthanded enough as ‘tis,” he said, “‘thout sending out one on fool’s errands. The day Hugh Roeswood’s daughter needs to be in leading-strings is the day they put me to pasture.”

So Marina (whether or not Arachne was aware of it) rode alone, and for the last week, she had gone out every day for at least an hour.

She was learning the paths and the lanes around Oakhurst slowly, for the horse that the stableman assigned to her was a placid little mare, disinclined to move out of a walk unless there was a powerful incentive. But the old hunter that Marina used to ride at Blackbird Cottage was the same, and on the whole, she would rather ride a sedate and predictable horse than a spirited, but unpredictable one.

She took great pleasure in her riding habit, of black wool and trimmed with fur, not the least because it came with a riding-corset that allowed her almost as much freedom as going uncorseted. She needed it; she needed her riding-cloak as well, for it was cold, with snow lying deeply on the fields, and especially in the lee of the banks and hedges. There might be more snow some time soon, though for now, nothing much had come from the cloud- covered sky.

Her rides had taken her down to the vicarage on two visits so far—not too often, and only by invitation, which Mr. Davies had been punctilious about sending up to the house after his teatime visit the Monday afternoon following her foray to church. In fact, she would be going there today on a third visit, this time with a peculiar bag slung over her shoulder.

She’d seen this bag in the gun room—dragged there by Reggie so that he could boast about previous triumphs in the field—and rather thought it was a falconer’s game bag. Whatever its original purpose in life, it was now a carryall when she went riding, as it sat very nicely on her hip and was large enough to carry almost anything. Today it held copies of her embroidery patterns, tracing paper, her spare pricking-wheel, and pounce bags of chalk and charcoal.

Whenever Margherita (or Sebastian, at her behest) had created an embroidery pattern, Marina had made a copy; she had an entire portfolio of them now. The vicar had asked for her suggestions for items for the parish booth at the annual May Day Fair on her first visit. She suspected that he hoped for items from Oakhurst for the jumble table, but she knew that her mother had contributed a great many white elephants over the years to little purpose. Marina had a better idea, and had asked him to gather the materials—and people—she needed to make it work.

When she arrived at the vicarage, she left her horse tied up at the gate, for she didn’t expect to be very long. At her request, the vicar had gathered the women of the Parish Society together, and at her entrance into his rather bare parlor, a dozen pairs of curious eyes turned toward her. She smiled, and received some smiles, some nods, and one or two wary looks in return as he introduced her.

Following her instructions, he had arranged for a worktable in the middle of the room, and supplied some