2

The cart creaked to a stop, and Dominic roused himself from his doze. They had arrived at the promised crossroads. At least he hoped so; he had no idea where he was or how far he was from his destination, the train station in the town of Baranton.

His first attempt at tutoring had ended on a fairly cordial note, with his return transportation being provided by the family. A series of unlucky investments had put his employer in need of retrenchment. Dominic suspected his services still might not have been dispensed with had his young charges been less eager to test the knowledge they had gained—in particular, the attempt to communicate with smoke plumes of different sizes in the manner of the Yunwiyans, which had resulted in the destruction of a favorite antique carpet.

This latest position had not gone well from the beginning, and had resulted in his unceremonious ejection from the house. He was not at all sorry to go. He had only one student this time, but he was a boy of little intellect, spoiled and indulged, who enjoyed nothing more than finding some unsuspecting animal and tormenting it to death. Dominic had found it necessary to watch him constantly.

“Tha’llt have a gert road of it,” the farmer driving the cart said, waving in a westerly direction. “Hold aboot and the town be retchely then.”

Dominic lifted his trunk and bag out of the back of the farmer’s cart, trying to decipher what he had been told. He gave up.

“Does that road go to Baranton?” he asked, pointing at the most heavily traveled road.

“It trannelt oot,” the farmer said, nodding. “Nay, ha’ done, spirkin,” he added when Dominic attempted to hand him a few coins. “Our hap to aid.” He picked up the reins and slapped them lightly on the rump of his old horse, which plodded away.

“Thank you!” called Dominic, and the farmer raised a hand in farewell without looking back.

Dominic picked up his luggage and set off. He had been fortunate to encounter the farmer. All he had to do was find the train station and go back to Dinan. He’d saved up enough that he could survive for a few months. Now he could attempt to make a living at writing, for he was more determined than ever not to continue as a tutor.

“Time to write. Hah!” Dominic shifted his trunk to the other shoulder. “Where did Botrel get that idea?” He’d hardly dared take time to sleep in his last position. With the first family, his brief attempts at his own activities had usually resulted in catastrophes like the Great Carpet Conflagration.

Nor had he enjoyed much adult conversation. To the family, he was little better than a servant; to the servants, an outsider. He had never felt so alone. Only Phillipe’s occasional letters kept him in good spirits.

Dominic trudged along the road, wondering how his few precious books had turned into lead in his trunk. It was unusually hot for a summer day, even so far south as this. He tried to keep up his spirits by whistling, but the dust soon put an end to that.

How far had it been from where he’d left the farmer? Baranton should be less than five leagues, if his guess was correct, and he’d gone farther than that. He was beginning to suspect that he had taken the wrong road. This looked nothing like it would lead to a village with a train station.

He came to another crossroad and studied the weatherbeaten signpost. The arm in the direction he was heading was missing, of course, and the sign pointing to the road that went to the left was almost completely illegible. It looked like the first letter was “P,” so it couldn’t be Baranton—unless the elements had altered it. The name didn’t look long enough to be “Baranton” either. He glanced down the side road, uncertain. It went down a gentle slope, the road shaded by huge oak trees. He could just make out a corner of a roof beyond the trees.

Dominic hesitated, then set off down the side road. He could ask for directions at the house, and perhaps rest in the shade for a while.

At first the house looked promising—a small, rambling chateau of an unusual creamy-gold stone, the high walls nearest the road showing occasional oval windows. But as he approached more closely he could see the signs of neglect; shutters broken or missing, paint peeling, tiles missing from the roof. When he reached the gates, they were chained and rusty.

“Pfui!” He stared at them, annoyed he had been brought out of his way for nothing. Then his curiosity took hold. Why was it abandoned and empty?

He decided to explore, and since his trunk was really starting to become painful, he looked about for a place he could safely hide his belongings. A small gatehouse stood by the gate, and when he tried the door it was unlocked. The interior was bare save for a large cupboard underneath the window that faced the road. He stashed his trunk and bag inside the cupboard, out of sight, and set out on his tour.

The house and grounds stood at the edge of one of the dark, brooding forests that were to be found in Morbihan, and Dominic the writer of fantastic tales nodded approvingly. On the other side of the house a long, high stone wall hid the grounds from view. He could just see a mass of white blooms over the top of the high wall, and when he came closer, discovered they were roses. He had never seen any rose so white in his life, nor smelled one with such a delicate, sweet scent.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and smiled. The discomfort of the trunk, the hot dusty road—all his difficulties seemed to fade away in his mind. Such pretty roses! He wondered if he could reach one over the wall. Then his eye caught sight of the small gate. It opened with a rusty screech.

The garden was a tangle of overgrown paths and general neglect, but he could see glimpses of color in the tall grass; vivid azure blue, fiery red mixed with orange. The white rose hedge was the least of its beauties.

Dominic suddenly realized he had to write down a description of the mysterious abandoned garden or he would lose the fresh edge of his vision. He went back to the gatehouse to get his journal.

When he got there, his bag and trunk were gone.

She had found a few hints since the attack. Since she dared not leave the house or even use magic, there was not much else to do. Tantalizing hints, but no real answer to her problem. If anything, what she had learned only made it worse.

Ardhuin reluctantly turned away from the library window and picked up her great-uncle’s final letter to her, the one unsent when he died. She had it nearly memorized by now. She could feel his frustration as she read it again, wanting to warn her but still uncertain what the danger was.

I am convinced that these disquieting signs are connected to my duties as Mage Guardian. We took great care to ensure we had accounted for all the mages of the Grand Armeé, even the minor ones, so I find it hard to credit this is their work. Perhaps a gifted student found some of their notes—it does not matter now. Forgive me, petite—but I must require you, my heir, to ensure that this is not a threat to Aerope. If it is, God forbid, you must deal with these people resolutely. The world must not see such horror again.

She put the letter down, fighting a sudden wave of despair. How could she find out anything? The magic of the attack was unlike anything she’d ever seen. The only certainties were it was mage-level magic, and that it came from a distance. She couldn’t even write to ask for help from her great-uncle’s associates. Most of them were dead, at least the ones he had mentioned, and why would they believe her? Perhaps he’d planned to introduce her, overcome the storm of objections that were bound to be raised, but he had not lived to do it. Her great-uncle preferred to avoid tedious arguments.

Perhaps these unseen enemies thought he might be dead or injured, and had first sent smaller spells to be certain. They would have found the wards still up and functioning, so they had sent a stronger attack. Ardhuin drew a deep breath. If they knew where the Mage Guardian Oron lived, they would be able to discover his real name—and whether he was still alive.

She shuddered. If Oron was dead but Peran was still defended, of course they would think it occupied by his heir, or someone privy to the secrets of his life. There was no point in trying to hide the fact a magician was present. She should still be cautious, though. They did not need to know her true strength. Even more important, she should prevent them from confirming they had found the correct house. There must be other mages in Bretagne.

It just didn’t make any sense. The Mage War had been over for many years and had devastated Aerope. Gaul still had not recovered. Why would anyone want to start that again?

A loud metallic creak came from outside. It took her a moment to realize what it was, and then she darted to the window, being careful to stay hidden behind the drapes. Someone had entered the garden.

Ardhuin peeked out. A man in a dark coat stood just inside the gate, looking about the garden. That was impossible. The Lethe roses should have stopped him. Unless he was a magician and knew how to protect himself.

Fear held her motionless. She should have thought of that. If they believed they had destroyed the mage living here, they would not fear coming to his house.

The man made an impatient gesture, as if he had forgotten something, and went out the gate again. Ardhuin cast about wildly for inspiration. She needed a weapon. Using magic directly would give it all away. The letter opener? It was sharp, but she’d have to get too close to use it. The exotic swords on the wall in the entry would just make him laugh. Then she saw the fireplace tools. Yes, a frightened woman might use a poker. It was iron, too.

She grabbed the poker and ran down the stairs to the front parlor, tripping on a hidden chair leg under the shrouding muslin covers. Easing back the curtain, she looked out the front. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. No sign of the stranger. She checked from other vantage points, seeing nothing until she tried the front stair landing. A glimpse of a dark head moving along the side path. Back to the garden.

What on earth was he doing? If he was checking to see if anyone had survived, why hadn’t he even glanced at the house?

She moved cautiously to the kitchen, crouching down so she could see out the glass panes set in the top half of the outer kitchen door. Yes, he had returned. Ardhuin frowned. She still couldn’t see his face clearly, but he seemed unhappy now, almost distraught. His shoulders were slumped in despair, and his walk was slow and tired.

This did not make any kind of sense. He wandered towards the other roses, his back to the house. She eased open the door just enough to reach her shaking hand outside the wards. She could test for illusion inside them, but it would take more power and would be more likely to be noticed.

He was not an illusion. He was, however, a problem. If he noticed any of the visibly magical roses, it would confirm he had found the right place. No other mage had ever been able to merge the natural and the magical as her great-uncle had done. If he didn’t leave on his own, she would have to make him leave. But how?

She could see him more clearly now. His lean, clean-shaven face was all planes and angles, shadowed by the sun, but mobile—she imagined she could read his emotions as they flickered over his face. His deep-set eyes glanced searchingly all over the garden, looking…lost?

The stranger stopped by the Judgement rosebush and reached out to pick one of the flame-orange blooms. Her jaw dropped, and before she could stop herself, Ardhuin charged out the door yelling “No!”

He spun around, staring at her with an expression of shock and horror. His face was as pale as if he had seen an apparition—which, she realized with a sinking feeling, she resembled more than she should. Anyone would be frightened by the sudden appearance of a giant poker-waving woman with a wild mane of red hair. She was wearing one of her favorite dresses, too—indigo swirls on a cream background in the old-fashioned high-waisted style, decidedly unusual in cut and color. Her mother would be appalled.

Ardhuin felt her face go hot with embarrassment, which made her even more angry. She took a deep breath and pointed the poker at him. He was a trespasser and she didn’t care how she looked.

He held up his hands as if to ward her off.

“M-mademoiselle. I beg you pardon, I did not intend to intrude! I thought the house was empty!”

It was a reasonable assumption to make, she had to confess. That still left some questions unanswered.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice wavered a little, but the poker didn’t. “I saw you leave, but you came back.”

A look of anguish crossed his face. “I was on my way to Baranton, to take a train to Dinan,” he said after a moment. That part seemed true enough. She could see the dust of the road on his shoes.

“This isn’t the road to Baranton,” Ardhuin pointed out, suspicious.

“Damnation!” The pale face flushed. She noticed with annoyance that the reaction, which would make her look like a boiler on the point of exploding, merely made him look more interesting. Divine Providence was not only unkind, but malicious as well. “My apologies, mademoiselle. I am sadly out of temper, but that does not excuse my language. I suspected I had taken the wrong road and hoped to ask at your house for directions, but when I saw the locked gate I thought no one was living here.”

Perhaps she had overreacted. “Well, there is. You want to go back to the signpost and take the left turning about half a league, then take the next road. It’s not far.” He looked distressed and made no attempt to leave. “The last train to Dinan leaves in a few hours,” Ardhuin hinted.

“Thank you, mademoiselle.” He sighed. “My plans have changed, since someone has just stolen my luggage and my money. I can no longer afford train fare.” He made an attempt to smile. “I don’t suppose you know anyone in town in urgent need of a tutor?”

“You had your luggage with you when you came here, did you not?” Ardhuin asked, suspicious again. “When was it stolen?”

“Just a few moments ago!” He gestured towards the gate. “I set it down to rest a moment, and walked down the path to admire the roses. When I came back it was gone.”

Ardhuin frowned. The roses were not doing their job, and she had a sinking suspicion what had happened to the missing luggage. “Did you perhaps leave it in the port-cochère?” she asked.

“The little room by the gate? Yes.” He looked at her hopefully. “Did you see who took it?”

She bit her lip. “Wait here, please,” she said, and picked up her skirts and ran back to the kitchen, heading for the large cupboard near the pantry. Dropping the poker, Ardhuin opened the door and her shoulders sagged. Yes, there they were. A battered trunk and a well-stuffed carpetbag, both old and mended. Now, how was she going to explain that? She had to get rid of him before he noticed anything else strange. Sometimes her great-uncle had been just a trifle too clever.

Ardhuin yanked the trunk off the shelf of the cupboard, dropping it when she felt its full weight. She experienced a twinge of sympathy for her unexpected visitor. Anyone would want a rest after carrying that thing around. It took her three attempts to get the carpetbag balanced on top of the trunk, and she knew her face was red again from the effort, but she didn’t want him trying to help and discovering the wards in the process.

The lost tutor was delighted to see his property again, and immediately rushed to meet her. “That is much too heavy for you! Permit me—” he gave her a warm smile as he knelt to examine them. “Wonderful! Nothing is missing. How did this happen?”

“A…misunderstanding,” Ardhuin mumbled. “Deliveries for the house are left in the port-cochère, and it was assumed this was another delivery.” She held her breath, but he did not ask who had made the assumption, or how this unspecified person had moved a trunk and a carpetbag into the house without being seen. “I am so sorry. I hope this does not delay your journey,” she said, trying to smile while edging around to block his view of the garden. The Sangré rose had sensed a stranger and was getting restless. “I would be most distressed if your employers were angry with you for being late.”

He laughed, and to her horror she found herself smiling back at him. Was it a spell? This was the longest voluntary conversation she’d ever had with a stranger, and he wasn’t scrambling to get away from her—in fact, the reverse. He was acting exactly as if she was a proper, pretty young lady he had met by chance and wanted to talk to. Very suspicious.

“You shall not be distressed. Having been recently dismissed, I need please no one but myself in my arrival. But I should not intrude upon you any longer,” he said, giving a slight bow. Ardhuin suppressed a sigh of relief.

He hefted the trunk to his shoulder, wincing a little, then bent to pick up the carpetbag and froze, staring at a shadowed corner of the garden. Ardhuin felt her heart start to pound. You see nothing. It is all in your imagination.

“Mademoiselle…is that rose glowing?”

It frightened her how quickly she reacted, and the spell she chose frightened her too. He probably was just a traveler—but if her enemies found him and learned where he had been, what he had seen, they would know Oron had been there. And they would find her. They must never find her.

She shaped the power as quickly as she could, stalling for time by pretending to peer in the direction he was pointing. “Isn’t that just a patch of sunlight?”

He stared at her, eyes wide. “It’s blue!”

Skin. She had to touch skin for it to work, and not his hands. Close to the head. Why was this the hardest part? She was putting a geas on his mind, and she balked at touching him? She had to do it. He would talk about the roses, and it was too dangerous. Somebody wanted to kill her.

Ardhuin lunged at him, grasping the lapels of his coat desperately. One finger just traced the side of his neck, and she let the spell free. “Please,” she gasped. What was the least constraint she could put on him? He was looking at her with great concern, but there was no sign he knew a powerful spell had been placed on him. “Don’t tell anyone about the roses.”

She snatched her hands away and stepped back, feeling nauseous. He stood immobile, a faint crease of worry between his eyebrows.

“I worry that people will come…steal them. Or something,” she finished, looking down at her feet.

“Of course. I will say nothing of them.” She did not look up, and when she heard him speak again, it was from further away. “Goodbye, mademoiselle.”

Not trusting her voice, she raised her hand in farewell and forced a smile. As soon as she heard the gate creak, she looked up to make sure he had left, and then ran back to the kitchen. She stood on the smooth flagstones and sobbed, arms wrapped around herself, suppressing the sound out of habit even though no one could hear her.

Why had her great-uncle done this to her? Why had he even taught her the geas spell? It was illegal for all but a few, specially licensed mages. Most magicians didn’t even know how to do it. She was in danger because of him, and she had just put herself in even more by what she had done.

At least she hadn’t placed a constraint the stranger would find repellant. He had voluntarily agreed to what she had asked. The geas would just make sure he did not forget.

Ardhuin dried her face, feeling tired and unclean. She opened the outside door again and wandered out into the garden, giving the ignis fatuus rose a scowl. She hadn’t even known the stupid thing had started blooming again, and of course the stranger noticed right away. If it hadn’t been for that rose, she would not have had to do the geas.

It was done, and she would have to live with the consequences. She went to the wall and the thick overgrowth of the climbing Lethe roses. As soon as she was close enough to smell the light lemony scent, she felt her defenses rise. They were still working, at least for her. Not for the stranger, apparently, and now she would never know why.

Ardhuin woke the next morning feeling as if she had not slept at all. She burrowed into the tangled bedclothes, trying to go back to sleep, but without success. Her thoughts were too busy reliving the events of the previous day, and any number of birds were being noisily cheerful outside her window.

“I need a cat,” she said, looking at the birds blearily. They ignored her and kept singing. Perhaps a lion would be more useful. It would keep down the number of unexpected visitors. No, she needed to figure out where the attacks were coming from, stop them, and go back to school before her parents found out she was missing.

She put on an old dark blue dress from her school days and went down to the kitchen for some breakfast. Food helped, but not enough, and she decided to wash her hair. She couldn’t concentrate on anything right now, and it needed it. She heated the water with magic without thinking. She had to get some sleep, or she was going to do something really stupid.

The smell of the lavender and chamomile soap soothed her bad mood, and by the time she was carefully combing her wet hair to help it dry, her thoughts had changed to gentle melancholy. If only this were a fairy tale like La Travaille de Fayre, everything would work out. Her plainness would merely be the result of a spell, she would trick the evil magicians behind the attacks with a handful of dried beans and a goat, and the wine cellar would have a secret door to Elfhame behind the ‘33 Nantes port.

Ardhuin braided her still-damp hair and wondered what she should do next. What she really needed was advice she could trust. Perhaps her great-uncle had corresponded with another mage, unknown to her. She would just have to be convincing, or perhaps vague about her gender, in her inquiry.

She spent the rest of the morning looking for letters, feeling uncomfortable at this invasion of his privacy but too desperate to refrain. There was nothing in his workroom. She’d already searched the desk in the library—that contained nothing but ordinary business correspondence. In a cabinet in the main bedroom she found a carved lattice-wood box with the letters she had written him from school, and she felt tears prick her eyes. Had she really said anything in them worth preserving?

A bell jangled inside the house. The front door bell. Ardhuin put the box back in the cabinet and went to the bedroom window, but she couldn’t see the doorway.

The bell rang again. She ran down to the drawing room. Opening one of the windows, she leaned out. Someone stood on the front step, but she couldn’t see a face. She definitely needed to get that lion.

Her visitor stepped back, searching the windows of the house, and she gasped. A wave of guilt washed over her when she recognized the stranger from the previous day. Instinctively, she ducked, trying to hide, but he had seen her.

“Mademoiselle Andrews! Good morning!” He waved.

Why was he here? He seemed quite cheerful, so presumably he had not discovered the geas or something missing in his trunk. She lifted her head a little higher.

“How do you know my name?” she asked, fighting panic.

He pointed down the road. “I asked in the town. My name is Dominic Kermarec. May I speak with you for a moment?”

If she said no, would he leave? On the other hand, it was probably a good idea to try to find out why he had come back. What if she had made a mistake with the geas and bound him to this location? No, she would have noticed a mistake that big.

She nodded at him and shut the window. She took her time going downstairs and struggling to open the big iron lock and chain on the front door, hoping he would give up and leave. When she finally got the door open, though, he was still there.

Ardhuin looked at him enquiringly. Dominic Kermarec looked much as he had the day before. She noticed this time that he was only slightly shorter than she, yet he didn’t seem tall. His clothing, while well cared for and clean, still showed the effects of wear. Apparently tutoring did not pay well. At least now she was more presentable, and not nearly so nervous.

“I wished to ask if that small cottage I saw at the edge of the trees might be available for rent. It appears to be empty,” he added.

Ardhuin blinked. If he were working with her adversaries, surely he must know she would be suspicious of him. But if he were not, why on earth would he want to stay here?

“Monsieur Kermarec. I was under the impression you were bound for Dinan,” she said, slowly feeling her way.

He gave a rueful shrug. “I was, yes. But I had always intended to wait some months before seeking another position, and it occurred to me that I can do so much more economically in the country. I have references,” he said, earnestly offering her three folded sheets of paper.

Did spies carry references? Curious, Ardhuin read through the letters. The first was a straightforward reference from a previous employer, stating that he had been dismissed for no fault and had been exemplary in the performance of his duties.

The second was from a professor at the Université Dinan. “This Professor Botrel—what is his field?” she asked casually. Dinan had an ars magica college, didn’t it?

“Literature,” Kermarec answered, and her interest faded. No hope there.

The third reference took her some time to read. The handwriting was a scrawl, the spelling haphazard, and the subject matter decidedly unusual. She held it closer, then at an angle, shaking her head. Kermarec grinned, watching her.

“I don’t know why he dismissed you,” she said before she could stop herself. “I’ve never seen someone so clearly in need of a tutor. Why does he feel it necessary to mention that you treated the kitchenmaid with courtesy? Was he that astonished?”

“The only answers that have occurred to me would impugn the character of my former employer,” he answered with mock solemnity. “It was not a happy situation.”

Ardhuin shook her head. “I believe you should be congratulated on your escape.” Then she remembered who she was talking to, and why. She handed the letters back. She needed a good excuse, a believable one. “I don’t know how much longer I will be here. The new occupants may very well wish to use the gardener’s cottage for an actual gardener. Perhaps you should inquire in Baranton for lodgings.”

“I could go to Baranton when they arrive,” he pointed out reasonably. “It is a pleasant town, but I feel the need for greater peace and quiet.”

That settled it. He couldn’t say that with a straight face if he knew anything about the attacks. But if he was just an ordinary person, could she permit him to stay and risk injury? She’d done enough to him, and he deserved none of it.

“I, ah, was thinking of hiring a gardener myself,” she lied.

Kermarec scratched his chin. “I’m not a gardener, but I could at least cut the grass. For a reduction in rent.”

Ardhuin scowled. Now she remembered how impervious to hints he had been earlier. Fine. If he was caught in a magical crossfire, he would have no one to blame but himself. Perhaps her enemies would find him as disconcerting as she did.

“Five guilders every two weeks, with two hours of work a day,” she snapped. He nodded. Before he could say anything more, she whisked back inside and shut the door.

Maybe she should turn him into a lion. She’d already broken the law with the geas; would a transformation spell be any worse? Of course, they were very tricky to get right, and with her luck the lion would just follow intruders around and ask questions instead of eating them.

She was tired, that was all. Tired and frantic with worry. If she got some sleep she would know what to do next.

One week passed with no sign of her attackers, then two. Dominic Kermarec took up residence in the gardener’s cottage, and to her surprise she only saw him twice: once to give him the key and accept the first payment of rent, and once when she warned him about the dangerous roses in the garden. She had been afraid he would come and try to talk to her, so she left notes with gardening instructions pinned to his door or hanging from the gate.

She was still angry with herself for letting him stay. She just hadn’t had time to think of a good lie, and once she mentioned the gardener it had all gotten complicated. Any attempt to turn him away at that point would have been suspicious, and she still wasn’t completely convinced by his story. It was better to be cautious.

Since she was a late riser, Ardhuin hadn’t seen him working, but she could see evidence of it. The front lawn no longer looked like a hayfield, and the garden had emerged from the tall grass and weeds that had hidden it from view. She reflected, looking at the blooming roses from the library window, that really this had worked out better than she had expected. Even if she had hired a gardener, she would not have trusted him to remain silent about the magical roses. And it was nice to walk in the garden again.

She looked more closely and her heart sank. He’d uncovered the statues at the entrance to the ley line observatory. While the grass and vines had obscured them she could pretend they weren’t there, but now they gleamed white against the dark hedge. An amori pair in the style of the Graeco-Roman Empire, the man offering the woman a flower as a symbol of something or other. She couldn’t remember what her great-uncle had told her. Their outstretched arms formed an arch over the entrance.

When she was younger she’d stared at them in fascination, knowing something secret and wonderful was hidden in their linked gaze and echoing smiles. Now that she knew what that secret was, they only reminded her of the love she would never know.

Ardhuin frowned, realizing she couldn’t simply get rid of them. The eagle eye of her quasi-gardener would certainly notice if they disappeared suddenly overnight or were illusioned to look like something less objectionable. Leaving them as they were was not acceptable either. They were in full view of the library window. Since he had caused the problem, perhaps she should persuade Dominic Kermarec to solve it.

As soon as the idea occurred to her she rejected it. The statues would require more strength than he possessed to move them, and it would be difficult to argue the task was within their agreement. Even worse, she would have to talk to him. No, it was impossible.

She spent the afternoon experimenting with new spells in the workroom. When she left to look up a reference in the library she could see the statues even more plainly than before, full in the light of the sun. Ardhuin clenched her fists, realizing she had no choice. She couldn’t bear the sight of them.

She couldn’t go out as she was, though. Normal women did not appear in public with their hair streaming down their backs. Ardhuin trudged up to her room, wondering how long it would take this time. Her hair, in addition to its fiery color, was fine and slippery and always coming loose. She finally managed to get the whole mass up and anchored with every hairpin she owned after a prolonged struggle. Hopefully that would be good enough.

Glowering, she left the house. This was all his fault. Didn’t he realize she had other, more important things to do? Then her sense of justice reminded her that she had been at pains to have him not realize anything. Besides, yelling and scowling at him would not further her plans. She would have to be nice.

The closer she got to the door of the gardener’s cottage the more her stomach tied itself into knots. Her courage nearly failed her when she finally stood before it, and it took her a moment to force herself to raise her hand and give a soft tap.

Maybe he wasn’t in. With a rush of relief she stepped back and turned to go, but then heard the door open behind her.

“Mademoiselle Andrews?” She had to turn back, since he had already seen her. Dominic Kermarec was in his shirtsleeves and looked quite surprised. There was a smudge of soot on his cheek that made the angles of his face seem even more pronounced. She froze, suddenly unable to speak, and his expression changed to one of worry. “Oh. Have you hired a gardener?”

“No!” she blurted, astonished, then winced when she realized she’d missed a perfect opportunity to solve the whole problem. She needed to practice lying. It was becoming painfully obvious her lack of skill was a handicap. “I wanted to…to ask a favor. I mean, I need….” Behind him, she saw a table scattered with books, papers, and the remains of a meal. She felt herself going bright red with embarrassment. “I have interrupted your dinner. I am very sorry.”

“It would be hard for you not to interrupt it, since this is in fact an extremely prolonged luncheon,” he said, with a wry expression. “I had no idea it was so difficult to cook a chicken. I bought it to celebrate, but I seem to have done something not quite right—I don’t see how it can still be raw inside when the outside is all but burned. My hunger got the better of me and I have been eating a bite here and there as it finishes. Next time I will ask your advice.”

Ardhuin stared at him, nonplussed. She’d never cooked a chicken either, or anything else. As a child, the cook had refused to even let her in the kitchen after the first few accidents caused by her clumsiness, and no objection had been raised when she refused to take lessons in school. He was acting as if she were an ordinary young lady again.

Some of her confusion must have shown on her face. He cleared his throat and stood back from the doorway. “But you wished to ask me something, Mademoiselle Andrews. Please, come in.”

He looked about the interior of the tiny cottage, then went and quickly took his jacket off the back of the only chair, picked up a book lying on the seat, and offered the chair to her. Ardhuin didn’t want to sit down or even come inside, but she did so. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but he kept glancing at her with what seemed like apprehension. Now that she thought about it, perhaps she had been rather abrupt in their previous conversations.

“What are you celebrating, Monsieur Kermarec?”

He picked up a printed magazine from the table, opened up the front page, and handed it to her. “This,” he said, indicating a line in the listed contents.

It said, Under the Earth: A dramatic tale of exploration and adventure by D. Kermarec. “You are an author,” Ardhuin said softly. “I congratulate you.”

“It’s my very first publication,” he said with obvious pride. “The editor of this magazine has even asked me to send more.”

Ardhuin turned back the cover, studying the engraved illustrations, then looked at the contents again. “What is your tale about?” she asked, intrigued.

“A team of explorers that endeavor to find an entrance to the Earth’s center in the deepest caverns known. You may borrow it if you like,” he offered, and grinned. “I already know how it ends.”

“You are very kind,” Ardhuin said, feeling an unexpected spurt of happiness. She looked up. Dominic Kermarec was staring at her with an air of startled puzzlement. After a moment, he shook his head.

“I beg your pardon. You reminded me of something I had forgotten. What is it you wished to ask me?”

Ardhuin clutched the magazine, feeling nervous again. “Those two statues in the garden. Can you…move them? By yourself?” It seemed ridiculous now. While he appeared more athletic than a typical scholar, it would take a great deal of strength to shift two heavy stone statues.

He blinked. “Where do you wish them moved?”

“Anywhere I won’t have to look at them,” she snapped, and felt her face go red when he stared at her in astonishment.

“But—you object to them?”

She kept her gaze on the floor. “Yes. I object to them,” she mumbled. “Can you do it?” She glanced up again.

He rubbed his chin, looking out the window thoughtfully. “I have an idea that might work. I will need some timbers and some rope, though.”

Ardhuin stood up. She suddenly wanted desperately to get out of the cottage, out into the open air. “Look in the carriage house, on the other side of the entrance. If you don’t find anything of use I will give you money to purchase what you need in town. Thank you,” she said, remembering to smile.

She felt her smile start to slip when he accompanied her out the door. “It is my pleasure to assist you. If I had not been able to stay here I doubt I would have finished my story. Now I need to write another.” He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the rays of the setting sun. “Do you know if there is a library in Baranton? I need to find a set of Gridel’s Lectures.”

“In Baranton? No.” Ardhuin looked down at the magazine in her hands. She felt ashamed of her earlier suspicions. Dominic Kermarec was just an aspiring writer with too much curiosity. He had always been courteous, even when her behavior was brusque or actually rude. He was no danger to her. There was no reason she shouldn’t help him—and considering what she had done to him, it might be a way of making reparations.

“I believe I might have a set,” she stammered quickly. “You may borrow the volumes you need.” There, she’d done it. Her heart was beating so fast she felt a little faint.

He brightened. “Thank you! Would you mind if I got them now? I can read while I wait for the chicken to be done.”

Panic froze her, and she forced herself to breathe again. She hadn’t intended for him to come to the house. But then, did it really matter? Nothing obvious needed hiding in the house itself. Perhaps it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible. Then she could take a prescriptive powder and recover from the shocks of the day.

“Of—of course.” She started walking down the path back to the house.

Kermarec walked beside her, relaxed and looking about as they went. “This is a beautiful place. How long have you lived here?”

“A few years,” Ardhuin said carefully. He might be safe, but she didn’t want to give him any potentially dangerous information.

He raised his eyebrows. “And before that?”

She could give him potentially misleading information, though. “I’m from Atlantea.”

He stopped in his tracks, staring at her, then continued on, shaking his head. “You don’t sound Atlantean. I mean, your name is foreign, but you have no accent at all.”

Ardhuin opened the garden gate. “Oh, I went to school in Bretagne for several years,” she said, and increased her pace. She had to open the wards fast enough that he would not feel anything when they went through. Of course, he waited to allow her to enter first, and she had no difficulty opening and closing them without detection.

He followed her through the house, looking with admiration at the interior. When she opened the doors to the library, she heard him gasp behind her.

“Gridel’s Lectures are here,” Ardhuin said, gesturing to the section of wall under the balcony.

“I begin to understand why you never leave the house,” Kermarec commented, going to one knee to get a better look at the titles on the bindings. “And why you spend so much time here.”

Ardhuin frowned. “How…why do you say that?”

He smiled faintly and indicated the large window that faced the garden. It was almost completely dark outside.

“I can see the light from my cottage.” He started selecting volumes from the shelf. “Hmm. I don’t see the volume of lectures on astronomy.”

She made a noise of exasperation. “I think I know where it is. I will return in just a moment.” She closed the library doors behind her and threw a delicate web of power over them, keeping the main thread with her as she hurried up the stairs. If he tried to leave the library before she returned, she’d know. Not that he would get anywhere if he did. The wards would prevent him from leaving the house until she opened them.

Up more flights of stairs, to the servant’s rooms, and then the steep, narrow staircase to the cupola at the top of the house. The missing volume was still there, opened to the page of illustrations of the interaction between solar flux and terrestrial ley lines. Two pieces of smoked glass lay beside it, the ones she and her great-uncle had used to view an eclipse.

She picked up the book, which smelled slightly musty, and carefully went back down the steep stairs. How long ago had that been? How she had loved to escape from school on her vacations, and how she’d hated to go back when they ended.

The library doors were still closed, according to her spell. She paused on the landing, paging through the book of lectures and remembering how much her great-uncle had loved learning new things.

The sudden scream nearly made her drop the book. She flew down the stairs, heart pounding. Was it an attack? She’d felt nothing on the wards. The screams continued, coming from the library. Was Kermarec hurt? Ardhuin gestured the library doors to open, too impatient to care if her use of power was detected.

She didn’t see him anywhere on the lower level. The screaming had stopped. She listened more carefully, walking slowly around the edge of the library. A sort of harsh, sobbing breath came from the upper level. She picked up her skirts in one hand and ran up the spiral stair.

There he was. Collapsed in a heap, unconscious, in front of the cabinets where the magic books were stored. She’d left one unlocked, evidently. It was open, and he was clutching the most dangerous book in the collection, one that had powerful defenses.

She felt cold and sick. Dominic Kermarec was a spy after all.