Despite the presence of an annoyingly beautiful confidence trickster, Gareth was beginning to like Englefield. He’d managed to get his office set up and the necessary paperwork dealt with, Simon was as amusing over port and cards as he had been in university days, and there were far worse things than spending a crisp autumn evening in the countryside with a bit of time on his hands.
Balcony doors that suddenly opened were one of them. The sudden noise yanked Gareth away from contemplating the view. He didn’t flinch—he’d stopped doing that after a few weeks back in England—but he turned to regard the newcomer with no great joy.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Mrs. Brightmore. She spoke politely enough, but her set chin and narrowed eyes conveyed a different message: she had as much right to be on the balcony as he did, and what was he doing glaring at innocent passersby anyhow?
Gareth considered adding her to his growing list of less fortunate things. Her past, her tone, and her presence on the balcony all argued for it. Her general competence argued against. Her figure, her eyes, and the intriguing curve of her lower lip could count for either side.
“Have you seen Arthur?” she asked, pulling Gareth out of his internal debate.
“Waite? No, not in the last hour or two.”
Mrs. Brightmore frowned. “He didn’t show up for practice, Mrs. Grenville said. You’re the last person we’ve asked.”
Gareth abruptly stopped thinking about the view—either one. “Who saw him last?”
“William. It was after my class, a few hours ago. They were in their rooms. William left to see if he could get some bread and butter from the kitchen, and Arthur was gone when he got back. He didn’t think anything of it until practice.”
Although Gareth hadn’t been to any of Mrs. Grenville’s practice sessions, he couldn’t imagine any of the students casually deciding to miss one. Still, he spoke lightly as he got to his feet. “He’s probably just gone down to the village and lost track of time.”
“That’s what we’re hoping. All the same…” She glanced over toward the forest waiting beyond the gardens and buildings of Englefield. To Gareth, it looked damned uncomfortable. To a teenage boy, it might suggest adventure, or an afternoon of fishing. “We should take a look before dark. Accidents, you know.”
“I know,” said Gareth.
He followed Mrs. Brightmore back through the door and downstairs, noticing how stiffly she held herself. Worried, almost panicked, and trying not to show it. Doing a fairly good job too, Gareth thought, and dismissed the urge to reach out in some reassuring gesture or other. He was not in a position to offer comfort to this woman. He didn’t want to be. That was important to remember.
Simon met them in the hall. “The servants are checking the house, and Joan’s gone down to the village,” he said, “since I know the forest best. St. John, sorry about the leg, but I think you’ll have to come with me in case the young idiot’s fallen down and hit his head. Mrs. Brightmore—”
“I’ll keep an eye on the students,” she said, very calm. “Unless you think another magician would be helpful out there.”
“I wish I knew,” said Simon. “‘I’m not as familiar with the forest as I’d like to be. But one of us should stay behind.”
***
“At times like this,” Simon said as he and Gareth made their way down the path to the forest’s edge, “I rather agree with those people who say the youth of England travel too much.”
“I don’t think you could say Waite’s travelling,” said Gareth.
“Not Waite. Me. Until a few months ago, I was at Englefield only for school holidays, and not always then. I don’t know a great deal about the forest myself. And”—an odd half smile crossed his face—“it’s a strange place, really. There are a bunch of standing stones in it, somewhere, nothing big enough to excite much comment, but I suppose we did have druids here in the old days. It’s…” He sought for a word, then spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.
“Strange?” Gareth suggested dryly.
Simon laughed shortly. “Rather. How are you holding up?”
“I’ll be fine,” Gareth said. He’d found a walking stick, which helped a bit. His leg would probably pain him that night, particularly if he had to use his power on Waite, but that happened. He’d had worse. “Don’t worry about me.”
The forest didn’t seem particularly unusual when they entered it. The trees were the usual mix, red and gold leaves standing out against the darker evergreens. The grass was the usual faded gray-brown of autumn. The dirt was, well, dirt. None of the shadows moved.
On the other hand, the place was large. A number of paths led away from theirs, and if Waite had come this way, he’d left no signs of his passing. “I’d rather not split up,” Simon said and sighed.
“We need a bloodhound,” said Gareth.
“Miss Woodwell could find something, but we don’t have much time before dark.” Simon frowned. “I hate to try divination without the right implements, but it looks as though I might have to. Do you—?”
A branch cracked on the right-hand path. It sounded too loud to be wildlife, or to be the sort of wildlife one encountered on an English estate. “Hello?” Gareth raised his voice. “Is someone there?”
A figure came around the bend. Tall and slim, with dark hair currently hosting several leaves. “Dr. St. John?” Waite asked. As he drew closer, Gareth saw his face was whitish green, and he seemed to have trouble focusing. “Mr. Grenville? I’m afraid I’ve gone a bit astray.”
***
Alarming as Waite’s initial appearance was, when Gareth took a look at him, he seemed to be suffering nothing more than a sick headache. A little of his power took care of that quickly enough, and tea helped considerably as well.
“You’re lucky we met when we did,” he said, looking sternly across the drawing-room table at the boy, “and that you didn’t break your neck beforehand, wandering around the forest in the state you were in.”
“I didn’t, sir,” Waite said. “Or not much. Oh, I got lost, that’s for certain, but I didn’t get the headache until I tried scrying for the way out. The way you taught us, ma’am, in our third lesson.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Brightmore, her voice carefully controlled. She didn’t look at either Simon or Gareth. “And what happened then?”
“As far as I can tell, someone stuffed a map of all England into my head for a few minutes,” said Waite, grimacing. “Looking back on it, ma’am, I think I pronounced one of the words wrong. I did get out, though. I probably could have got to Avalon itself, if I’d wanted to.”
Simon’s lips twitched. “That’s a rather dramatic version of a beginner’s mistake,” he said. “I only turned my fingernails purple for two weeks the first time I tried a spell.”
“You were lucky,” said Mrs. Brightmore, relaxing.
“Not so lucky. I was at school just then, not a school that taught magic, mind, and one of the masters had some words with me about fooling around with dangerous chemicals. I couldn’t contradict him, really.” Simon made a face. “Took my meals standing for two days, as I recall.”
“Must have been jolly hard for both of you,” said Waite looking from Simon to Mrs. Brightmore when everyone had finished laughing, “learning on your own, I mean.”
“Not entirely, or not in my case,” said Simon. “I had teachers. Only sometimes, and they were…various degrees of reputable…but they did help.”
Mrs. Brightmore smiled. “The disreputable ones as much as the others, I’d imagine, otherwise you wouldn’t know what to avoid.” She leaned back in her chair, reaching for a biscuit. “That’s been my experience.”
“And how did you learn?” Gareth asked. “I’d think it’d be even more difficult for a woman.”
Even before Simon lifted his eyebrows, Gareth knew he’d spoken out of malice. The question had come from anger at Mrs. Brightmore’s obvious ease, envy of the shared experiences Gareth had never really wanted before now, and the simple desire to make Mrs. Brightmore pay attention to him. Unworthy impulses, all of them, especially the last, but the words were out, and Waite was listening with obvious and eager curiosity.
It was a shade too late for regret.
Besides, he told himself, someone would have asked sooner or later.
Mrs. Brightmore smiled thinly back at him and answered without hesitation. “I bought a book,” she said, “because it looked interesting. I tried a spell, which worked. After that, I thought I should find someone who knew more.”
Her eyes glittered at Gareth, daring him to press her on any point of the story. Given that, the flush in her cheeks was probably anger, but it was quite attractive all the same. She was a passionate woman, for all her outward calm.
He wished he hadn’t thought of that.
“How did you do that, ma’am?” Waite asked.
“I started with the man who’d sold me the book,” she said, “and went from there. It took me a little while.”
“I think we’ve wandered a bit from our point,” Simon said. “Waite, scrying aside, why were you in the forest?”
Waite flushed. “I went in as a bit of a lark at first, sir, just to see what was there. I didn’t mean to leave the path, but I saw this stag. Pure white, big as anything. I didn’t have a gun, and it didn’t seem the sort of thing you shoot, but I thought I’d follow it.”
“And?” Simon asked.
“It vanished, sir. Went around a corner and just disappeared.” Waite shook his head. “Should have expected that, I suppose.”
“I don’t see why,” Simon said. “I didn’t.”
“It’s happened before,” Mrs. Brightmore said thoughtfully. “One of the old women in the village mentioned hearing stories when she was young. Strange animals. Strange lights. She didn’t give them much credit.”
“And now it seems we have to,” said Gareth. “Wonderful. What do you intend to do about this?”
“I don’t see the need for anything dramatic just yet,” said Simon. “A few apparitions are common enough, I hear. I’ll tell the staff and the rest of the students not to go in, again, and I’d certainly like to take a look when I can. In the meantime, though”—he sighed—“I’m afraid I have more mundane concerns to deal with.”