Legend Of The Highland Dragon (12 page)

Stephen claimed he was recovering without help. He claimed he could talk. He might have been right. Mina didn’t know much about either poison gas or dragons.

She did know that he was pale, even by the dim light through the cab window, and that he talked at half his normal speed, with frequent pauses to cough. She wanted to sit by him, or at least to keep a hand on his arm and give him what reassurance human touch could provide, but she hung back. Too much attention could just irritate an ill person, and she didn’t want to be one of the fluttering women her brothers had both complained about.

Besides, that was a dangerous path to go down.

Mina kept silent for the rest of the cab ride, and Stephen seemed glad enough to follow her lead. At his house, she passed him into the hands of Baldwin, by way of an aghast-looking James. Baldwin himself kept his emotions well hidden, only a quick exhalation showing that he wasn’t completely used to finding his master in such a state.

As Baldwin and James helped Stephen up the stairs, the older man also cast a sideways glance at Mina. She felt his gaze take in everything about her, from her disarranged hair to her lack of gloves. She said nothing.

Instead, she went upstairs by the back way, conscious of Emily’s startled look as their paths crossed. When the door to her room closed, she leaned against it heavily for a minute, resting her head on the thick wood, then crossed a short distance to sit down on the bed, absently undoing her coat buttons.

She was supposed to be pinning up her hair again. That had been Mina’s plan: make herself look respectable, then go see what she could find in the kitchen. When she undid her coat, though, she sat and stared at her hands. They looked the same as they’d always done: short nails, faint ink stains. The night had left no mark on them—even if she felt that it should have.

Poison gas. Fake people. And Stephen, coughing blood.

She shuddered. Her tears in front of the lodging house hadn’t all been fake. Three near-death experiences in as many weeks were overdoing it even for her nerves.

Someone knocked at the door. Mina sucked in her breath and shrank backwards on the bed. Then her mind reasserted itself, but in no particularly reassuring manner. The other servants almost never sought her out.

“Come in?” she asked, her voice much higher than normal.

The door opened. Of all the people she hadn’t been expecting, Mrs. Baldwin stood in the doorway, her hands clasped behind her back. “I hate to be intruding, Miss Seymour,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ve a great need to talk with you.”

“Do you?” Mina said faintly. “Oh, good.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Baldwin looked at the room over Mina’s shoulder. “You see, his lairdship told my husband that you’re the one with answers about this evening.”

Mina’s eyes hurt. Her head hurt. Her
mind
hurt, like her legs after a three-hour walk. She cleared her throat. “And why,” she began, in the most clipped tones she’d learned for Carter’s, “do you think you’re entitled to answers?”

“We’re living here,” said Mrs. Baldwin simply. “And we’re none of us blind or deaf or stupid. We may not know what’s been happening the last few weeks, but we all know it’s something odd.” She took a breath. “Clyde and I have been with his lairdship some time now. We know there are often odd things happening around him, around all of his blood, and we haven’t been in the habit of asking many questions. But he hasn’t been in the habit of coming home injured, either.”

“It’s his own neck to risk, isn’t it?”

“Is it, now?” Mrs. Baldwin asked. “Have you ever known a man’s enemies to care much about making sure his servants were safe?”

“Well—” Mina remembered the shadows. And the thieves—had they caught her alone, she wouldn’t have ended the night happily. “No,” she admitted.

Mrs. Baldwin nodded. “Well, then.”

“Maybe you should come in,” said Mina.

With another nod—more polite, this one, and less satisfied—the housekeeper entered and settled herself on the small chair by the window. Mina perched on the edge of the bed and tried to think, to balance fairness with discretion.

“There are some things I can’t tell you or anyone. Lord MacAlasdair might, but they’re his to tell. He does have an enemy. Someone from his past.”

At that, Mrs. Baldwin’s eyes flickered just a little. “Ah. Not someone he can tell the Yard about, then?”

“He says he’s worked with the police a little. But—”

“You can’t be relying on…outsiders…entirely,” said Mrs. Baldwin. “Saving your presence, Miss Seymour.”

“No offense taken,” said Mina, who didn’t have the energy for it in any case. Besides, she wasn’t quite an outsider now. She wasn’t quite an insider either, of course, and that was part of the problem. Someone familiar with Stephen’s world might not have felt so lost in it.

Mrs. Baldwin didn’t allow her much time to think about that. “He’ll have been taking his own measures, then. Is there anything—anything the others might need to be worried about? Anything that might do them harm, if they came across it?”

There had been a moon last night; the manes couldn’t return yet. Ward probably would have sent other things after them by now, if he could manage it. “Thieves,” she said slowly, “but I guess any house is a risk for those.”

“Some considerably more so than others. What about a general threat? Fire, aye, or flood?”

“No,” said Mina.

“You’re sure of that?”

Mina closed her eyes and reached up to rub the bridge of her nose. “If you want someone who’s sure of things, ask his lordship. You’ve known him for a while, and you don’t know me at all.”

“Aye, well,” said the housekeeper. Her shadow moved as she reached up to push hair back from her face. It was a movement as weary as Mina felt. “I’ll put about the bit about thieves, at least. They’ll take their chances here just the same, or we’ll fill in a bit for them. Either way, I expect they’ll survive.”

“I can boil an egg or two,” said Mina and looked back at Mrs. Baldwin, “and I know my way around a needle and a dust cloth, if it comes to that. Can’t promise anything about horses, though.”

For the first time since Mina had met her, the housekeeper really smiled. “Great ungainly beasts, aren’t they? I was never so glad as when we came here, though ’twas a sad occasion for it.” She got to her feet. “Don’t fret over much about them. Clyde’s always been fond of the creatures, God knows why. We’ll manage even if Owens takes himself off.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Mina managed an answering smile.

“I’ll have a wee word with the rest of them, and we’ll see what’s to come.” Mrs. Baldwin headed toward the door, then turned. “And should you be free of an evening, I’d be glad of a cup of tea. ’Tis a big house for so few of us, aye?”

“You’re right about that,” said Mina.

“You canna’ be getting out of bed yet,” said Baldwin, late in the morning after Stephen had discovered the homunculus.

“I can,” said Stephen, slipping his arms into his coat. Baldwin knew his duties. Even as he protested, he offered clothes without missing a moment. “And I must.”

“But only the last evening—”

“I’ll not dash into any burning buildings. I’ll not dash anywhere, I’m thinking.” Even now that the coughing had stopped, his lungs still felt tender and almost bruised, and breathing too deeply or too quickly had a painful edge to it. “I’ve always healed quickly, Baldwin. You know as much.”

His valet’s face was full of thought, of old stories about half-seen shapes and places in the woods where nobody went. As Stephen watched, the tales passed like a river through Baldwin’s eyes, relaxing him and yet rousing the old mortal tension that came with mystery, even an inherited one like the MacAlasdairs.

“Well,” said Baldwin and turned his attention to Stephen’s necktie. After arranging the linen to his satisfaction, he spoke again. “Mrs. Baldwin’s had a word with your…secretary, my lord, as you advised.”

“I’d advised
you
to have a word,” Stephen said, “if you wanted to know.”

“Miss Seymour had gone to her room already, my lord. It wouldn’t have been proper.”

“Of course not.” Leaving aside the urge to be sarcastic about such modern developments in etiquette, Stephen found Baldwin’s consideration a relief. At least the rest of the household was treating Mina with propriety, however much its master might slip on occasion. “What did she have to say?”

“That you’ve an enemy, my lord, and one you canna’ be telling the Yard about. That he’s been thinking to strike at you more than once, but that we’re in no more danger than what we might be if you’d angered some sort of criminal syndicate. Which we’ve told the new lot you have, or your father has.”

“‘Criminal syndicate’? You’ve been reading the
Strand
a bit, haven’t you?”

“I like to take advantage of such opportunities as the city affords, my lord.”

“But you don’t believe it yourself?” Stephen asked, watching Baldwin as he folded clothing over his arm. “What you’ve told the rest of the staff, I mean?”

“I believe you’ve an enemy, and that he’s been acting in an unlawful manner, my lord. And I believe you’ve decided to place a great deal of trust in your Miss Seymour, and that we’ll then be abiding by your decision.”

Quite a number of protests and questions occurred to Stephen just then. They started with
she’s not
my
Miss
Seymour
, though the term did sound uncommonly pleasant, and continued to wondering whether Baldwin would have trusted Mina otherwise, or was simply resigned to the situation.

He cleared his throat. “How did the others take that news?”

“Lizzie and Sarah have given their notice, I’m afraid, and so have Owens and James. I’m afraid it was a bit of a shock to them, and they found the prospect rather intimidating.”

“Yes, I’d imagine.”

When, hoarse and in pain, Stephen had suggested that Baldwin apply to Mina for an explanation, he hadn’t expected anything so close to the truth or with such consequences to the household. Anger stirred, and he thought he might have a word with Mina—and then he saw her face in his mind, eyebrows arched and lips thin. He heard the iciest of her professional voices:
I
was
under
the
impression
that
people
should
know
if
they’re risking their lives, even if circumstances preclude giving them an exact reason.
Then she’d say something sarcastic about forgiving her presumption.

Neither Stephen’s natural gifts nor the artifact allowed him to read minds or to see the future. Apparently such abilities weren’t always necessary—or avoidable.

“Mrs. Hennings is still on to cook,” Baldwin continued, “and I’ll be handling the horses and the butler’s duties. Polly and Emily and Mrs. Baldwin should be able to manage the house, and Miss Seymour has said she can lend a hand as needed. It’s a bit irregular, my lord—everything is—and a bit of a pinch as well, but you haven’t been entertaining much, and honestly, we’ve had it soft round here for a while.”

“Have you?”

“Oh, aye, especially for London. At least from all I’ve heard.”

“And Miss Seymour…volunteered?”

“Said the work would do her good, my lord, though she’s not trained to it exactly.”

“Well.” He put aside the mental image of Mina in a maid’s uniform and turned his attention to the reason that the others had left: danger, even if not the kind they were thinking of. The dark of the moon approached, and while Stephen had made a little progress, he suspected Ward would only double his efforts because of it. “As it turns out, I’ll have some work for her to do myself. Tell her I’ll see her in the library in a quarter of an hour.”

“She’s there already, my lord.”

***

Some corner of the house or the library itself had produced a ladder, one that went high enough for a reasonably tall woman like Mina to reach the top of the bookshelf. When Stephen entered the library, that was exactly what she was doing: cradling three books in one arm, reaching for another with her free hand, and making an amused little “hmm” sound at something she saw up there.

Until he remembered to be a gentleman, Stephen noticed her ankles and the backs of her legs, and reflected on just how much of a view the angle would permit.

“What might you be doing, exactly?” he asked, once propriety reasserted itself.

Mina looked over her shoulder, keeping her place steadily on the ladder. “Cataloguing your library.”

“And why?”

“Because it wants cataloguing.” She collected the last book and started down the ladder. Stephen put out his hands to steady her, just in case, and told himself not to hope for an accident. “Unless you have a system you didn’t tell me about. A very
original
system. One that puts Austen next to
Common
Diseases
of
the
Cow
.”

“Well—no.”

Mina reached the bottom of the ladder unaided and put the armload of books down carefully on top of one of the towers. “Right, then. I’ll do it the normal way: fiction by name, nonfiction by subject. You pay double if I get eaten by spiders.”

“Spiders? I’d thought they’d dusted this room when I took up residence.”

“The room, yes. Between the books”—Mina removed a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped gray dust from her fingers—“no. Not that I can blame them. Not like most people use the place, especially the high shelves, so no need to chance the roaring hordes of arachnids.”

Stephen blinked. “Spiders don’t roar.”

“Ha. I suppose they don’t write threatening notes in the dust, either. By the way, I found this.”

A gesture toward the desk indicated a small book bound in dark blue leather with an unmarked spine. Stephen picked it up and flicked through a few pages. Handwriting covered them, not printing: a crabbed hand he didn’t recognize.

“Someone’s diary, I’d think,” he said. “Not my father’s—perhaps one of his relations’. Perhaps not. The ink’s not too faded. It can’t be more than a few hundred years old.”

“Almost hot off the presses, then,” said Mina. She looked from the book to Stephen, then asked, with a certain careful diffidence in her voice, “Do you mind if I have a look? There might be something helpful in it. You never know.”

“If you’d like,” Stephen said immediately. “I doubt you’ll find much, but whoever wrote it is long past caring for secrets, I should think,” he added, which made himself feel a little better about his first response.

Neither his father nor his uncles would have been fool enough to write down the secret vulnerabilities of the MacAlasdair blood, assuming there were any. They also would have told Stephen beforehand, and as far as he knew, the keys to his destruction were the same as for any man, only applied in greater quantities.

Certainly he hadn’t much time for deciphering the hand of whoever had written the journal—and wasn’t that what secretaries were for, in any case?

“If you come across anything,” he said, “let me know, of course. Don’t type it up just then, though.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself. Journals aside, what’re you here for? Austen or the cows?”

“Neither, fascinating as they might be. I’ve actually come to request your help in something rather unusual.”

“Well, that will certainly be a change.”

“What I mean to say is—it’s magic. Which you’ve not done before, unless I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong.” Mina tilted her head, frowning. “Which makes me wonder what use you think I’ll be. Doesn’t that sort of thing need training, or—or being a dragon?”

“It’s safer if everyone’s trained, aye. But I could guide you through the rite, and a spell’s stronger for having more than one person in it. It gets power from…echoing, you might say.”

When she was curious, Mina’s face was a study in wide eyes and slightly pursed lips. “What sort of spell?”

“Protection. I’ve some wards up on the house already, of course, but they could be stronger. Especially now.”

“All right,” she said without hesitating. “What do we do?”

The first order of business was to find a corner of the library with enough bare floor. They needed a circle about five feet in diameter, which they finally achieved by moving a good many chairs and a small writing desk.

“Although you shouldn’t be doing any of this,” Mina said again, as Stephen lifted another chair.

“Of course I should. I’m not entirely an invalid, am I?”

“Yes you are.” Mina shoved the desk to its final place against the wall. “You were coughing up blood last night and you slept until noon today. Do you get much more invalid than that?”

“A time or two,” Stephen said. “And you’re half my size—”

“Hardly.”

“—and a woman. I shouldn’t be letting you move great heavy chairs about.”

“You can try and stop me if you like,” said Mina, and suddenly looked down at the armchair she was pushing.

It was another of those moments where Stephen could read her mind without magic. At least, he thought it held a vague approximation of the images in his: the two of them, locked in a moment of wrestling, their bodies straining against each other. It didn’t help that Mina was flushed and breathing quickly from the work, nor that tendrils of her hair were curling loosely against her neck.

She laughed, only a little bit too high, only slightly breathless. “But I warn you, I pull hair. Ask any of the girls on my street.”

“I should have known,” said Stephen, and applied completely unnecessary vigor to the final chair.

Then came candles, easily acquired from the kitchen, and the small silver cup that Stephen took out of a locked drawer. When he unwrapped it from its covering of green silk, Mina whistled.

“What’s this, then, the Holy Grail?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Stephen. “I saw it being made, and I’m nowhere near so old as all that.”

He had been very young at the time. It was one of his first memories: the glowing heat of the forge, the shine of fire from the half-made bowl, and his sister Judith’s eyes reflected in it, her hands almost as steady as his uncle’s. He’d known enough not to touch anything, and that had been about the limit of it.

“We have older ones,” he said, “elsewhere. But even metal wears after enough time. And then there were so many of us, and we took to wandering—it was better to have more than a few such objects.”

“Oh,” said Mina, round-eyed again. “It’s magic too, then?”

“Not so greatly as the crown, not of itself. It’s a tool. But I daresay magic clings to it somewhat after enough use.”

“Things start to be part of each other,” Mina said, half quoting Stephen.

The quickness of her reply, and the simple fact that she’d remembered, no longer surprised Stephen. They still made him smile. “Hold on to it,” he said, “while I pour the wine.”

He turned toward one of the bookshelves, taking with him the sight of her: mortal hands clasped around the stem of the goblet, mortal eyes reflected in its polished surface.

Things
start
to
be
part
of
each
other
, he heard her say again.