At least these days he generally got the paint off his hands before he ate!
Instead, she passed the plate of deviled ham sandwiches to him, and said, "Well, they're off to Italy. They caught the boat across the Channel yesterday, if the letter was accurate."
No need to say who. Alanna and Hugh Roeswood, unable to bear their empty house in the winter, had fled to Italy as soon as their harvest was over that first disastrous year, and had repeated the trip every year after. It was a habit now, Margherita suspected; Earth Masters tended to get into comfortable ruts. The Roeswoods always took the same Tuscan villa, and Alanna was able to pass the time in a garden that was living through the winter instead of stark and dormant. As an Earth Master herself, Margherita suspected that it helped her cope with her grief. By now, the earth there knew them as well as the earth of Oakhurst did.
Sebastian helped himself to sandwiches, and nodded. He seldom read Alanna's letters; Margherita suspected they were too emotional for him. Like all Fire Masters, his emotions were volatile and easily aroused. And Alanna's letters could arose emotion in a stone....
As Margherita had suspected he would, he shifted the subject to one more comfortable. "I'll be glad when winter truly comes for us. With all the harvesters moving in and out, it fair drives me mad trying to keep track of the strangers in the village."
Strangers---the unspoken danger was always there, that Marina's real aunt had finally found out where she was, that one of those strangers was her spy.
Never mind that Marina was known as "Marina Tarrant" and everyone thought she was Sebastian's niece. Never mind that they managed to preserve that false identity to literally everyone in the world except her real parents and that handful of guests at the ill-fated gathering after the christening. Such a transparent ruse would never fool Arachne, if the woman had any idea where to look for the child. The single thing keeping Marina safe was that Thomas, Sebastian, and Margherita were the Roeswoods' social inferiors, and it would probably never enter Arachne's head to look for her brother's child in the custody of middle-class bohemians. She had, in fact, looked right past them when she had made her dramatic entrance; perhaps she had thought they had been invited only because they were part of something like the great Magic Circle in London. Perhaps she had even thought they were mere entertainers, musicians for the gathering. It had been clear then that to her, they might as well not exist.
And why should they come to her notice then? Their parents had been the equivalent of Roeswood servants; Sebastian was hardly known outside of the small circle of patrons who prized his talent. As for Thomas, he was a mere cabinetmaker; he worked with his hands, and was not even the social equivalent of a farmer who owned his own land. That was their safety then, and now. But they had always known they could not rely on it.
The danger was unspoken because they never, ever said Arachne's name aloud and tried not even to think it. Arachne's curse lay dormant, but who knew what would happen if her name was spoken aloud in Marina's presence? Names had power, and even if that sleeping curse did not awaken, saying Arachne's name still might draw her attention to this obscure little corner of Devon. Whether Arachne's magic was her own or borrowed, it still followed no rules of Elemental power that Margherita recognized, and there was no telling what she could and could not do.
That was why they had kept the reason for Marina's exile a secret from her all these years, and up until she was old enough to keep her own counsel, had even kept her real name from her. If she knew about the curse, about her real aunt---she might try to break the curse herself, she might try to find Arachne and persuade her to take it off, she might even dare, in adolescent hubris, to challenge her aunt.
She might not do any of those things; she might be sensible about it, but Margherita had judged it unwise to take the chance. Marina was sweet-natured, but there was a stubborn streak to her, and not even a promise would keep her from doing something she really wanted to. Marina had a very agile mind, and a positively lawyer-like ability to find a way, however tangled and convoluted the path might be, of getting around any promises she'd made if she truly wanted something. That was a Water characteristic---the ability to go wherever the will drove. Perhaps they had done her no favors by keeping her in ignorance, but at least they had done her no harm.
Other than the harm of separating mother from child....
It hadn't been Marina that had suffered, though; Margherita would pledge her soul on that. The happy, carefree child had grown into a remarkable young woman, and if she had not had all the advantages her parents' relative wealth could have bought her, she had obtained other advantages that money probably could not have purchased. Freedom, for one thing; she'd learned her letters and reckoning from Margherita, and all the other graces that young ladies were supposed to require---and a great deal more. From Thomas, who had a scholarly turn, she'd learned Latin and Greek as well as the French she got from Margherita---and from Sebastian, Italian. She learned German on her own. When she was little, they'd given her formal lessons, but when she turned fourteen, they let her choose her own subjects for the most part---though she'd still had plenty of studying to do. This year was the first time they'd let her follow her own inclinations; there was no telling what she'd choose to do when she passed that fateful eighteenth birthday and her parents collected her. Thomas hoped that she would go to Oxford, to the women's College there, even though women were not actually given degrees.
Meanwhile, she had the run of the library, and devoured books in all five languages besides her native English. Winter- long, there wasn't a great deal to do besides work and read, for the long winter rains kept all of them indoors. Margherita reflected that she would have to keep an eye on Sebastian and his demands for Mari's time as his model; it had already occurred to him that by next summer he would lose her, and he was painting at a furious rate. Mari was being very good-natured about all the posing, but Margherita knew from her own experience that it was hard work, and that Sebastian was singularly indifferent to the needs of his models when a painting-frenzy was on him.
Thomas reached for the teapot and let out his breath in a sigh. "Eight months," he said, and there was no indication in his voice that the sigh was one of relief. Margherita nodded.
They had always known that this last year, Marina's seventeenth, would be the hardest. Even if Arachne was not aware that her curse now had a limitation on it, she would still be trying to bring it to fruition in order to achieve that self- imposed deadline. The older Marina got, the stronger she would be in her powers, and the better able to defend herself. Nor could Arachne count on Marina remaining alone; although the help that her friends could give her was, by the very nature of the magic that they wielded, somewhat limited, that did not apply to true lovers, especially if they happened to be of complimentary Elements. In a case like that, the powers joined, magnifying each other, and it would be very difficult for a single Power to overwhelm them. The older Marina was, the more likely it became that she would fall in love, and Magic being what it was, it was a foregone conclusion that it would be with another Elemental magician.
Arachne would want to prevent that at all costs, for her curse would rebound on its caster if it was broken, and Heaven only knew what would happen then.
So this seventeenth year of Marina's life would be the most dangerous for her, and her guardians were doing everything in their power to keep her out of the public eye. Not her image---that was harmless enough. She didn't look strikingly like either of her parents; the resemblance had to be hunted for. She had Hugh's dark hair, a sable near to black, but it was wavy rather than straight as his was, or as curly as her mother's. In fact, virtually everything about her was a melding of the two; her face between round and oblong, her mouth neither the tiny rosebud of her mother's, nor as wide as her father's. She was tall, much taller than her mother. And her eyes---well, they were nothing like either parents'. Hugh's were grey, Alanna's a cornflower blue. Marina's were enormous and blue- violet, a color so striking that everyone who saw her for the first time was arrested by the intensity of it. There had been no hint of that color when she'd been a baby, and as far as anyone knew, there had never been eyes of that color in either family.
So Sebastian had been using her as a model all this past year, both because she was a wonderful subject and to keep her busy and out of the village as much as possible. And if because of that his pictures took on a certain sameness, well, that particular trait hadn't hurt Rosetti's popularity, nor Morris's, nor any of the other Pre-Raphaellites who used one or two models at most.
In fact, the only negative aspect to using Marina as a model had so far been as amusing as it was negative---that certain would-be patrons had assumed that the model's virtue was negotiable. After the first shock---the Blackbird Cottage household was known in the artistic community more as a model for semi-stodgy propriety than otherwise---Sebastian had rather enjoyed disabusing those so-called "gentlemen" of that notion. If going cold and saying in a deathly voice, "Are you referring to my niece?" was not a sufficient hint, then turning on a feigned version of a Fire Master's wrath certainly was. No one ever faced a Fire Master in his full powers without quailing, whether or not they had magic themselves, and even theatrical anger was nearly as intimidating as the real thing.
And Sebastian being Sebastian, he usually got, not only an apology, but an increase in his commission out of the encounter. He'd only lost one patron out of all of the years that he'd been using Marina, and it was one he'd had very little taste for in the first place. "I told him to go to Beardsley for his damned 'Leda,' if he wanted the model as well as the painting," was what he'd growled to Margherita when he'd returned from his interview in London. "I wanted to knock him down---" "But you didn't, of course," she'd said, knowing from his attitude that, of course, he hadn't.
"No. Damn his eyes. He's too influential; I'm no fool, my love, I kept my insults behind my teeth and managed a cunning imitation of sanctimonious prig without a sensual bone in my body. I even convinced him he wouldn't lose by it. Beardsley can draw, at least. But I wanted to send his damned teeth down his throat for what he hinted at." Sebastian's aura had pulsed a sullen red, and Margherita had instinctively chosen to cool it with a chuckle.
"Well, he may not lose by it, but if gossip is right, he won't be finding any willing female models in Beardsley's studio," she'd laughed. And, after a moment, Sebastian saw the humor of it and joined her.
"Oh, gossip is only half right. He won't find any models at all, and serve the blackguard right." Sebastian had smiled at last, and kissed her, and she had known that, as always, his temper had burned itself out quickly.
But common perceptions were a boon to Marina's safety; Arachne would never dream that Marina Roeswood would be posing for paintings like a common---well---artist's model.
Which term was only a more polite version of something else, and given the amount of leg and neck and shoulder that Marina often showed.... For that matter, if Alanna had any notion that Sebastian's lovely model was her own daughter, she would probably faint. It was just as well that the question had never come up. The prim miniatures that Sebastian sent every Christmas showed a proper young lady with her hair up, a high-collared blouse, and a cameo at her throat, not the languid odalesques or daring dancers Sebastian had been painting in that style the French were calling 'Art Nouveau.'
"Once harvest's over and winter's begun," Sebastian said through a mouthful of deviled ham, "It will be easier to keep the little baggage indoors."
"Unless she decides it's time you made good on your promise to take her to London," Thomas pointed out.
"So what if she does?" Sebastian countered. "London's as good or better a place to hide her than here! How many Elemental magicians are there in London? Trying to find her would be like trying to find one particular pigeon in Trafalgar Square! If she wants a trip to the galleries and the British Museum, I'll take her. I'm more concerned that she doesn't get the notion in her head to go to Scotland and meet up with the Selkies."
Thomas winced. "Don't even think about that, or she might pick the idea up," he cautioned, and sucked on his lower lip. "We've got a problem, though. We can't teach her any more. She needs a real Water Master now, and I think she's beginning to realize that. She's restless; she's bored with the exercises I've set her. She might not give a hang about the Roeswood name, fortune, or estate, but she's going to become increasingly unhappy when she realizes she needs more teaching in her Power and we can't give it to her."
Sebastian and Margherita exchanged a long look of consternation; they hadn't thought of that. Of all the precautions they had taken, all the thing they had thought they would have to provide for, Marina's tutoring in magic had not been factored into the equation.
"Is she going to be that powerful?" Sebastian asked, dumbfounded.
"What if I told you that every time she goes out to the orchard she's reading poetry to Undines?" Thomas asked.
That took even Margherita by surprise. Sebastian blanched. Small wonder. When Elementals simply appeared to socialize with an Elemental mage, it meant that the magician in question either was very, very powerful, powerful enough that the Elementals wanted to forge friendships with her, or that she would be that powerful, making it all the more important to the Elementals that they forge those friendships before she realized her power. One didn't coerce or compel one's friends...it just wasn't done.
"Oh, there is more to it than that," Thomas went on. "I've caught Sylphids in her audiences as well. I can only thank God that she hasn't noticed very often, or she'd start to wonder just what she could do with them if she asked."
So the Air Elementals were aware of her potential power too. The Alliance granted her by Roderick did go both ways.... Thomas was right; they couldn't leave her at loose ends. If she began trying things on her own, they might as well take her to London and put her on top of Nelson's column with a banner unrolling at her feet, spelling out her name for all---for Arachne---to see.
"What about asking Elizabeth Hastings for a visit---or more than one?" Margherita asked, slowly.
Sebastian opened his mouth as if to object---then shut it. Thomas blinked.
"Would she come?" her brother asked, probably guessing, and accurately, that she had been feeling Elizabeth out on that very subject in her latest letters. "She's not an artist, after all. And we are not precisely 'polite' society."
"We're not social pariahs either, brother mine," she pointed out. "Silly goose! She wouldn't harm her reputation by visiting us, even if anyone actually knew that was what she was doing here. A mature lady just might take up the invitation of a perfectly respectable couple and the wife's brother, all well- known for their scholarly pursuits---"
Thomas primmed up his face, and Sebastian drew himself up stiffly, interrupting her train of thought with their posing. "Stop that, you two!" she said, torn between exasperation and laughter. She slapped Sebastian's shoulder lightly, and made a face at Thomas. "Like it or not, we are respectable, and only old roues like some of your clients, Sebastian, think any different!"
"Dull as dishwater, we are," Thomas agreed dolefully, as Sebastian leered at her. "We don't even amuse the village anymore. We give them nothing to gossip about."
"Oh, but if they only knew...." Sebastian laughed. "Now, acushla, don't be annoyed with us. There's little enough in this situation to laugh about, don't grudge us a joke or two."
He reached out to embrace her, and she sighed and returned it. She never could resist him when he set out to charm her.
"Now, what about Elizabeth? Obviously you two women have been plotting something out behind our backs," Sebastian continued.
"Well---to be honest, it never occurred to me that we'd need to have her here, I just thought it would be good for Mari to be around another Water-mage, and even better to have someone around who was---well---more like Hugh and Alanna. Someone who could get her used to the kinds of manners and social skills she'll have to have when she goes to them...." Margherita sighed. "I don't want her to feel like an exile. And she likes Elizabeth. I thought if Elizabeth could come for a few weeks at a time, it would help the transition."
"So, that makes perfect sense; all the better, that you've clearly got something in motion already," Thomas said, with his usual practicality. "So, what was you plan? How did she figure to get away from all of her social obligations? I should think given the season that it would be nearly impossible."
"Not this year!" Margherita said in triumph. "You know she hates both the shooting season and the hunting season---" "'The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible,'" her brother muttered, quoting Wilde.
"---and now that her daughter's married and both her sons are at school, she's got no real reason to stay and play hostess if she truly doesn't want to," Margherita continued. "Her husband, she tells me, has always wanted to try a season in Scotland instead of here. He's had tentative invitations he never pursued because she didn't care to go."
She stopped there; both her brother and her husband were canny enough to fill in the blank spaces without any help from her. The Hastings had been the host to more than enough pheasant-shoots and fox-hunts over the years that they must have an amazing backlog of invitations that Stephen Hastings---always a keen hunter---could pursue with a good conscience without worrying that Elizabeth was going to make no secret of being bored.
"So he'll get to be that most desirable of social lions, the 'safe single man,'" Margherita observed with irony. "He can escort the older widows to dinner without feeling put-upon, and he won't target or be a target for unsuitable romance. He won't cause a quarrel with anyone's fiance, and he can be relied upon, if there's a country-dance, to make sure all the wallflowers get a waltz."
"That alone will probably ensure he gets his choice of shoots," Sebastian said, his face twitching as he tried not to laugh.
Elizabeth had said as much, herself, pointing out the rest of her husband's good points as a sporting-guest. He was a good and considerate gun too; not a neck-or-nothing rider, but that wasn't necessary in a middle-aged man to preserve his standing in the Hunt Club. All things considered, in order to give him a free conscience in accepting one or more of those long-standing invitations, all that Elizabeth would have to do would be to find some excuse that could reasonably take her off to this part of the country for some extended period of time.
"Let's put our heads together on this one," Sebastian said immediately. "What on God's green earth could Lady Elizabeth Hastings want in this part of the world?"
Thomas blinked again---and said, "Folk tales and songs."
Margherita clapped her hands like a girl, and Sebastian's smile lit up the entire room. "Brilliant, Thomas!" he shouted. "By gad, I knew I'd made a good choice of brother-in-law! Absolutely brilliant!"
The collection of folk ballads and oral tales was always an appropriate and genteel pursuit for a lady with scholarly bent; this close to Cornwall there were bound to be variations on the Arthurian mythos that no one had written down yet. During the seasons of planting, tending, and harvesting, no farmer or farm- worker would have time to recite the stories his granny had told him---but during the winter, if Elizabeth wanted to lend verisimilitude to her story, all she would have to do would be to have Thomas run her down to the pub in the pony-cart now and again to collect a nice little volume of tales and songs. "We've already had her out here during the summer, and spring over the years, so she's seen the May-Day celebrations and the fairs," Margherita said, planning aloud, "She can look through her sketches and notes and 'discover' what a wealth of untapped ballads we have here and make visits the rest of the winter. One long one up until the Christmas season, say, and another between the end of January and spring."
"That's a rather long time. You're sure her husband won't mind?" Sebastian asked, suddenly doubtful, remembering the other half of the Hastings equation.
Margherita smiled. "I didn't think you two ever listened when I read her letters aloud. Let me just say that they are on cordial terms, the best of terms, really, but Elizabeth has gotten confirmation about some of her suspicions about her husband's frequent visits to London."
Thomas shook his head; Sebastian snorted. "Actress?" he asked bluntly.
"Dancer," she replied serenely. "Well, if Elizabeth chooses to look the other way, it is none of my business, and if Stephen has another interest, he won't be unhappy if Elizabeth doesn't go in to London with him this winter." "Stephen got his local Parliament seat last year, didn't he?" Sebastian asked, showing that he had paid a little more attention to Elizabeth's letters than Margherita had thought.
"He did, and Elizabeth loathes London." The plan unrolled itself in Margherita's mind like a neatly gridded tapestry. "Stephen can pretend to live at his club and visit his dancer while Parliament is in session, and she can stay with us." Her lips twitched in a bit of a smile. "Perhaps if he gets a surfeit of the girl he'll tire of her."
"He probably will," Sebastian predicted loftily. "It's nothing more than an attempt to prove he isn't middle-aged, I suspect. If he doesn't tire of her, she'll tire of him. There'll be a dance-instructor or a French singing-master hanging about before the New Year, mark my words. And at some point, Stephen will show up at her establishment unexpectedly, and discover that there's something other than lessons going on."
Margherita hid a smile. Sebastian had met Stephen several times, and on each occasion she was reminded of a pair of dogs circling one another in mutual animosity, prevented from actually starting a fight by the presence of their masters. Sebastian was the utter opposite of Stephen Hastings, describing him as a "hearty gamesman" and intimating that the only reason he'd actually gotten his Cambridge degree was that his instructors wanted to see the last of him. There might have been some truth in that. He certainly hadn't taken a First in anything and seemed to be absurdly proud of the fact.
It wasn't her business why Elizabeth had married him, when all was said and done. Perhaps, besides a certain amount of affection, it had been because he was so very incurious, so utterly without imagination, that she could carry on her Magical Workings without rousing any interest in him. That arrangement wouldn't have suited Margherita---but it was infinitely better than having to sneak about in deathly fear of being caught. And if one couldn't find someone to love---society being what it was, a woman of Elizabeth's position had little choice except to marry---the best compromise was to find someone it was possible to be friends with.
"I'll write her---" Margherita said. "Unless you want to use a dove to send her a message?" She cast a glance of inquiry at Thomas. He shook his head.
"It's not that urgent, not while Marina has other things to occupy her. There's plenty to do around here until the end of harvest," he said. "I'll find things for her to do," Margherita and Sebastian said together, then looked at each other and laughed. "It's settled, then," Margherita said for both of them, and felt a certain relief. That would be one more person here to watch over Marina as well. One more pair of eyes---one more set of powers.
Most importantly, someone to help the child master the powers that would protect her better than any of them could.
#
"And just what is it that you are thinking about that makes you frown so?" asked the Undine. Her pointed chin rested on her hands, her elbows propped on the bank of the brook. The faintly greenish cast to her skin was something that Marina was so used to seeing that she seldom noticed it unless, like now, she stopped to study an Undine's expression.
The Undines didn't trouble themselves with individual names; at least, they never gave her their names. Though that might simply have been excessive caution on their part. Names had power, after all.
"Was I frowning?" Marina asked. She rubbed her forehead; on the whole, she really didn't want to discuss her internal conflicts with an Undine that wouldn't understand anyway. Undines didn't have parents, at least, not so far as Marina knew, just sisters. Marina had never seen anything but a female Undine. "Just concentrating, I suppose."
"Well, at least you aren't shouting your thoughts anymore," the Undine replied, with a toss of her green-blond hair. "You ought to stop thinking and come have a swim. It won't be long before it's too cold---for you, anyway. Enjoy yourself while you still can."
"You're right," she agreed, only too pleased to leave the problem of her parents to sort itself out another day. The Undine laughed liquidly, and plunged under the surface of the brook to become---literally---one with the water. For all intents and purposes, the Undine vanished in a froth of foam and a wave.
Marina followed the brook upstream, above the little falls, to a pond the family waterfowl seldom visited. It stood in the midst of a water-meadow, and the verge was dense with protective reeds. An intensely green scent hung over the pond; not the scent of rotting vegetation, nor the stale smell of scum, just the perfume of a healthy watering-hole densely packed with growing things. In fact, the water was pure and clear, thanks to a fine population of little fish and frogs. Herons came here to hunt, and the smaller, shy birds of the reed-beds, but never any people---if the folk of the neighboring farm knew about this place, they didn't think it held fish large enough to bother with, and her own family left her alone here. This was Marina's summer-time retreat by common consent, and had been since she was old enough to come up here alone. It wasn't as if she could get into any trouble in the water, after all---even in the roughest horseplay, the Undines would never permit her to come to harm in her proper element. She had been able to swim, and safe in the water, since before she could walk.
She slipped out of her dress and petticoat and underthings and left them folded on a rock concealed among the reeds where they would remain safe and dry without advertising the fact that there was someone swimming here to anyone who might be passing. This time of year there were always strangers, itinerant harvesters, and gypsies passing through the village. The villagers themselves might not come here, but the strangers, looking for a place to camp, might happen upon it by accident. Not the gypsies, though; the Undines managed to warn them off.
There hadn't been anyone around the pond today, or the Undine wouldn't have invited her to swim. They might not understand much about a mortal's life, but they did understand that strange men lurking about could be a danger to Marina. She took a moment to tie her hair loosely at the nape of her neck, then slipped into the sun-warmed water wearing nothing more than her own skin.
Immediately she was surrounded by Undines wearing nothing more than theirs, and an exuberant game of tag began. She was at a partial disadvantage, not being able to breathe underwater, but she managed to compensate with her longer reach. There was a great deal of splashing and giggling as they chased one another. The warm water caressed Marina's skin like the brush of warmed silk; as the Undines slid past her, a tingle of energy passed between them, a little like the tingle in the air before lightning struck. The pond was surprisingly deep for its small size, and as she dove under to elude a pursuer or to chase her own quarry, she reveled in the shock of encountering a cooler layer of water beneath the sun-warmed surface. Other, lesser Elementals gathered to watch, chattering excitedly among the reeds, applauding when someone made a particularly clever move. A family of otters appeared out of nowhere and joined in the fun, and the game changed from one of "tag" to one of "catch the otter" by common consent.
The otters took to this new game with all the enthusiasm that they brought to any endeavor, and soon the pond was alive with splashing and shrill laughter. Undines chased otters in every direction; slippery otters slid right through Marina's fingers, though truth to tell, she didn't try very hard to hold them. It was more fun watching them twist and turn in the water to avoid capture than it was to try and wrestle a squirming body that just might delivery an accidental nasty kick---with claws!---if you weren't careful.
Only when Marina was completely out of breath did she retreat to her rocks and watch the Undines continue the game on their own. The smallest of the otters evidently ran out of energy at the same time, and joined her. After she combed out her hair with her fingers and coaxed most of the water out of it, she stroked the otter's smooth, dense fur and scratched its head as it sighed with content and erected its stiff whiskers in a otter-smile. It rolled over on its back, begging for her to scratch its tummy. She chuckled, and obliged.
But the sun was westering; it was past tea-time, and neither the Undines nor the otters seemed prepared to give up their game any time soon. They might be perfectly free to play until dark and afterwards, but she did have things to do. Reluctantly, she donned her clothing again---reluctantly, because after the freedom of being in the water, it seemed heavy and confining---pulled her skirts up above her knees, and waded back to dry land.
She stopped in the orchard long enough to retrieve her basket of apples and her book. With the basket swinging from one hand, she took her time strolling back to the farmhouse.
In the late afternoon sunlight, the gray granite glowed with mellow warmth. When winter came, the stone would look cold and forbidding, but now, with all the doors and windows open, flowers in the window-boxes, and roses twining up trellises along the sides, it was a welcoming sight.
Tea was over, but as she'd expected, Aunt Margherita had left her scones, watercress sandwiches, and a little pot of clotted cream in the kitchen under a cheesecloth. There was no tea, but there was hot water on the stove, and she quickly made her own late repast. She arranged the apples she'd brought in a pottery bowl on the kitchen table, and retreated to her room to fetch her work. After her swim, she was feeling languid, and her window-seat, surrounded by ivy with a fine view of the hills and the sunset, seemed very inviting. Uncle Sebastian would be fiddling with his Saint Joan, working on the background, probably; Uncle Thomas was carving an occasional table, a swoopy thing all organic curves. And Aunt Margherita was probably either at her embroidery or her tapestry-loom.
Her uncles expected a great deal of her in her studies; they saw no reason why she couldn't have as fine an education as any young man who could afford the sort of tutor that Sebastian's father had been. Granted, neither Sebastian nor Thomas had attended University, but if they'd had the means or had truly wanted to they could have. So, for that matter, could Aunt Margherita. Perhaps women could not aspire to a University degree, but they were determined that should she choose to attend the single women's College at Oxford regardless of that edict, she would be as well or better prepared than any young man who presented himself to any of the Colleges there. She was not particularly enamored of the idea of closing herself up in some stifling building (however hallowed) for several years with a gaggle of young women she didn't even know, but she did enjoy the lessons. At the moment she was engaged in puzzling her way through Chaucer in the original Middle English, the Canterbury Tales having caught Uncle Sebastian's fancy. She had a shrewd notion that she knew what the subjects of his next set of paintings was likely to be.... Well, at least it will be winter by the time he gets to them. If she was going to have to wear the heavy medieval robes that Uncle Sebastian had squirreled away, at least it would be while it was cold enough that the weight of the woolens and velvets would be welcome rather than stifling.
At the moment, it was the Wife of Bath's Tale that was the subject of her study, and she had the feeling that she would get a better explanation of some of it from Aunt Margherita than from the uncle that had assigned it to her. Uncle Sebastian was not quite as broad-minded as he thought he was....
Or perhaps he just wasn't as broad-minded with regard to his "niece" as he would have been around a young woman who wasn't under his guardianship. With Marina, he tended to break out in odd spots of ultra-middle-class stuffiness from time to time.
Like the time I asked him to explain that newspaper story about Prince Bertie and Lily Langtree.... That had occasioned the most remarkable bout of stammering and blushes she had ever seen out of the normally composed Sebastian!
Stifling a giggle, she curled herself up in the window-seat, a cushion at her back, with her Chaucer in one hand, a copy-book on her knee, and a pencil at the ready. If one absolutely had to study on such a lovely late afternoon, this was certainly the only way to do so.
—Reprinted from The Gates of Sleep by Mercedes Lackey by permission of DAW, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2002 by Mercedes Lackey. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.