No Proper Lady (8 page)

Joan still walked too fast.

She didn’t notice it much, most of the time—she moved a lot slower than she’d done back home, now that she had lots to take in and no need to run—but on the way back from the village, walking next to Eleanor, it was hard to miss. Ellie glided. Joan strode.

As they walked back to Englefield, Joan halfheartedly tried to work on that, but she suspected it’d take more time than she had. Maybe more time than she’d have even if she lived here for the rest of her life. This was a world in the summer of its time, and the people here moved and talked like leaves on the wind. Someone probably had to be born here to learn how to relax in that way. Even Ellie, who never really relaxed, had something of that air about her.

She walked along now with a parcel under her arm, a perfect leisurely gait, and a tight, nervous look on her face.

“Those books looked interesting,” Joan said, to take Ellie’s mind off things. “Mind if I have a look when you’re done?”

Eleanor looked up, surprised. “Of course, if you’d like. It’s more mythology, and some history and politics. You’re not expected to know anything about it, though. Most girls don’t.”

Joan snorted. “Most girls sound like a pack of damn fools.”

For a second, Eleanor looked like she wanted to protest, but she just laughed a little, disbelievingly, and shook her head. “What are women like where you’re from, then?”

“People.”

They’d passed out of the village a while ago, walked up the road past fields and farmhouses, and now were on the road leading uphill to Englefield. Nobody was around—the farmers were small figures behind them—and the world seemed fresh and new and sunlit.

It reminded Joan of her first day there, and realizing that she’d arrived only about six weeks ago made her uneasy. Her time there felt like a lifetime. More than that, it felt like her only lifetime. As her manners improved and the face she saw in the mirror got more like the ones around her, her memories of home felt like they belonged to someone else.

Maybe they did. Maybe travel wasn’t just a matter of space and time. Maybe you went from self to self, leaving who you were behind. If she was far away from what she’d known, maybe she was far away from who she’d been as well.

She shivered and spoke hastily into the silence. “What happened to Ariadne, anyhow? In your version, I mean? Did she marry the hero or what?”

“No,” Eleanor said, returning from her own distant thoughts. “He left her on an island instead when she was sleeping—there are arguments about whether or not he meant to—and she cursed him. He’d set off with black sails and told his father that he’d come back with white ones if he was alive, but Ariadne made him forget. Theseus’s father saw the black-sailed ship returning, and he killed himself.”

“So she punished his dad for what he’d done? Sounds unfair.”

Eleanor shook her head slowly. “Theseus was the one who had to live with the guilt. Killing him might have been kinder. Once you’re dead, I suppose you don’t feel things as much.” She had a thoughtful look in her eyes, and she was paler than she had been.

“Once you’re dead,” Joan said sharply, “you don’t do much of anything until you’re born again. And then you have to grow up and get trained all over. Shi—I mean, it’s really a waste.”

“They believe in reincarnation where you’re from?” Eleanor asked, but absently.

“At least until you’ve done everything you’re supposed to.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Eleanor took a deep breath. “Do you know what business took Simon to town?”

“Not specifically, no,” said Joan slowly.

They walked on in silence for another few paces, their boots crunching against the gravel path. When she spoke, Eleanor’s voice was almost inaudible. “Does it have to do with Mr. Reynell?”

She didn’t want to lie, Joan realized. That had never bothered her before, but she didn’t want to lie now, not to this girl. “He—”

Eleanor stopped, put a hand out, and caught Joan’s arm. Her face was white. “Simon’s not going to challenge him! Please say—”

“No. He’s not. Calm down.” On firmer ground now, Joan went on. “If Simon wanted pistols at dawn or whatever else you go for here, he’d have done it already.”

The fear left Eleanor’s eyes, and her taut body slumped. She looked down, away from Joan. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Simon didn’t want to tell me, but I was pretty insistent when we met. Wanted to know how he knew Reynell.”

“Then…you know Mr. Reynell.”

Joan nodded, wincing inwardly. “He’s a common enemy,” she said, and tried to divert the conversation. “Anyhow, don’t blame your brother, and I’m sorry if this bothers you.”

“No—I mean, it does, a bit, but—well, I’d thought for a while that you might know. You have been very understanding. And someone who didn’t know would’ve asked before—why I’m like this, I mean.”

“Someone who didn’t know would’ve thought it was none of her business, if she wasn’t a total…witch.”

“Oh,” Eleanor said. It looked like a new thought. She started walking again, going faster than Joan for once. “Do you talk about it often?”

“No. It doesn’t come up much.”

“Oh.” A few more feet, with her hat and dark hair bobbing briskly. Then: “Is he very angry at me, do you know?”

This time, Joan stopped first, her first thought stunned dismay:
Oh, hell. I wasn’t
trained
for this!
“No,” she said as calmly as she could. “Why would he be?”

“I—well, it’s my fault that he’s out here. And that he’s angry at Alex.” Eleanor looked down at her hands. She didn’t seem to notice that she’d used Reynell’s first name. “They used to be the best of friends, and I—perhaps I presented too much temptation. If I’d refused his invitations or his suggestions, if I hadn’t been so quick to believe what he perhaps never intended to suggest—”

Joan caught Eleanor by the shoulders and swung her around. “That’s bullshit,” she said, “and you know it.”

Eleanor cringed, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” Joan said, and stepped quickly back. She’d never talked to sheltered young girls back home. There hadn’t been any. “It is, though.”

“Wh—what do you mean?”

“It’s not a crime to be innocent. Especially not when your whole stupid world tries to keep you that way. And there’s nothing wrong with…liking someone or wanting to believe he likes you when he acts like he does.”

“He might not have meant to,” Eleanor said softly.

Joan rolled her eyes. “Oh, he damn well did. He had a grudge against Simon, for one thing. Also, he’s ten years older than you are. He’s been dealing with women for a long time. Don’t you think he knows how to avoid sending that sort of signal?”

“I—I don’t know.” Joan read guilt and hope and fear all mixed in Eleanor’s face. Fear of the hope itself, because sometimes guilt was better. Guilt at least meant you hadn’t been helpless.

“I do. Reynell wanted to get back at your brother, so he did a horrible thing to you. That means he’s a son of a bitch. It doesn’t mean anything about you except that you’re hurt now. And that’s natural.”

“I wish it wasn’t.” Eleanor closed her eyes. She wasn’t quite crying, but her voice cracked when she spoke. “I wish I could forget about it for more than an hour at a time. I wish I could turn out the light without being afraid—or look at Simon without wondering if he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Joan sighed. “God, he’s as torn up about the whole thing as you are, and he thinks you hate him. Your society is just great at communication, by the way. And the other stuff…it’ll get easier. It has a little, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. A little. But,” her voice dropped, “I keep thinking I feel
it
. Looking at me.”

That, at least, was familiar territory. “Well, it’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” The dermal sensor might not pick up something watching from another plane. “Anyhow, Simon would know. And he could probably show you. You should ask.”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to bother him. Maybe he thinks I’m better.”

“He does not. I mean, he knows you’ve been getting better, but you haven’t been fooling anyone.” Joan raised her hands, stopping an apology before Eleanor could start it. “And you shouldn’t be. If you’d broken your leg yesterday, would you be trying to run a race right now?”

“Well, no.”

“And you wouldn’t be going around pretending that everything was fine, right?”

Eleanor shook her head. “But this is different.”

“No, it’s not. I mean, people here don’t believe in what happened to you, but people here are wrong about so damn many things I don’t even know where to start. So.” Joan started to count off on her fingers. “Point one: if there’s any chance something is hanging around you, we need to know. You can tell Simon when he gets back, or I will.”

This time, when Eleanor flushed, it was at least partly with anger. Good. “I’ll do it,” she said. “What’s your second point?”

“This isn’t a small thing. You’re not malingering. You’re not slacking off. You’ve been trying to get over it—I’ve seen you, and so has Simon—and you’re doing a whole hell of a lot better than anyone else I’ve seen. But you’re not just going to tell yourself to be fine and do it. You’ve been hurt. Healing takes time. That’s, um, physics.”

“Biology, I should think,” said Eleanor, with a very faint smile.

“Whatever. Keep trying. Stop beating yourself up. That’s my point.”

Joan stepped back, letting everything sink in and hoping she’d done right. For a moment or two, they were silent again, and then Eleanor took a deep breath. “We should keep going,” she said. “They’ll have dinner started at home.”

Good girl
, Joan thought. She took Eleanor’s arm. Together, they started down the road again.

“You said anyone else you’d seen,” Eleanor said, after a minute or two. “Have you seen other people like me?”

Don’t try to recruit her, Simon had said. But this wasn’t recruitment, and Eleanor had been lied to quite enough. “I have.”

Eleanor bit her lip but went on. “This happens often in your world?”

“Yes,” Joan said, “it does.”

“It’s a…a bad place, then?”

“Yes,” Joan said, “it is.” She kept her eyes on the road ahead. It blurred a little in front of her.

The note came on the third morning with the paper and what little there was of the post. Gillespie wrote in a thin, spidery hand with elaborate loops and flourishes, but he came to the point quickly enough:
I will be at home this afternoon.

That was all.

Simon took a hired carriage to the building where Gillespie kept his rooms, an anonymous redbrick square spotted with small windows, like a hundred or a thousand others in the city. Knocking on the door brought a small gray woman who looked at Simon somberly and didn’t speak.

“Dr. Gillespie, please.”

She nodded and turned. Simon followed uncertainly up a flight of narrow, dim stairs and through a hallway that smelled strongly of cabbage. They stopped in front of a plain, slightly warped door, and the landlady—or whatever she was—knocked more loudly and briskly than Simon would’ve thought her capable of doing.

“Pray come in,” said a low voice. The woman shrugged and gestured toward the door with one hand, then took her leave.

Inside, the room was surprisingly well lit and comfortably appointed, mostly with bookshelves. They lined each wall, and all were stuffed full. There was a small fireplace with a row of crystals glimmering on the mantel and a black statue in one corner. Kali, Simon recognized after a moment, and a chill went down his spine. Perhaps it was truly a coincidence, but it made him think, nonetheless, of patterns and of fate and of the weight of invoking great powers.

In this state of mind, he saw a figure rise from one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.

Gillespie was a tall man, half a foot taller than Simon, and very thin indeed. Had his nose not been so prominent, nor his bones so small, he would have looked skeletal. As it was, he gave the appearance of a large wingless bird. Unbound gray hair fell to just below his shoulders, and he wore wrinkled linen.

His green eyes were startlingly vivid. Cat’s eyes almost.

Simon cleared his throat. “Dr. Gillespie, permit me to express my gratitude for allowing this intrusion. I know that we have not been introduced, and ordinarily I would not have dreamed of presuming—”

“From the content of your letter,” Gillespie interrupted, “it is not the presumption that bothers me but the danger. Yet if our Indian friend thinks the matter serious enough to recommend you to me, I cannot but trust his judgment, at least so far. I had a letter from him, you see, a little less than four days ago.”

“I’m much obliged to him, then.”

“Obligation is the currency of our world. Do sit down.”

Gillespie returned to his own seat, folding himself into it with a heron’s grace. Simon took the chair at his right. The black upholstery, he noticed, was battered but very comfortable. Gillespie might be unaware of appearances, but he was no ascetic.

The old man turned toward Simon. “You want the book,” he said. “
The Wisdom of Raguiel
.”

“Er,” Simon said, “yes, actually. Or at least to see it.”

“Why?”

Simon had prepared the answer in his room that morning, even rehearsed it, but now the words came sluggishly to his lips. “I need to stop an evil magician. A murderer, and worse.”

“Do you want to kill him?” Gillespie cocked his head to look at Simon, his eyes bright and curious.

“No. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to give him a chance to redeem himself, but I’m not such a fool as to accept his word alone.”

A year ago, he’d have taken Alex’s word for anything without a second thought.
Plus ça change…
he thought, weary. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Gillespie’s thin gray eyebrows went up. His regard was almost gentle now, but when he spoke, his voice was brisk and matter-of-fact. “The loss of innocence, of course, is very much a part of the human condition.”

There had been no way for Gillespie to tell that from Simon’s face. Someone unusually good at reading people might have inferred it from his conversation, but Simon didn’t think so.

“The human condition, sir?” he asked. “Is it something with which you’re familiar?”

“As much as many a mortal man or woman, Master Grenville. Particularly one who asks such daring questions.” A smile played around Gillespie’s narrow mouth. “For which I thank you. Far better to have the questions asked and in the open than to sense them lurking around the edges like rats.”

Let it be bluntness, then.
“Can you read my mind?”

“‘Reading’ is not the word I would use. It’s a precise art, reading. Words are very exact things. I knew that you mourned what had been. I knew that you wondered—and wonder still—whether I am entirely human. The details escape me. I assure you I am human enough.”

“Ah,” said Simon.

“It’s rather like having a cat brush against you in the dark. Or, in some cases, an elephant. Your feelings are rather more disciplined than most, Master Grenville, which has made this meeting so far more bearable than I’d feared. You will be so kind as to continue that trend, I hope.”

Simon swallowed. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“You very rarely, I would imagine, do anything else.” Gillespie leaned back into his chair, and his shining green eyes traveled over Simon again. “Indeed, you seem a very driven young man. The wards around you would provide quite enough safety from most magic unless you did something foolish. Either you are very altruistic or the man facing you is much less a
man
than you think he is.”

That was a frightening suggestion. Even knowing Alex from childhood couldn’t banish entirely the unease Simon felt. It was due to Gillespie, he knew, and the room and the statue that stared at him with a slight smile on its onyx face. He shook his head. “Let it be altruism, then, if you will, sir. Or vengeance, perhaps. I make no claim to sainthood.”

“Good. Saints are well enough in their place. Men with aspirations to that place are often tedious. But I don’t believe that it is vengeance. You don’t want him dead, after all. Perhaps you want a worse fate, but I would not, so far, believe that of you.”

“I’ve had my moments,” Simon admitted.

Gillespie smiled. “But they’ve been moments, have they not? You’re going to great lengths here. I do have to wonder why. Dark magicians often destroy themselves. They burn out pursuing power or rot with decadence. Why not let opium or the French disease accomplish your end for you?”

“Because I can’t,” said Simon. He was about to go on, but Gillespie recoiled, holding up a hand.

“Lord God, defend us. Armageddon.” His lips were white. “The Scriptures promise the end of the world and in a none too pleasant fashion, but—”

“They don’t say that we’ll lose.” Simon took a breath. “This isn’t St. John’s Revelation, Doctor. If I fail, what happens to humanity will make that look like a garden party.”

Gillespie passed the back of one thin hand across his mouth. “Not only humanity, I’d imagine,” he said faintly, “though we’ll get the worst of it by far. But such things always spread. I’ll get you the book, Master Grenville, and I hope you’re on the right path.”

The Wisdom of Raguiel
was fairly slim as occult books went, which meant that it only nearly crushed Simon’s knees. The cover was supple blue leather, but the pages were yellow and fading. “I mean to copy it one of these days,” Gillespie said when he handed it over. “One of many projects.”

The book was full of spells. Spells for protection, many of them, as well as spells for learning the truth, for finding thieves, and for knowing if your wife or servants were faithful. There were no love spells, nor spells to keep old men young, as he’d seen in other books, but there was a spell to keep dogs watchful and one to keep guards from leaving their posts. If the matter hadn’t been so urgent, simple scholarly curiosity would have kept Simon reading for days.

Then, about a third of the way from the end of the book, he found what he was looking for.

Bye Which A Manne May Bee Helde To Hys Worde
.

Simon stopped, putting his finger in the book to mark the place. He looked up—Gillespie had taken a book of his own off the table and was reading as placidly as if Armageddon had never come up—and took a breath. Then Simon read on.

The spell wasn’t actually that difficult, as spells went. Three drops of the caster’s blood, three from the man swearing the oath, and a fairly long incantation full of all the horrible things that would happen if the spell’s target broke his word. The target had to speak most of it.

Simon must have made some sort of sound, for Gillespie looked up from his reading. “Is something amiss?”

“No,” Simon said, coming up slowly from his reading, “not at all.” And then, because Gillespie didn’t look as if he believed him, he added, “It’s just that he’d have to actually participate.”

“Of course.” Gillespie closed his book and fixed Simon with the stern look of a schoolmaster. “You’ll find no bindings in there that don’t require such things, and I would be most reluctant to give you one. Most reluctant indeed.”

Simon blinked. “Why?” Suspecting he had a great deal more to fear than being thrown out if he angered Gillespie, he hurriedly added, “I’m not complaining, just a bit surprised. After all, I’m trying to find this spell so that I don’t have to kill the man.”

“And is slavery any better than death? Even slavery in a good cause?”

He saw Eleanor, her eyes dull and her body floating above the sofa, and he flushed with mingled shame and irritation. “We put men in prison when we must, and you’d meet few men who’d call that immoral.”

Gillespie’s lips tightened. “Few, yes. But prison confines a man’s body, Master Grenville. It cannot touch his spirit. Not directly.”

“Being confined for years would have some effect on a man’s soul.”

“What in life doesn’t? But such things can only influence. They cannot compel.” Gillespie was sitting forward now, watching Simon’s face.

“It would compel only a very minor part of him—turning it to what it should have been in any case. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“With what it should have been? Certainly. But it doesn’t matter.” Gillespie spread his hands. The fingers were long, the joints thick. He was human enough for arthritis, it appeared, and that was vaguely reassuring. “Our Lord gave us free will, the ability to choose good or evil. He could have compelled us from the start. He did not. Not even at the greatest of costs. Who are we to contradict him?”

It was all very quiet. Very civilized conversation in a warm, well-lit room with books lining the walls and the smell of beeswax coming from the candles. Nonetheless, Simon had the same sense of will he’d gotten when he’d stood and argued with Joan on the rainy road to Englefield. He might batter at the walls of Gillespie’s convictions, but he would not get through.

“I suppose,” he said, “that you also think I would do better simply to kill him.”

Gillespie’s eyes widened, and he shook his head gently. “Not at all, Master Grenville. Where there is life, there is hope—the hope of redemption, the hope that each man has a role to play in the greater part of things and that any role might yet be for good. And to kill a man without doing all you can to offer him that hope would be, indeed, a thing to regret.

“But redemption means choice. You may offer, yes. You may hold him to his word, once given, as only a fool would not, but you cannot force his hand. Only evil will come from that.”

Simon looked at Gillespie again and saw that he was younger than he seemed at first—there were no lines on his face, no tremors in his body—and that the look in his eyes was very old. He had been far and seen much, Simon knew in that moment, and whether he was right or not, he spoke out of more than abstract principles.

“Will you help me, then?” he asked. “You know what will happen if I fail.”

“I would if I could.” Gillespie sighed and looked down at his hands. “Do not mistake me for Oberon, sir, or for Merlin. Ancestry is no guarantee of ability, and ability itself is a sad and temporary thing. I have no power now, save to pick up the thoughts men fail to guard. And I would be of no use as a spy. Around many people, I am crippled. Almost mad, at times. I will give you the book, Master Grenville, and I will pray for your success. That is all.”