The Gates of Sleep

her hand behind the death. Someone else could be trained; the valet, perhaps. She’d done without an Infernal Celebrant before, and she could do so again, awkward though it might be.

And less effective.

That was the problem with the Satanic rituals; so damned misogynistic, so infernally patriarchal.

Perhaps… when all this was sorted, she ought to pay someone to research the rites of the Magna Mater, or the goddess Hecate, or some other goddess of black powers. Perhaps endow three or four scholarships, or even get someone to search the proscribed sections of the Vatican library and abstract the appropriate texts. Then she wouldn’t need any Celebrant but herself.

No time for that now, though. The days and weeks were ticking past; March was half over, and spring would be here too soon. Already the snow was gone, and cold rain had taken its place. Then summer, and the birthday…

“Woo the girl, and win her if you can,” she ordered. “If nothing else, it will make inheritance easier if you’re married to her when the curse takes her. There will be no nonsense about probate courts and dying intestate and a minor; you’ll already have it all, no questions, no hesitation.”

“A good point.” He grimaced, and seemed to revert to his usual indolent self—though having seen the Believer behind the mask, Arachne was never going to trust to that mask again. “All right, Mater, I’ll do what—I’ll do the best that I can.”

“I’m sure you will,” she replied as he rose and walked out of the room. Though at that moment, she was not at all certain that he would.

After all—if she died in the backlash of the curse, he stood to inherit all that she owned. And then, if he chose, he could have his freedom to live his life as he chose, or his pick of heiresses couldn’t he?

For all she knew, if he actually had made a pact, that would be the sum of it.

Treachery, treachery. It might all come to which of them betrayed the other first.

Marina was wracking her brains, trying to come up with a reason, any excuse at all, to get Reggie and Arachne to take her to the pottery at Exeter. She’d considered feigning some mysterious female illness, considered a toothache that would require a visit to a dentist. But both those ploys could involve having her ruse exposed as such, and would involve—particularly in the case of the dentist—a certain amount of pain. If she wanted books, well they could be ordered, and the same for the shoes she actually needed.

She’d even gone so far as to make a handwritten list of plausible approaches last night, but nothing seemed particularly inspired. She was still turning things over in her mind as she followed Mary Anne to breakfast the next morning, trying on this idea, then that, and coming up with nothing.

Still, when she discovered that Madam was not down to breakfast that morning, leaving her alone with Reggie, it seemed as though the opportunity to approach him directly was too good to let slip. So she listened to his interminable boasts and pointless stories with wide-eyed patience, then, after a description of some petty triumph in business, she sighed theatrically.

At least he managed to pick up on that, although he was utterly obtuse to the fact that she was bored silly with him. “Why the sighs, fair cuz?” he asked, with an empty grin. “Do my triumphs on the field of commerce so entrance you? Or is it just that, like a good little feminine creature, you’ve no head for business and would like me to change the subject?”

It was about as good an opening as she was ever likely to get. “Actually, in a peculiar way, it’s partly both. I am fascinated by your enterprises,” she replied, making her eyes wide, and looking at him with great seriousness. “Since I’m part of your family now, I’ve come to the conclusion that I really ought to see your business, first hand, so I can understand it when you discuss it. Oh, Reggie! Could you take me to the pottery at Exeter?” She made her voice turn wheedling, though she cringed inside to hear herself. “Please? That is the closest one, isn’t it? I should so like to see it, and even more, to see you in charge of all of it! It must be thrilling, like seeing a captain command his warship!” Good gad, am I really saying this tripe?

For a moment, he looked so startled that she had to swallow an entire cup of tea in three gulps to keep from laughing aloud. “Are you serious, cuz?” he said incredulously. “Do you really want to see the pottery and watch me at work?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, looking straight into his eyes. “More than wanting to see it, I feel that I must see it, and that I can never properly understand you or Madam unless I see you in command of it all. Could you take me? Perhaps on your next business trip?” She actually stooped so low as to bat her eyes at him, and tried not to gag.

“By Jove, I not only could, but this will fit in with my plans splendidly!” he exclaimed with such glee that she was startled. “Just yesterday Mater was saying that I ought to take you to some place bigger than Oakhurst and let you see the sights; maybe do a trifle of shopping, I know how you little creatures love to shop—”

She stifled the urge to strangle him and concentrated on looking overjoyed with the prospect of a day away from the house and the village. It wasn’t that hard to do, given the promise of “a little shopping.” Perhaps she could manage to get hold of some money in the process.

“I would like that above all things, so long as I can also see the pottery,” she said, gazing at him with feigned adoration. “Oh, Reggie, you are so good to me, and I know I must bore a worldly fellow like you to distraction. I can’t help it, I know I’m too serious, and so horribly provincial. I must seem like such a bumpkin to a man of the world like you.”

“Oh no—you have other things to distract me with, fair cuz,” he flattered, with such complete insincerity that she wondered why every woman he met didn’t see through him immediately. “Well then, this is Saturday—I’ll send Hibdon down to reserve a first-class compartment on the first train down to Exeter Monday morning and the last returning Monday night. We’ll be up at dawn, catch the train and have breakfast on it, be in Exeter by ten. We’ll trot you about the shops, a handsome little luncheon, perhaps a little more shopping, then we’ll off to the pottery. I’ll do my duty to the old firm, don’t you know, then we’ll catch the train, have a good tea on it, and be back here in time for a late dinner!” He laughed then, and winked at her. “I know that won’t be nearly enough shopping for you—you ladies don’t seem to want to do anything but shop, but maybe you’ll take pity on a poor fellow and let me make a promise to take you up again another time.”

She simpered, and dropped her eyes, to avoid having to look at him. “Oh, cousin Reggie, I really have very simple tastes. I would like to see a bookshop, and I haven’t nearly enough gloves, and perhaps a hat—”

He guffawed—there was no other word for it. “A hat? My dear cuz, I have never yet seen a woman who could buy a hat! If you manage that feat, I will fall dead in a faint!”

I just wish you’d fall dead, she thought ungenerously, but she managed to fake a giggle. “Shoes, too,” she added as an afterthought. “And riding boots, at least. Mine,” she added with genuine regret, “are a disgrace.”

“That’s enough to fill a morning and an afternoon. Gloves, hats, books—romances, I’ll be bound, or poetry— and shoes. Hands, head, heart and—” he grinned at his own cleverness, “—soles.”

She did the expected, and groaned and rolled her eyes at the pun. He looked pleased, and chuckled. “I’ll tell the Mater; she’ll be cheered. She thinks you ought to see the big city—well, something bigger than a village, anyway. Maybe we can go down for a concert or recital or whatnot after this, if the sight of all those people in one place doesn’t give you the collywobbles.”

“I shall do everything on my part to avoid the collywobbles,” she promised solemnly. She managed to be flatteringly good company until he finished his breakfast, then went off to whatever task he had at hand. She finished hers, then took herself off to the long gallery for her newest lessons, which were occupying her mornings now.

The long gallery was a painting and statue gallery, with windows looking out on the terrace on one side, and the artworks on the other. To show off the art, the walls had been painted white and had minimal ornamentation. And now, during autumn, winter, and early spring, the ornamental orange trees in their huge pots from the terrace were kept at the windows inside. The highly polished stone floor echoed with every footstep, and a glance at the rain-slick terrace outside made Marina shiver.

Mary Anne was conducting these lessons, but Marina had hopes that they would be over relatively soon,