The Crafters Book Two (13 page)

“Aye, sir, and free of tariff, too,” Pericles riposted.

Now the laughter which shook Great-grandpapa’s jowls was from the heart. “Strike me dead—deader—here’s sport! Tell me, lad, when I collect my fee for services rendered, do you expect me to devour you, drink your blood, or merely flay you alive?”

Pericles remained steadfast. “Whatever takes your ghostly fancy, sir.”

“Just so, just so.” Great-grandpapa wiped away the phantom traces of merriment’s tears. “Well, what takes my fancy, boy, is that you say what’s brought you to a pass where you’re so willing to give your life into these rough hands. Sharp, now!”

“Permit me,” I interposed, and with dear Pericles’ consent went on to explain, at some necessary length and with as much elegance as my state of trepidation might allow, the circumstances of our present situation. I ended by saying, “Pray succor us, dear Great-grandpapa. If not for the sake of that dread price which Pericles so willingly offers you, nor for the fact that his Crafter blood transcends his abhorred nationality, then for the memory of my dear mamma, your grandchild.”

Great-grandpapa gave me a most peculiar look, then turned to Pericles and inquired, “You mean to marry her, lad? Take her back to America with you after you’re wed?” And when Pericles assented, added—I know not why—”All that high gale and low dramatics ... that’s vengeance enough on the whole ’nation of ’em.” Before I might ask his meaning, he went on to remark, “Coister, eh? It seems I recall the family—miserable excuses for magicians, all. Couldn’t turn bread into toast unless they sold their souls to Satan first. And now this jumped-up scion of theirs wants to command Death himself? Haw!”

“Death,” I repeatedly somberly, dabbing the last few tears from my eyes with the black handkerchief. “And my person.”

“He
wants you, too?” I know not why Great-grandpapa was so puzzled by this intelligence. “Hasn’t the poor bedlamite ever heard you
talk
for any length of—? No matter. He is also an American. It must be something in the water. Never mind. Come here, child. Let me see that black rag of yours. There is a scent to it I find strangely familiar, and if it is as I suspect ...” It was a decidedly odd sensation when his hands brushed mine, that he might inspect the black kerchief, but no odder than the veritable storm of guffaws which racked his body once he had completed his examination of that item.

“Great-grandpapa, I fail to see the humor,” I said severely.

“You would,” he replied, when he was able. “America deserves you. Nay, don’t pull that beldame’s face with me, m’gel. You’re a Crafter, right enough, and there’s more than a touch of the Talent to you, unless my nose for such things betrays me. God helps them who help themselves, as your turncoat Ben Franklin would put it. Hark to me, you pair of boobies, and I’ll give you the means you need to save your hides without paying me an inch of ’em.”

He beckoned us close and whispered certain secrets into our ears before fading from our ken, nevermore to return, if I have anything to say in the matter.

So it was that when a horrid cry of “EUREKA!” reverberated through the house, followed by heavy footsteps galloping up the stairs, I was not quite so moved to distraction as one might have expected formerly. Nor was I at all undone when the study door burst open and Renfrew Coister stood triumphant before us, brandishing a small, exquisitely jointed wooden skeleton in his hand.

For you see, dear Caroline, I had used the black handkerchief and Great-grandpapa’s counsel to procure us a little company.

“Put that down, Coister,” said the gentleman in black. “I don’t like men of your stripe taking liberties with my person.”

The astounded Coister goggled at our visitor after the fashion of a herring monger’s best merchandise. His eyes darted from the wooden skeleton to the gentleman in black, perceiving in the fleshless fingers and eyeless sockets of each a distinct resemblance. “It cannot be!” he cried, shaking the articulated simulacrum until the limbs rattled. (Our caller, to his credit, gritted his teeth and by sheer force of Will did his best to remain unmoved by this harsh treatment.)

“Stop that, if you please,” said Death (for it was He). “You can’t hope to control me with
that
poppet now.”

“Why not?” Coister demanded, at his least gracious. “I found it myself, in the bottom of her mother’s old bridal chest. She had it disguised as copy of Jonathan Edwards’ sermons, but a little prodding soon dislodged that threadbare glamour. I used the proper procedures, said all the right spells, and now it is mine! Control the symbol and you control the thing symbolized!”

“Not,” said Death, “if someone gets to the thing symbolized first.” He made a shallow bow in my direction, his bony fingers extended towards the black handkerchief. This I had, as per Great-grandpapa’s instructions, spread out upon Mamma’s table and dusted lightly with a mixture of dried herbs Pericles had gathered from the array of glass containers lining the attic shelves. “Precedence is precedence, Coister, old man. I believe that the lady has first dibs,” the Grim Reaper remarked.

“What in Hell’s own name are ‘dibs’?” Renfrew Coister swore mightily.

O Caroline, it was as if the monumental nature of his blasphemy tore the world asunder! Pericles leapt forward, exhorting him to mind his tongue in the presence of a lady. Coister snarled even worse oaths and drew from the air itself a dagger wherewith to work mischief upon my unarmed cousin. Yet ere Pericles could notice the sharp welcome awaiting him at Coister’s hand, the very firmament flashed, there was the overpowering scent of tansy, and in mid-leap Pericles Crafter vanished to be replaced by—

But you already know the manner of Lord Cranbrooke-Purslaine-Dewberry’s irruption into Mamma’s study, being as you were the agent thereof.
Dear
Caroline! How ingenious of you to use my spell of transportation to exchange the equivalent masses of Pericles and Dewy! Especially since Dewy had a sword.

Ah, could you but have seen the man’s presence of mind! How many other youths of his delicate upbringing would have the acumen to perceive, immediately upon arrival
in medias
quite perilous
res,
that the wisest course of action was to draw his blade against Coister’s own steel and, with a minimum of fuss, cause the reptile’s head to part company with his shoulders?

Of course it did make rather a dreadful mess. The whole spectacle was too much for my already hectic nerves. I believe I heard Death remark, “Well, I’ll just be clearing this away for you, shall I?” before I sank into blissful unconsciousness.

The rest you must know: How Papa and Stepmamma, freed from Coister’s spells, returned to find me upon the parlor divan insensible, unchaperoned, and alone with Dewy. How, in simple charity, I made judicious application of Mamma’s bezoar to free that noble gentleman’s rational processes from all previous artificially induced attractions. How he and I both realized that, much as our unformed and juvenile affections had been so foolishly granted elsewhere, more mature considerations of Duty, Honor, and Mutual Respect conspired to but one possible conclusion:

Caroline, I married him.

Given what I have told you, I assume you will henceforth desist from sending me letters which can at best be called ill-thought and at worst, libellous. You can not deny that I have attempted to explain all ere this; no more can you deny that you have destroyed my previous missives unread, for your childish behavior whenever the post arrives has been noticed by the neighbors and placed you foursquare upon the barbed tongue of Gossip.

I am therefore sending you this letter in the hands of my trusted cousin, Pericles Crafter. Your breeding, if not any inborn sense of restraint, should prevent you from staging another tantrum while he is present to await a reply. I rely upon your usually sweet disposition to receive him kindly and cheer him up somewhat. Heaven alone knows why he has turned so sullen! I
gave
him the fusty old skeleton to take home to his “mam” the very day that Dewy and I announced our betrothal. Whatever more could the silly boy want?

I am sure you two will find some common cause in which to pass an idle hour of polite conversation. Why, think of it, Caroline! You might even have some distant kinship to the Crafter line, seeing as how it was your own Talent which allowed you to exchange Pericles for my dear, darling Dewy! Perhaps Cousin Pericles might be able to aid you in the development of this magical gift. May you learn, as I have, that education is its own reward.

It is my fondest wish that together you and he might persuade each other to look back upon the events of which I have written in a more rational, less romantically overwrought manner. Romance is all very well for the poets, but live in
America?

Moi?

Faithfully I do remain

Your Sincere Friend,

Lady Delilah Cranbrooke-Purslaine-Dewberry “The Alders”

Huntingdon shire

England

Anno Domini 1807 —1815

Perhaps there is something about having the Talent that attracts situations where it is needed. Today we would call that coincidence. In an earlier age: fate or the Hand of God. Whatever the reason, it makes life for most Crafters quite exciting, and can have other benefits as well.

Anthea was ten years old when she met the ghost.

He was really a very nice ghost, everything considered—but Anthea wasn’t in the mood to consider very much. She had just fled into the library to have a good cry, for Nanny had told her, rather sharply, that Mama had no time to listen to Anthea’s whining just then. Poor Anthea positively dissolved, but Nanny scolded her sharply. “Away with you, aggravating child! When I’ve such a headache! You mustn’t make such a noise!” So Anthea had run out and down the long, creaking stairs to the first room that had a door to it, which was of course the library, crying as though her heart would burst. She threw herself in among the cushions on the window seat, though they reeked of damp, and wept and wept and wept. With all her heart, she wished that her real Nanny hadn’t died, and left her to the mercy of this ... this stranger, this rude country girl who knew nothing of the proper behavior of a nanny, and cared nothing for Anthea’s feelings. She wept on and on as the gloaming faded into a gloomy dusk, not caring that there wasn’t a single candle lighted.

“Such a fuss,” rumbled a hollow voice. “Why, it’s enough to wake the dead.”

Anthea gasped and sat bolt upright, instantly furious that anyone should intrude on her grief, blinking her tears away, or trying to—then gasping again as she saw the glimmering old suit of armor where surely there had been none before. And it lacked a helmet! Nothing there but its bare shoulders.

“Who are you?” she cried, looking about. “Why have you brought this pile of tin here?”

“This pile of tin, little mademoiselle, is myself,” said the hollow voice—and so help her, the suit of armor stepped away from the wall and clanked over to the tall wing chair, where it sat!

Well, actually, it didn’t clank, really. In fact, it didn’t make a sound. It only
seemed
that it should have.

“Well, that’s better,” the hollow voice said. “I’ve little use for a watering pot. Tears increase the damp so, and my armor’s apt enough to rust as it is.”

“Why, how rude!” Anthea cried, anger drowning fear. “And how cruel of you, sir, to play such a trick upon a poor girl in her misery! Take yourself out of that suit of armor on the instant!”

“That I fear I cannot do, little mademoiselle,” said the armor. “I died in it, so I’m stuck in it, if you follow my meaning at least, until I find my head.”

“Your head?” Anthea could only stare. Well, actually, no, she could have screamed, too—but at the moment, she was far too confused for that. “Why have you lost your head? Over what?”

“Over a battle, actually—though I could say, over a young lady.”

“I knew it!” Anthea clapped her hands. “Whenever a proper gentleman has lost his head, there’s romance in it! Poor fellow, did she not requite you?” Then she came to her senses, and indignation rose. “Why, this is quite unkind! Who are you, sir, and how dare you play such a prank upon a grieving maiden?” She was rather proud of that “grieving maiden” she had thought it up herself, without any help from Mrs. Radcliffe or her books. “Come out of that suit of armor, and be done with this deception!”

“I fear it is no prank,” said the hollow voice, “and as to who I am, why, I am Sir Roderick le Gos, Knight Bachelor, sworn to the service of the Duke of Kent.”

“Le Gos?” Anthea frowned; the name tugged at her memory. Hadn’t Father mentioned ...

“Yes, little mademoiselle, le Gos is the old form of your own name, Gosling. It has transformed itself down through the centuries, but you and I are Gosses still.”

“Centuries?” For the first time, a thrill of fear touched Anthea’s heart. She quelled it sternly—after all, the chap seemed nice enough. “You can’t mean ... you aren’t ...”

“The family ghost? Yes, I am, actually. Not all that many can see me, though—your mama can’t at all, of course, but she’s not a Gos by blood. Even you will probably find that you can’t see me in ten years or so. But for the moment, we can chat quite companionably—if you don’t find my aspect too horrifying.”

“Not a bit, for I can’t find your aspect at all.” Anthea frowned. “Where is it?”

“I carelessly misplaced it some centuries ago, a hundred miles or so to the north and west. It was during a battle against some border raiders, you see—Scots who had the audacity to object to being ruled by King Edward, don’t you know, and thought to make his subjects suffer in his stead. It wasn’t generally known, but a band of them had managed to catfoot it down from the North Country, bravely resisting temptation all along the way, so they could set up a broil entirely too close to London. They raided and retreated into the forest, where they seem to have made common cause with a band of outlaws, and came surging back out at the oddest moments to wreak havoc and plunder.”

“And you had to go chastise them?” Anthea asked, her eyes round.

“Not ‘had to,’ I suppose—but Lady Dulcie wouldn’t think of having me offer for her, if I hadn’t some bit of land and rank to my name. I suppose it’s my own fault, in a way—I ignored a feud of long standing, between her family and mine. But the lady was beautiful, and our estates did border one another, and ancestral grievances seemed far less important to me than the luster of her eyes. Still, there must have been in her some trace of the old malice that bred the ancestral quarrel, for she challenged me to prove my love by joining the expedition against these raiders. I went in the train of my lord the Duke. The Scots fell on us at dawn, and we fought briskly, I assure you.”

“Who won?” Anthea asked, her eyes widening again.

“I can’t say, actually—I was killed in the thick of the fighting. A scoundrel tripped my horse with the butt of his pike. I fell quite hard, but their blows were only heavy enough to dent and mar my armor. I lugged out my sword and forced my way up to my feet, but just then a great rawboned chap in a kilt swung a huge claymore at me, and the blasted sword rang on my helmet as though on a bell. The straps burst, and off it came. I cut back at him, of course, but he only stepped back till my blade had passed, then leaped in and swung again—and, well, there went my head. I don’t really remember much of the rest of the battle, you’ll understand—only a dazed sort of feeling that I wasn’t all there, quite. There was a confused business of winding through the countryside on a cart, and of some doleful chanting in Latin. Then, finally, my mind cleared, and I found myself looking down at my own tombstone—out there, in the churchyard.” Sir Roderick gestured toward the window.

“Why, how horrible!” Anthea exclaimed.

“No, not really—except for those few horrible seconds of blinding pain, but that was over soon enough. And I haven’t been troubled with a sore throat since.”

“I should think not,” Anthea said.

“It is deucedly boring,” Sir Roderick confessed, “and one can’t really see too well, without a head.”

“Can’t you get it back?” Anthea asked.

“I suppose I can, though I haven’t had much luck thus far. You see, they brought my body back for burial in the family plot, but my head was lost amidst the carnage on the field of battle. I’m still searching for it, of course, but I can’t leave the house unless I’m haunting a member of the family—bound by ties of blood and land, you see, and none of my kinfolk have ever gone far enough north for me to come near the scene of that battle.”

Moved, Anthea cried, “I promise to go there, as soon as I’m old enough! Only you’ll have to tell me where it is.”

“Would you really? Why, how good of you!” Sir Roderick didn’t mention that she probably wouldn’t have enough money to go to London, let alone to the battlefield, unless she married—in which case, she wasn’t likely to have the freedom. “Don’t go without an escort, though—these Scots are great rough hairy brutes, you know.”

“Oh, I understand they’ve improved recently—quite civilized, Papa says.” The reminder of her parents clouded her brow.

Sir Roderick noticed. “Bit of a rum show, eh? To have to leave London and come to this rambling old manor.”

“Yes, it’s really quite unpleasant! ... Oh, forgive me! I hadn’t meant any disrespect for your family home.”

“Yours, too, my dear, though you’ve only just found it—and it’s really quite all right. Windhaven is quite thoroughly run-down, I assure you—not what it used to be at all. Even at its best, though, I confess it did become a bit tedious after the first hundred years. I’ve taken the opportunity to travel to London with the family, you see, not to mention Bath and ...”

“London?” Anthea stared. “Was it really you, then, who made those odd noises in the night?”

“Quite so, and I’ve known you since you were an infant—charming, perfectly charming. I could have stayed with Trudy—your Aunt Gertrude, don’t you know—but I thought I’d better come along to the old manor, and see that you were well enough cared for.”

“Oh, but I’m not at all! Nanny died, and they hired this horrible, ignorant stranger in her stead, and the housekeeper and the rest of the staff are so tiresome, I could swear they hate children, and ... Her griefs came to mind again, and Anthea’s eyes swam in tears.

“Now, now, it’s not quite so bad as it might seem,” Sir Roderick murmured, reaching out an armored hand—but all Anthea felt was a chill on her cheek. “Life’s always worth living, don’t you know, if only because it might go better in times to come. There will be a troupe of young men dancing attendance on you some day, though you may feel no one pays attention to you now.”

“They don’t, they truly don’t!” Anthea cried. “Mama cares nothing for my feelings, and hardly ever sees me—indeed, at times I think she wishes I weren’t there!”

“Painful, bitterly painful,” the knight agreed. “Still, you mustn’t be too hard on your mother, little mademoiselle—she’s had a dreadful disappointment, you know.”

“Well, yes,” Anthea admitted, “but she doesn’t seem to have much time for anyone or anything except melancholy, at the moment.”

“Quite so,” Sir Roderick agreed, “though I thought she made it quite clear she cares inordinately about her social circle.”

“Oh yes, she does carry on so about the loss of her wonderful friends and gay parties!” They had been lost with the Goslings’ London house.

“She has cause to rail against the bitter fortune that has consigned her to the country life,” Sir Roderick pointed out.

“She would, if her own extravagances hadn’t been so great a part of that misfortune!” Anthea returned. She had come rather early to that age at which a girl can find any number of things wrong with her mother, especially one who had been so distant as her own. “And really, she shouldn’t call this wonderful house a ‘decaying old manse,’ or go on about its being so far from the lights and salons of London!”

It was in Kent, actually.

“Decaying old manse!” huffed Sir Roderick, offended. “Does she really? Well, well, it has been let go of recent years. Your father hasn’t truly cared very much about it.”

“Papa has taken it very badly,” Anthea stated. Indeed, Papa seemed to blame himself for Mama’s loss. Not that he needed to—she was blaming him quite enough for them both already.

“But it was he who paid all that money, and promised all those sums that he didn’t have,” Sir Roderick pointed out.

“Never mind that it was Mama who ran up all the bills with her modiste, and insisted on so many servants, and on redecorating the town house, and holding their share of parties and soirees!”

“Don’t mind it at all,” Sir Roderick returned, “for your father called in the tailor every month in his own right.”

“Yes, because Mama kept after him to keep his wardrobe up to the latest fashion, of course, and carried on so about being ashamed to be seen with him, if he didn’t.”

“There’s some truth in that,” Sir Roderick admitted, “but certainly no one had to urge your father to run up such enormous gambling debts, least of all your mother.”

“That
is
true,” Anthea conceded.

“True? The truth of it is that neither of them cared a fig for keeping an eye on their expenses, or to trouble themselves with concern that their expenditures might outstrip their income,” Sir Roderick said. “Not that I’m blaming them, mind you—I never much thought to look at the money myself. More concerned with honor and chivalry, don’t you know—but it’s for a man to provide for his wife and babes, eh wot?”

“The land does that,” Anthea muttered, but somewhat uncertainly.

“True enough, but you must take care of the land before it will take care of you—and not take out of it more than it has to give.”

Which was exactly what Papa had tried to do, of course—and the long and the short of it had been that they had had to sell the town house, and where could they live after that?

Only in the rambling old manor in which Grandpapa had grown up. And Papa hadn’t wished to be there for more than the occasional visit, and hadn’t tended to anything that fell into disrepair—so, now that they needed it, the big old house was dank and ramshackle.