Phoenix and Ashes

Something had to be done about that.

When the fire was burning brightly, she called a swarm of Salamanders to wreath around her injuries. They'd only have burned someone who wasn't a Fire magician, and they couldn't heal things up completely, but what they could do was minimize the appearance of the scrapes and deep scratches, so that they looked days, rather than hours old.

Finally, she put on the clean clothing, spread out the pallet-bed, and fell onto it. She felt as if she wanted to weep. All that work—and for nothing! All she had done was to allow herself to be distracted by Reggie and betrayed by her emotions. She hadn't found the Air Master. She was no nearer to freeing herself than she had been this morning.

As for Reggie—if he dared to come looking for her here—Alison would want to know why, and then—

Unbidden, the image of the Wheel of Fortune card rose in her mind. A few hours ago, she had been up, up, up—now the Wheel had turned, and she had tumbled down, down, down—

The Wheel would turn again. She had to believe that. She had to.

Exhaustion, mental and physical overcame her while she was trying to convince herself of that, and she slept.

Only to be jolted awake by the impact of a delicately pointed toe on her own sore ribs.

She started out of sleep, and looked up, dumbly, to find that Alison, her daughters, and the odious Warrick Locke were all gazing down at her with expressions on their faces that made her heart turn to stone. And a scrap of lace and a single rosebud dangled from Alison's fingertips.

'Take care of her,' Alison said to Locke, before Eleanor could say a word.

And before she could move, he had swooped down on her like a hawk on a mouse, a rag in one hand that he clamped over her nose and mouth. There was a sickly-sweet smell—

—and then, nothing.

28

August 12, 1917

Broom, Warwickshire

ALISON LOOKED DOWN AT THE unconscious and much-battered form of her stepdaughter, sprawled on top of the heap of ragged blankets that was her bed, and seethed with rage that she carefully kept from her expression. There was no point in letting everyone know how close she was to unleashing that rage. In fact, she was quite sure that it was her control, and not her 'anger, that frightened Locke. 'I am very glad you were clever enough to see past her costume at the ball, Lauralee,' she said, keeping her voice level. 'And gladder still that you kept her from seeing you. She very nearly undid everything we have accomplished so far. Who could have guessed that idiot boy would have been attracted to her?'

Carolyn pouted. 'What I want to know is, where did she get that dress?' Her expression, as well as her voice, was raw with envy. That would have been moderately interesting under other circumstances, as her mother would never have guessed she had a passion for pink, lace, and rosebuds. It was an exceedingly misplaced concern, given the situation.

'Light the lamp, Carolyn,' was all Alison said. She was not entirely in charity with her younger daughter at the moment. Carolyn continued to pout, but did as she was ordered.

'And how did she get in the door?' Lauralee added, her own voice hard with the same anger her mother was feeling.

'More to the point, how did she get out the door—this door?' Alison retorted, gesturing at the exit from the kitchen. 'There are explanations for the rest—she could have found the dress in the attic, for instance, and she could have told the butler that she was with us in order to get into the ball. Didn't you say Reggie had asked about her, Carolyn?'

Carolyn blinked, as if the question caught her by surprise. 'Well,'

she admitted reluctantly, 'yes, but—'