Phoenix and Ashes E-Book

Mercedes Lackey

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

In this dark and atmospheric rendition of the Cinderella fairy tale, an intelligent young Englishwoman is made into a virtual slave by her evil stepmother. Her only hope of rescue comes in the shape of a scarred World War I pilot of noble blood, whose own powers over the elements are about to be needed more than ever.

Leseprobe

PHOENIX AND ASHES

By Mercedes Lackey and Available from Titan Books

Elemental Masters

The Serpent’s Shadow

The Gates of Sleep

Phoenix and Ashes

The Wizard of London

Reserved for the Cat

Unnatural Issue

Home from the Sea

Steadfast

Blood Red

Collegium Chronicles

Foundation

Intrigues

Changes

Redoubt

Bastion

PHOENIX AND ASHES

ELEMENTAL MASTERS

Mercedes Lackey

TITAN BOOKS

PHOENIX AND ASHES E-book edition ISBN: 9781783293889

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street London SE1 0UP

First edition: May 2014 12345678910

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2004, 2014 by Mercedes Lackey. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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To Janis Ian; amazing grace

Contents

Cover

Half Title Page

By Mercedes Lackey

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

When I needed to populate the village of Broom and Longacre Park, the denizens of the Dixon's Vixen bulletin board sprang to my aid by volunteering to be scullery maids, war-heroes, or villains as I chose. So if the names of the inhabitants are not consistent with the conventions of 1917, that is why.

***

And

Thanks to Richard and Marion van der Voort (www.atthesignofthe dragon.co.uk), who vetted my historical and colloquial accuracy.

And

To Melanie Dymond Harper, who, when I lost my map and pictures of Broom, went out into wretched weather to recreate them for me.

1

December 18,1914 Broom, Warwickshire

Her eyes were so sore and swollen from weeping that she thought by right she should have no tears left at all. She was so tired that she couldn’t keep her mind focused on anything; it flitted from one thought to another, no matter how she tried to concentrate.

One kept recurring, in a never-ending refrain of lament. What am I doing here? I should be at Oxford.

Eleanor Robinson rested her aching head against the cold, wet glass of the tiny window in the twilight gloom of her attic bedroom. With an effort, she closed her sore, tired eyes, as her shoulders hunched inside an old woolen shawl. The bleak December weather had turned rotten and rainy, utterly un-Christmas-like. Not that she cared about Christmas.

It was worse in Flanders, or so the boys home on leave said, though the papers pretended otherwise. She knew better. The boys on leave told the truth when the papers lied. But surely Papa wouldn’t be there, up to his knees in the freezing water of the trenches of the Western Front. He wasn’t a young man. Surely they wouldn’t put him there.

Beastly weather. Beastly war. Beastly Germans.

Surely Papa was somewhere warm, in the Rear; surely they were using his clever, organized mind at some clerking job for some big officer. She was the one who should be pitied. The worst that would happen to Papa was that he wouldn’t get leave for Christmas. She wasn’t likely to see anything of Christmas at all.

And she should be at Oxford, right this minute! Papa had promised, promised faithfully, that she should go to Oxford this year, and his betrayal of that promise ate like bitter acid into her heart and soul. She’d done everything that had been asked of her. She had passed every examination, even the Latin, even the Greek, and no one else had ever wanted to learn Greek in the entire village of Broom, except for little Jimmy Grimsley. The boys’ schoolmaster, Michael Stone, had had to tutor her especially. She had passed her interview with the principal of Somerville College. She’d been accepted. All that had been needed was to pay the fees and go.

Well, go meant making all sorts of arrangements, but the important part had been done! Why hadn’t he made the arrangements before he’d volunteered? Why hadn’t he done so after?

Hadn’t she had known from the time she could read, almost, that she all she really wanted was to go to Oxford to study literature? Hadn’t she told Papa that, over and over, until he finally agreed? Never mind that they didn’t award degrees to women now, it was the going there that was the important part—there, where you would spend all day learning amazing things, and half the night talking about them! And it wasn’t as if this was a new thing. There was more than one women’s college now, and someday they would give degrees, and on that day, Eleanor meant to be right there to receive hers. It wasn’t as if she would be going for nothing…

And it wouldn’t be here. Not this closed-in place, where nothing mattered except that you somehow managed to marry a man of a higher station than yours. Or, indeed (past a certain age) married any man at all.

“Oxford? Well, it’s—it’s another world… maybe a better one.”

Reggie Fenyx’s eyes had shone when he’d said that. She’d seen the reflection of that world in his eyes, and she wanted it, she wanted it…

Even this beastly weather wouldn’t be so bad if she was looking at it from inside her study in Somerville… or perhaps going to listen to a distinguished speaker at the debating society, as Reggie Fenyx had described.

But her tired mind drifted away from the imagined delights of rooms at Somerville College or the stimulation of an erudite speaker, and obstinately towards Reggie Fenyx. Not that she should call him Reggie, or at least, not outside the walls of Oxford, where learning made all men (and women!) equals. Not that she had ever called him Reggie, except in her own mind. But there, in her mind and her memory, he was Reggie, hero-worshipped by all the boys in Broom, and probably half the grown men as well, whenever the drone of his aeroplane drew eyes involuntarily upward.

And off her mind flitted, to halcyon skies of June above a green, green field. She could still hear his drawling, cheerful voice above the howl and clatter of his aeroplane engine, out there in the fallow field he’d claimed for his own, where he “stabled” his “bird” in an old hay-barn and used to land and take off. He’d looked down at her from his superior height with a smile, but it wasn’t a patronizing smile. She’d seen the aeroplane land, known that in this weather he was only going to refuel before taking off again, and pelted off to Longacre like a tomboy. She found him pouring a can of petrol into the plane, and breathlessly asked him about Oxford. He was the only person she knew who was a student there, or ever had been a student there—well, hardly a surprise that he was a student there, since he was the son of Sir Devlin Fenyx, and the field, the aeroplane, and everything as far as she could see where she stood belonged to Lord Devlin and Longacre Park. Where else but Oxford was good enough for Reggie Fenyx? Perhaps Cambridge, but—no. Not for someone from Warwickshire and Shakespeare country. “I want to go to university,” she had told him, when he’d asked her why she wanted to know, as she stood looking up at him, breathless at her own daring. “I want to go to Oxford!”

“Oxford! Well, I don’t know why not,” he’d said, the first person to sound encouraging about her dream since her governess first put the notion in her head, and nearly the only one since, other than the Head of Somerville College. There’d been no teasing about “lady dons” or “girl-graduates.”

“No, I don’t know why not. One of these days they’ll be giving out women’s degrees, you mark my words. Ought to be ashamed that they aren’t, if you ask me. The girls I know—” (he pronounced it “gels,” which she found fascinating) “—work harder than most of my mates. I say! If your parents think it’s all bunk for a gel to go to university, you tell ‘em I said it’s a deuced good plan, and in ten years a gel’d be ashamed not to have gone if she’s got the chance. Here,” he’d said then, shoving a rope at her. “D’ye think you can take this rope-end, run over to there, and haul the chocks away when I shout?”

He hadn’t waited for an answer; he’d simply assumed she would, treating her just as he would have treated any of the hero-worshipping boys who’d come to see him fly. And she hadn’t acted like a silly girl, either; she’d run a little to a safe distance, waited for his signal after he swung himself up into the seat of his frail ship of canvas and sticks, and hauled on the rope with all her might, pulling the blocks of wood that kept the plane from rolling forward out from under the wheels. And the contraption had roared into life and bounced along the field, making one final leap into the air and climbing, until he was out of sight, among the white puffy clouds. And from that moment on, she’d hero-worshipped him as much as any boy.

That wasn’t the only time she’d helped him; before Alison had come, she had been more out of the house than in it when she wasn’t reading and studying, and she went where she wanted and did pretty much as she liked. If her mother had been alive, she’d likely have earned a scolding for such hoydenish behavior, but her mother had died too long ago for her to remember clearly, her father scarcely seemed to notice what she did, and she had only herself to please. Reggie had been amused. He’d ruffled her hair, called her a “jolly little thing,” and treated her like the boys who came to help.

In fact, once after that breathless query about Oxford, he had given her papers about Somerville College, and magazines and articles about the lady dons and lecturers, and even a clipping about women who were flying aeroplanes—“aviatrixes” he called them—with the unspoken, but clearly understood implication that if anyone gave her trouble about wanting to go to Oxford, she should show them the clipping as well as give them his endorsement of the plan to show that “nice girls” did all sorts of things these days. “Women are doing great things, great things!” he’d said with enthusiasm. “Why, women are doctors—I know one, a grand gel, married to a friend of mine, works in London! Women should go exercising their brains! Makes ‘em interesting! These gels that Mater keeps dragging round—” He’d made a face and hadn’t finished the sentence, but Eleanor could guess at it. Not that she had any broad acquaintance with “ladies of Society,” but she could read about them. And the London newspapers were full of stories about Society and the women who ornamented it. To her way of thinking, they didn’t seem like the sorts that would be terribly interesting to someone like Reggie. No doubt, they could keep up a sparkling conversation on nothing whatsoever, and select a cigar, and hold a dinner party without offending anyone, and organize a country weekend to great acclaim, but as for being interesting to someone like Reggie—not likely. Even she, an insignificant village tomboy, was more interesting to him than they were ever likely to be.

Not that she was all that interesting to someone like Reggie. For all that she looked up to him, and even—yes, she admitted it—was a bit in love with him, he was as out-of-reach as Oxford was now…

In fact, everything was out of reach now, and the remembered sun and warmth faded from her thoughts, replaced by the chill gloom of the drafty attic room, and the emptiness of her life.

Nothing much mattered now. The war had swallowed up Reggie, as it had swallowed up her father, as it had smothered her hopes. The bright and confident declarations of “Home by Christmas” had died in the rout at Mons, and were buried in the trenches at Ypres, as buried as her dreams.

She had thought she was through with weeping, but sobs rose in her throat again. Papa, Papa! she cried, silently, as her eyes burned anew. Papa, why did you leave me? Why did you leave me with Her?

For it wasn’t the war that was keeping her from Oxford, anyway. Oh, no—her current misery was due to another cause. Surely Papa would have remembered his promise, if it hadn’t been for the manipulations of Alison Robinson, Eleanor’s stepmother.

Two more tears oozed out from under her closed lids, to etch their way down her sore cheeks.

She wouldn’t be able to treat me like this if Papa hadn’t gone. Would she?

Horrible, horrible woman. She’d stolen Papa from her, then stole her very life from her. And no one else could or would see it. Even people that should know better, who could see how Alison treated her stepdaughter, seemed to think there was nothing amiss. I’ll hear one more time how lucky I am that Papa married her and left her to care for me while he’s gone, I think I shall be sick…

The day she first appeared had been, had Eleanor only known it, the blackest day of Eleanor’s life.

She pounded an impotent fist against her thigh as she stifled her sobs, lest She should hear…

Papa had gone on business; it had seemed just like any other of dozens of such absences. Eleanor was accustomed to Father being absent to tend to his business from time to time; most fathers in Broom didn’t do that, but Charles Robinson was different, for he was in trade, and his business interests all lay outside Broom, even outside of Warwickshire. He was a man of business, he often told her when she was old enough to understand, and business didn’t tend to itself.

Although her father never flaunted the fact, she had always known that they lived well. She’d had a governess, when most children in the village just went to the local school. Miss Severn had been a good governess, one, in fact, who had put the idea of Oxford into her head in the first place, and good, highly educated governesses were (she knew now) quite difficult to find, and expensive.

Besides that, they had maids and a cook—well, there were others in Broom who had “help,” but not many had maids that lived in, or a cook at all. And they lived in one of the nicest houses in Broom. “The Arrows,” a Tudor building, was supposed to have been there at the time Shakespeare passed through the village after a poaching expedition, got drunk and fell asleep under the oak tree in front of the tavern.

But her papa hadn’t made much of their prosperity, so neither had she. He socialized with the village, not the gentry, and other than visits to Longacre to see Reggie fly, so had she. They weren’t members of the hunt, they weren’t invited to dinners or balls or even to tea as the vicar was. The governess, the special tutoring later—this was, to her, not much different from the piano lessons the butcher’s and baker’s daughters got.

In fact, she hadn’t really known how prosperous they were. Papa’s business was hardly glamorous—he made sacks, or rather, his factories made sacks. All sorts of sacks, from grain-bags to the rough sailcloth duffels that sailors hauled their personal gear in. Well, someone had to make them, she supposed. And from time to time, Papa would visit one or another of his factories, making sure that everything was operating properly, and look over the books. His trips always happened the same way; he’d tell her and Cook when he was going and when he would be back and they’d plan on simple meals till he returned. He would drive their automobile, chugging and rattling, to catch the train, and at the appointed time, drive home again.

But last June something different had happened.

He’d gone off—then sent a telegram that something had happened, not to worry, and he would be back a week later than he had planned and he’d be bringing a grand surprise.

She, more fool, hadn’t thought any more of it—except, perhaps, that he was buying a new automobile. That was what he had done when he’d gotten the first one, after all, come back a week later, driving it, all bundled up in goggles and hat and driving-coat, and full of the adventure of bringing it all the way from London.

And he came back, as she had half expected, not in the old rattle-bang auto, but in a sleek, long-bonneted thing that purred up the street.

The problem was, he hadn’t been alone.

She had been with him. And right behind them, in their own car, They had come.

She had come arrayed in an enormous scarlet hat with yards and yards of scarlet scarves and veils, and a startling scarlet coat of dramatic cut. Father had handed her out as if she was a queen, and as she raised a scarlet-gloved hand to remove her goggles, he had said, beaming with pride, “And here’s my surprise! This is your new mother—” he hadn’t said “stepmother,” but Eleanor would never, ever call that horrible woman “Mother”

“—Alison, this is my daughter. And look, Eleanor, here are two new sisters to keep you company! Lauralee, Carolyn, this is your sister Eleanor! I’m sure you’re going to be the best of friends in no time!”

Two elegant, languid creatures descended from the rear of the second automobile, wearing pastel blue and lavender versions of her getup, and removed their goggles to regard her with stares as blank and unreadable as the goggles had been.

Broom had never seen anything quite like them. They looked as if they had come directly from the pages of some London quarterly. Only she smiled, a knowing little smile, a condescending smile that immediately made Eleanor aware of her untidy hair that was loosely tied with a ribbon like a child’s, her very plain linen day-dress, not in vogue and not new, of her uncorseted figure, and her thick, clumsy walking shoes. The two girls raised their heads just a trifle, and gave her little patronizing smirks of their own. Then all three had sailed into the house without so much as a word spoken.

And with a shock, Eleanor had found herself sharing the house and her papa with a stepmother and two stepsisters.

Except—from the moment they entered the door, there wasn’t a great deal of “sharing” going on.

The first sign of trouble came immediately, when the girls inspected the house and the elder, Lauralee, claimed the second-best bedroom—Eleanor’s room—as her own. And before Eleanor could protest, she found herself and her things bundled up the stairs to an untenanted attic room that had been used until that moment as a lumber room, with the excuse, “Well, you’ll be at Oxford in the autumn, and you won’t need such a big room, now, will you?” Followed by a whispered “Don’t be ungracious, Eleanor—jealousy is a very ugly thing!” and a frown on her papa’s face that shocked her into silence.

The thing that still baffled her was the speed with which it had all happened. There’d been not a hint of any such thing as a romance, much less a marriage, ever! Papa had always said that after Mama, no woman could ever claim his heart—he’d gone a dozen times to Stoke-on-Trent before, and he’d never said a word about anything but the factory, and she thought that surely she would have noticed something about a woman before this.

Especially a woman like this one.

Oh, she was beautiful, no question about that: lean and elegant as a greyhound, sleek dark hair, a red-lipped face to rival anything Eleanor had seen in the newspapers and magazines, and the grace of a cat. The daughters, Lauralee and Carolyn, were like her in every regard, lacking only the depth of experience in Alison’s eyes and her ability to keep their façade of graciousness intact in private.

Eleanor only noticed that later. At first, they were all bright smiles and simpers.

Alison and her daughters turned the house upside down within a week. They wore gowns—no simple “dresses” for them—like nothing anyone in Broom had seen, except in glimpses of the country weekends held up at Longacre. They changed two and three times a day, for no other occasion than a meal or a walk. They made incessant demands on the maids that those poor country-bred girls didn’t understand, and had them in tears at least once a day. They made equally incredible demands on Cook, who threw up her hands and gave notice after being ordered to produce a dinner full of things she couldn’t even pronounce, much less make. A new cook, one Mrs.Bennet, and maids, including a lady’s maid just for Alison called Howse, came from London, at length, brought in a charabanc with all their boxes and trunks. Money poured out of the house and returned in the form of tea-gowns from London and enormous hats with elegantly scrolled names on the boxes, delicate shoes from Italy, and gloves from France.

And amid all of this upheaval and confusion, Papa beamed and beamed on “his elegant fillies” and seemed to have forgotten Eleanor even existed. There were no tea-gowns from London for Eleanor…

Not that she made any great show against them. She looked like a maid herself, in her plain dresses and sensible walking shoes. They didn’t have to bully her, not then, when they could simply overawe her and bewilder her and drown her out with their incessant chattering and tinkling laughter. And when she tried to get Papa alone to voice a timid protest, he would just pat her cheek, ask if she wasn’t being a jealous little wench, and advise her that she would get on better if she was more like them!

She might have been able to rally herself after the first shock—might have been able to fight back. Except that all those far-off things in the newspapers about assassinations and Balkan uprisings that could never possibly have anything to do with the British Empire and England and Broom—suddenly did.

In August, the world suddenly went mad. In some incomprehensible way, Austria declared war on Serbia, and Prussia joined in, and so did Germany, which apparently declared war on everybody. There were Austrian and Prussian and German troops overrunning France and England was at war too, rushing to send men to stop the flood. And though among the country-folk in Broom there was a certain level of skepticism about all this “foreign nonsense,” according to the papers, there was a sudden patriotic rush of volunteers signing up to go to France to fight.

And Papa, who was certainly old enough to know better, and never mind that he already had been in the army as a young man, volunteered to go with his regiment. And the next thing she knew, he was a sergeant again, and was gone.

Somehow Oxford never materialized. “Your dear father didn’t make any arrangements, child,” Stepmother said, sounding surprised, her eyes glittering. “But never mind! This will all be over by Christmas, and surely you would rather be here to greet him when he comes home, wouldn’t you? You can go to Oxford in the Hilary term.”

But it wasn’t over by Christmas, and somehow Papa didn’t manage to make arrangements for the Hilary term, either. And now here she was, feeling and being treated as a stranger, an interloper in her own house, subtly bullied by glamour and not understanding how it had happened, sent around on errands like a servant, scarcely an hour she could call her own, and at the end of the day, retreating to this cold, cheerless closet that scarcely had room for her bed and her wardrobe and desk. And Papa never wrote, and every day the papers were full of horrible things covered over with patriotic bombast, and everything was wrong with the world and she couldn’t see an end to it.

Two more tears burned their way down her cheeks. Her head pounded, she felt ill and feverish, she was exhausted, but somehow too tired to sleep.

Today had been the day of the Red Cross bazaar and tea dance. Organized by Stepmother, of course—“You have such a genius for such things, Alison!”—at the behest of the Colonel’s wife. Though what that meant was that Eleanor and the maids got the dubious privilege of doing all of the actual work while Stepmother and “her girls” stood about in their pretty tea-gowns and accepted congratulations. Eleanor had been on her feet from dawn until well past teatime, serving cup after cup of tea, tending any booth whose owner decided she required a rest, watching with raw envy as her stepsisters and other girls her age flirted with the handsome young officers as they danced to the band Stepmother had hired for the occasion. Dances she didn’t know—dances to jaunty melodies that caused raised, but indulgent eyebrows among the village ladies. “Ragtime”—that’s what they called it, and perhaps it was more than a little “fast,” but this was wartime, and beneath the frenetic music was an unspoken undercurrent that some of these handsome young men wouldn’t be coming back, so let them have their fun…

Eleanor had cherished some small hope that at last someone who knew her would see what Alison was doing and the tide of public opinion would rise up to save her. Alison, after all, was the interloper here, and with her ostentatious ways and extravagance, she had surely been providing more than a little fodder for the village cats. But just when she was handing the vicar’s wife, Theresa Hinshaw, a cup of tea, the woman abruptly shook her head a little, and finally looked at her, and frowned, and started to say something in a concerned tone of voice, out of the corner of her eye she saw Alison raise her head like a ferret sniffing a mouse on the wind, and suddenly there she was at the woman’s elbow.

“Mrs.Hinshaw, how are you?” she purred, and steered Eleanor’s hope away into a little knot of other women.

“I was wondering why we haven’t seen Eleanor about,” the vicar’s wife began.

“Yes, she used to run wild all about the village, didn’t she, poor thing,” replied Alison, in a sweetly reasonable tone of voice. “A firm hand was certainly wanted there, to be sure. You’d never guess to look at them both that she’s the same age as my Carolyn, would you?”

Eleanor saw Mrs.Hinshaw make a startled glance from the elegant Carolyn, revolving in the arms of a young subaltern, to Eleanor in her plain frock and apron and ribbon-tied hair, and with a sinking heart, saw herself come off second best.

“No, indeed,” murmured Mrs.Sutherland, the doctor’s wife.

Alison sighed heavily. “One does one’s poor best at establishing discipline, but no child is going to care for a tight rein when she’s been accustomed to no curb at all. Keep her busy, seems to be the best answer. And of course, with dear Charles gone—”

The vicar’s wife cast a look with more sympathy in it at Eleanor, but her attention was swiftly recaptured by Lauralee, who simpered, “And poor Mama, not even a proper honeymoon!” which remark utterly turned the tide in Alison’s favor.

From there it was all downhill, with little hints about Eleanor’s supposed “jealousy” and “sullenness” and refusal to “act her age”—all uttered in a tone of weary bravery with soft sighs.

By the time Alison was finished, there wasn’t a woman there who would have read her exhaustion and despair as anything other than sulks and pouting.

The music jangled in her ears and made her head ache, and by the time the car came for Alison and her daughters (“Dear little Eleanor, so practical to wear things that won’t be hurt by a little wet!”) and Eleanor was finished with the cleaning up and could trudge home again, she felt utterly beaten down. Her aching legs and feet were an agony by the time she reached an unwelcoming home and unfriendly servants. Alison and the girls held high celebration in the parlor, their shrill laughter ringing through the house as they made fun of the very people they had just been socializing with.

She got plain bread-and-butter and cooling tea for supper in the kitchen—not even a single bite of the dainty sandwiches that she had served the ladies had she eaten, and of the glorious high tea that the cook had prepared for Alison and her daughters there was not a scrap to be seen. And by the time she went up all those stairs to her freezing-cold room, she’d had no strength for anything except hopeless weeping.

What does she want from me? The question echoed dully in Eleanor’s mind, and there seemed no logical answer. She had no doubt that Alison had married Papa for the money—for all her airs at the tea, there was nothing in the way that Alison behaved in private that made Eleanor think that her stepmother found Papa’s absence anything other than a relief. But why did she seem to take such pleasure in tormenting Eleanor?

There didn’t seem to be an answer.

Unless she was hoping that Eleanor would be driven to run away from home.

Oh, I would, but how far would I get? If that was what Alison was hoping, the very nature of this area—and, ironically, the very picture that Alison had painted of her stepdaughter today!—would conspire to thwart her. Eleanor wouldn’t get more than a mile before someone would recognize her, and after that carefully constructed fiction of a sullen and rebellious child that Alison had created, that same someone would assume she was running away and make sure she was caught and brought back!

And if Alison had wanted to be rid of her by sending her away, surely she would have done so by now.

She’ll never let me go, she thought bitterly. Not when she can make up lies about me to get more sympathy. And who believes in wicked stepmothers, anyway?

She must have dozed off a little, because the faint, far-off sound of the door knocker made her start. At the sound of voices below, she glanced out the window to see the automobile belonging to Alison’s solicitor, Warrick Locke, standing at the gate, gleaming wetly in the lamplight. He looked like something out of a Dickens novel, all wire-rimmed glasses, sleek black suits and sleek black hair and too-knowing face.

Oh. Him again. He seemed to call at least once a week since Papa had gone. Not that she cared why he came. It was odd for him to come so late, but not unheard-of.

Someone uttered an exclamation of anger. It sounded like Alison. Eleanor leaned her forehead against the cold glass again; she felt feverish now, and the glass felt good against her aching head. And anyway, the window-seat was more comfortable than the lumpy mattress of her bed.

Her door was thrust open and banged into the foot of the bed. She jerked herself up, and stared at the door.

Lauralee stood in the doorway with the light behind her. “Mother wants you, Eleanor,” she said in an expressionless voice. “Now.”

Eleanor cringed, trying to think of what she could have done wrong. “I was just going to bed—” she began.

“Now,” Lauralee repeated, this time with force. And then she did something she had never done before. She took two steps into the room, seized Eleanor’s wrist, and dragged her to her feet. Then, without another word, she continued to pull Eleanor out the door, down the hall, and down the narrow servants’ stair.

The stair came out in the kitchen, which at this hour was empty of servants—but not of people. Alison was there, and Carolyn, and Warrick Locke. The only light in the kitchen was from the fire on the hearth, and in it, the solicitor looked positively satanic. His dark eyes glittered, cold and hard behind the lenses of his spectacles; his dark hair was slicked back, showing the pointed widow’s peak in the center of his forehead, and his long thin face with its high cheekbones betrayed no more emotion than Lauralee’s or Carolyn’s. He regarded Eleanor as he might have looked at a black beetle he was about to step on.

But Alison gave her a look full of such hatred that Eleanor quailed before it. “I—” she faltered.

Alison thrust a piece of yellow paper at her. She took it dumbly. She read the words, but they didn’t seem to make any sense. Regret to inform you, Sergeant Charles Robinson perished of wounds received in combat—

Papa? What was this about Papa? But he was safe, in Headquarters, tending paperwork—

She shook her head violently, half in denial, half in bewilderment. “Papa—” she began.

But Alison had already turned her attention away towards her solicitor. “I still say—”

But Locke shook his head. “She’s protected,” he said. “You can’t make her deathly ill—you’ve tried today, haven’t you? And as I warned you, she’s got nothing worse than a bit of a headache. That proves that you can’t touch her directly with magic, and if she had an—accident—so soon, there would be talk. It isn’t the sort of thing that could be covered up.”

“But I can bind her; when I am finished she will never be able to leave the house and grounds,” Alison snarled, her beautiful face contorted with rage, and before Eleanor could make any sense of the words, “you can’t touch her directly with magic” her stepmother had crossed the room and grabbed her by one wrist. “Hold her!” she barked, and in an instant, the solicitor was beside her, pinioning Eleanor’s arms.

Eleanor screamed.

That is, she opened her mouth to scream, but quick as a ferret, and with an expression of great glee on her face, Carolyn darted across the room to stuff a rag in Eleanor’s open mouth and bind it in place with another.

Terror flooded through her, and she struggled against Locke’s grip, as he pulled her over to the hearth, then kicked her feet out from underneath her so that she fell to the floor beside the fire.

Beside a gap where one of the hearthstones had been rooted up and laid to one side—

Locke shoved her flat, face-down on the flagstone floor, and held her there with one hand between her shoulder blades, the other holding her right arm, while Alison made a grab for the left and caught it by the wrist. Eleanor’s head was twisted to the left, so it was Alison she saw—Alison, with a butcher’s cleaver and a terrible expression on her face. Alison who held her left hand flat on the floor and raised the cleaver over her head.

Eleanor began screaming again, through the gag. She was literally petrified with fear—

And the blade came down, severing the smallest finger of her left hand completely.

For a moment she felt nothing—then the pain struck.

It was like nothing she had ever felt before. She thrashed in agony, but Locke was kneeling on her other arm, with all his weight on her back and she couldn’t move.

Blood was everywhere, black in the firelight, and through a red haze of pain she wondered if Alison was going to let her bleed to death. Alison seized the severed finger, and stood up. Lauralee took her place, holding a red-hot poker in hands incongruously swallowed up in oven-mitts. And a moment later she shoved that poker against the wound, and the pain that Eleanor had felt up until that moment was as nothing.

And mercifully, she fainted.

***

She woke again in the empty kitchen, her hand a throbbing sun of pain.

Like a dumb animal, she followed her instincts, which forced her to crawl to the kitchen door, open it on the darkness outside, on rain that had turned to snow, and plunge her hand into the barrel of rainwater that stood there, a thin skin of ice forming atop it. She gasped at the cold, then wept for the pain, and kept weeping as the icy-cold water cooled the hurt and numbed it.

How long she stood there, she could not have said. Only that at some point her hand was numb enough to take out of the water, that she found the strength to look for the medicine chest in the pantry and bandage it. Then she found the laudanum and drank down a recklessly large dose, and finally took the bottle of laudanum with her, stumbling back up the stairs to her room in the eerily silent house.

There she stayed, wracked with pain and fever, tormented by nightmare, and unable to muster a single coherent thought.

Except for one, which had more force for grief than all her own pain.

Papa was dead.

And she was alone.

2

March 10, 1917 Broom, Warwickshire

The scrub-brush rasped back and forth against the cold flagstones. Eleanor’s knees ached from kneeling on the hard flagstones. Her shoulders ached too, and the muscles of her neck and lower back. You would think that after three years of nothing but working like a charwoman, I would have gotten used to it.

The kitchen door and window stood open to the breeze, airing the empty kitchen out. Outside, it was a rare, warm March day, and the air full of tantalizing hints of spring. Tomorrow it might turn nasty again, but today had been lovely.

Not that Eleanor could get any further than the kitchen garden. But if she could leave her scrubbing, at least she could go outside, in the sun—

But Alison had ordered her to scrub, and scrub she must, until Alison came to give her a different order, or rang the servants’ bell. And if Alison “forgot,” as on occasion she did, then Eleanor would be scrubbing until she fainted from exhaustion, and when she woke, she would scrub again…

The nightmare that her life was now had begun on the eighteenth of December, three years, two months, and a handful of days ago, when Alison Robinson hacked off the little finger of her left hand, and buried it with spells and incantations beneath the third hearthstone from the left here in the kitchen. Thus, Alison Robinson, nee Danbridge, had bound Eleanor into what amounted to slavery with her black magic.

Magic…

Who would believe in such a thing?

Eleanor had wondered how Alison could have bewitched her father—and it had turned out that “bewitched” was the right word for what had happened. That night and the nights and days that followed had given her the answer, which only posed more questions. And if she told anyone—not that she ever saw anyone to tell them—they’d think her mad.

For it was madness, to believe in magic in these days of Zepps and gasworks and machine guns.

Nevertheless, Alison was a witch, or something like one, and Warrick Locke was a man-witch, and Lauralee and Carolyn were little witch’s apprentices (although they weren’t very good at anything except what Alison called “sex magic” and Eleanor would have called “vamping”). Alison’s secret was safe enough, and Eleanor was bound to the kitchen hearth of her own home and the orders of her stepmother by the severed finger of her left hand, buried under a piece of flagstone.

She dipped the brush in the soapy water and moved over to the next stone. Early, fruitless trials had proved that she could not go past the walls of the kitchen garden nor the step of the front door. She could get that far, and no farther, for her feet would stick to the ground as if nailed there, and her voice turn mute in her throat so that she could not call for help. And when Alison gave her an order reinforced by a little twiddle of fingers and a burst of sickly yellow light, she might as well be an automaton, because her body followed that order until Alison came to set her free.

When her hand had healed, but while she was still a bit lightheaded and weak, Alison had made her one and only appearance in Eleanor’s room. Before Eleanor had been able to say anything, she had made that gesture, and Eleanor had found herself frozen and mute. Alison, smirking with pleasure, explained the new situation to her.

Her stepdaughter had not been in the least inclined to take that explanation at face value.

Eleanor sighed and brushed limp strands of hair out of her eyes, sitting back on her heels to rest for a moment. Under the circumstances, you would have thought that the moment would have been branded into her memory, but all she could really remember was her rage and fear, warring with each other, and Alison lording it over her. And then a word, and her body, no longer her own, marching down to the kitchen to become Mrs.Bennett’s scullery maid and tweenie.

Perhaps the eeriest and most frightening part of that was that Mrs.Bennett and all the help acted, from that moment on, as if that was the way things had always been. They seemed to have forgotten her last name, forgotten who she really was. She became “Ellie” to them, lowest in the household hierarchy, the one to whom all the most disagreeable jobs were given.

The next days and weeks and months were swallowed up in anger and despair, in fruitless attempts to break free, until her spirit was worn down to nothing, the anger a dull ache, and the despair something she rose up with in the morning and lay down with at night.

She even knew why Alison had done this—not that the knowledge helped her any.

She, and not Alison, was the true owner of The Arrows, the business, and fourteen manufactories that were making a great deal of profit now, turning out sacks for sandbags to make trench-walls, and barricades, and ramparts along the beaches… for in all of her plotting and planning, Alison had made one tiny mistake. She had bewitched Charles Robinson into marrying her, she had bespelled him into running off to be killed at Ypres, but she had forgotten to get him to change his will. And not even Warrick Locke could do anything about that, for the will had been locked up in the safe at the Robinsons’ solicitor’s office and it was the solicitor, not Alison, who was the executor of the will. There was no changing it, and only because Eleanor was underage was Alison permitted to act as her guardian and enjoy all the benefits of the estate. That was why she had been so angry, the night that the death notice came.

And after Warrick Locke investigated further, that was why she was forced to keep Eleanor alive and enslaved. Because if Eleanor died, the property went to some impoverished cousin in the North Country, and not Alison at all. Periodically, Eleanor was called into the parlor and given paper and pen, and wrote a letter under Alison’s sorcerous dictation to the solicitor, directing him to give Alison money for this or that luxury beyond the household allowance. Alison fumed the entire time she was dictating these letters, but Eleanor was far, far angrier.

There were times when Eleanor wished she could die, just out of spite…

She had eavesdropped on as many conversations as she could, which wasn’t as difficult as it sounded, because Alison and Locke discussed such matters as if she wasn’t present even when she was in the same room. She knew that her stepmother was something called an “Elemental Master” and that her power was over earth. What that meant, she had no real notion, but that was probably why Alison had buried Eleanor’s severed finger. She knew that Warrick Locke was an “Elemental Mage,” and that his power was also over earth, and that he was nothing near as powerful as Alison was. Lauralee and Carolyn were one rank below Warrick, evidently.

That Alison had far more power even than she had demonstrated against Eleanor was not in doubt. Eleanor had overheard plenty in the last three years, more than enough to be sure that the two of them were up to a great deal of no good. But of course, they wouldn’t care what she heard; even if she could get out of the house, who would believe her wild tales about magicians?

For that matter, she hardly knew anything of what was going on in the world outside this house—just what she could glean from the occasional newspaper she saw. In the early part of the war, she had been able to get more information by listening to the servants, but—well, that was one way in which the war had affected her. There had been nine servants in the Robinson household—three more than the six that Eleanor and her father had thought sufficient—at the time when her father was killed. A man-of-all-work, a gardener, a parlormaid, three house maids, the cook Mrs.Bennett, and two ladies’ maids, one (Howse) for Alison herself, one shared by Carolyn and Lauralee. Now there were two, Eric Whitcomb from the village who had returned from the war with a scar across the front of his head from some unspecified wound, and rather less than half his wits, and who did the gardening, the rough work and heavy hauling, and Alison’s maid Howse. All the rest of the work was done by Eleanor. No one outside the house knew this, of course. Alison’s status would have dropped considerably.

The man-of-all work had gone first, not so much out of patriotism (for after March of 1915 as the true nature of the slaughter in the trenches became known, it became more and more difficult to find volunteers) than because he had caught wind of conscription in the offing, and at the same time, was given the opportunity to join up with a regiment that was going somewhere other than France. “I’m off to the Suez, lovey,” he’d told the downstairs house maid, Miranda Reed. “I’ll bring you back a camel. I’ll still be PBI, but at least my feet’ll be dry.”

Miranda had wept steadily for two months, then turned in her notice to go and train as a VAD nurse (“It can’t be more work than this, and I’ll surely get more thanks,” she’d said tartly on departing). The next to go had been the parlormaid, Patricia Sheller, after her brothers were conscripted, leaving no one to help at her aged parents’ London shop, and it wasn’t long before Katy Feely, the stepsisters’ maid, followed, when the work of the upstairs maid was added to her own load—she claimed she too was going to be a VAD nurse, but it wasn’t true. “I’ve had enough of those cats, Mrs.Bennett,” Katy had whispered to the cook in Eleanor’s hearing. “And enough of this grubby little village. I’m off! There’s heaps of better positions in London going begging now!”

By then, even married men were being conscripted, and Mrs.Bennett’s son had been killed, leaving a wife and two tiny children with a third baby on the way; Mrs.Bennett turned in her notice to go and help care for them.

The result had been a sea change in how meals were dealt with in this household. Alison could compel Eleanor to cook—but she couldn’t compel Eleanor to cook well. And it appeared that no matter how great Alison’s powers were, they weren’t enough to put the knowledge of an expert cook into Eleanor’s mind, nor the skill of that cook into her hands. Eleanor hadn’t done more than boil an egg and make toast in her life, and cooking was an undisclosed mystery to her. So for one week, Eleanor labored her way through the instructions in the cookery books, but the resulting meals were anything but edible. After that week, Alison gave up; the White Swan had supplied most of the components of luncheon and dinner to the household from that time on, while Brown’s Bakery provided bread, crumpets, scones, muffins, cake and pie for afternoon tea.

The rest of the help had followed when Alison proved disinclined to pay for their meals from the pub as well as hers. Kent Adkins the gardener and Mary Chance the other maid vanished without bothering to give notice.

Eleanor still wasn’t more than an adequate plain cook, and she took a certain amount of grim satisfaction in the fact that no more dishes with fancy French names graced Alison’s table unless they came ready-made out of a tin. She could not bake much of anything—her bread never seemed to rise, and her pie crust was always sodden. She could make ordinary soup, most eggy things, toast, tea, and boil veg. She could make pancakes and fry most things that required frying. Anything that took a lot of practice and preparation came from the Swan or out of hampers from Harrods and Fortnum and Mason, things that only required heating up before they were presented at table.

There was rationing now—sugar, according to complaints Eleanor overheard or saw in the newspaper, was impossible to get, and the authorities were urging meatless days. There were rumors in the newspapers that other things would soon be rationed—but none of that touched this household as privation. However it happened, and Eleanor strongly suspected black-marketeering, there were plenty of good things stocked away in the pantry and the cellar, including enough sugar to see them through another two or three years, and plenty of tinned and potted meats, jams and jellies, honey, tinned cream, white flour, and other scarce commodities, enough to feed a much larger household than this one. Not that Eleanor ever saw any of that on her plate. Rye and barley-bread was her lot, a great many potatoes roasted in the ashes or boiled and served with nothing but salt and perhaps a bit of dripping, and whatever was left over from the night before put into the ever-cooking soup-pot, sugarless tea made with yesterday’s leaves, and a great deal of sugarless porridge. In fact, the only time she tasted sweets now was when an empty jam jar came her way, and she made a little syrup from the near-invisible leavings to pour over her porridge or into her tea.

She glanced at the light coming in through the door; almost teatime. This, of course, was Howse’s purview, not hers. There was a spirit-kettle in the parlor; Howse would make the tea, lay out the fancy tinned biscuits, bread, scones, crumpets, tea-cakes, butter and jam. If toast was wanted, Howse would make it over the fire in the parlor. And then Howse would share in the bounty, sitting down with her employers as if she were their equal. Thus had the war affected even Alison, who, Eleanor suspected, had learned at least one lesson and would have done more than merely sharing meals in order to avoid losing this last servant. A lady’s maid was a necessity to someone like Alison, who would have no more idea of how to put up her own hair or tend to her wardrobe than how to fly an aeroplane. The laundry could be sent out, prepared foodstuffs brought in, and Eleanor’s strength was adequate to the rest of the needs of the household, but if Alison and her daughters were to keep up their appearances, and to have a chance at ascending to the social rank they aspired to, Howse must be kept satisfied. And silent, where the true state of the household was concerned.

Eleanor sighed, and stared into the flames on the kitchen hearth. There was a patent range here too on which most of the actual cooking was done, with a boiler and geyser in back of it that supplied hot water for baths and washing, both upstairs and down, but Eleanor liked having an open fire, and wood was the one thing that Alison didn’t keep her from using. Since the spell that bound her was somehow tied to the kitchen hearth, it would have seemed more natural for Eleanor to hate that fireplace, but when she was all alone in the kitchen at night, that little fire was her only friend. In the winter, she often slept down here now, when her room was too cold for slumber, drifting off beside the warmth of that fire, watching the glowing coals. Now and again, it seemed to her she saw things in the flames—little dancing creatures, or solemn eyes that stared back at her, unblinking. The truth also was that no matter what she did around the fires, she never got burned. Leaping embers leapt away from her, smoke always went up the chimney properly, even when the north wind drove smoke down into the parlor or Alison’s room. No fire ever burned out for her, and even that ever-cooking soup-pot never scorched. Her fare might be scant and poor, but it was never burned. Which could not always be said of Alison’s food, particularly not when she or Howse undertook to prepare or warm it themselves, at the parlor hearth… and though Eleanor kept her thoughts to herself, she could not help but be glad when hard, dry, inedible food and burned crusts came back on the plates to the kitchen.

Sometimes Eleanor wondered why her stepmother hadn’t simply done to Howse what she had done to Eleanor and turn her into a slave, but even after three years, she didn’t know a great deal more about magic than she’d learned on that December night. Alison clearly used it, but she had never again performed a spell or rite where Eleanor could see her. Perhaps the reason was no more complicated than that while crude, unskilled work could be compelled, skilled work required cooperation…

And even as she thought that, Eleanor realized with a start that she had been sitting on her heels, idle, staring into the flames on the hearth, for at least fifteen minutes.

The thought hit her with the force of a hammer blow. Could Alison’s magic be losing its strength?

With a mingling of hope and fear, and quietly, so as not to draw any attention to herself, Eleanor climbed carefully to her feet and tiptoed to the kitchen door. The high stone wall around the garden prevented her from seeing anything but the roofs of the other buildings around her and the tops of the trees. There was a wood-pigeon in the big oak on the other side of the east wall, and the cooing mingled with the sharp metallic cries of the jackdaws. She stood quietly in the late afternoon sunshine, closing her eyes and letting it bathe her face.

Then she stepped right outside onto the path between the raised herb beds, and had to bite her lower lip and clasp her hands tightly together to avoid shouting in glee. She was outside. She was not scrubbing the floor—

But as she made a trial of approaching the garden gate, she found, with a surge of disappointment, that she could not get nearer than five feet to true freedom. The closer she got to the big blue wooden gate, the harder it was to walk, as if the air itself had turned solid and she could not push her way through it. This phenomena was not new—unless Alison was there and “permitted” her to approach the gate, the same thing had always happened before.

Still, to be able to break free from the spell at all was a triumph, and Eleanor was not going to allow disappointment to ruin her small victory. And after a quick, breathless, skipping run around the dormant garden, she was not going to allow discovery to take that victory from her, either. She went back to her scrubbing. Except that she wasn’t scrubbing at all. She was sitting on her heels where she could quickly resume the task when she heard footsteps and simply enjoying the breathing space.

The sound of high-pitched voices in the parlor told her that the ladies were having their tea. Just outside the door, starlings had returned to the garden and were singing with all their might. The kitchen was very quiet now, only the fire on the hearth crackling while the stove heated for dinner. Alison’s mania for forcing her to clean meant that the kitchen was spotless, from the shining copper pots hanging on the spotless white plaster walls to the flagstone floor, to the heavy black beams of the ceiling overhead. It looked very pretty, like a model kitchen on show. But of course, no one looking at a model kitchen ever thought about the amount of work it took to make a kitchen look like that.

She stared into the fire, and thought, carefully. If this glimpse of limited freedom wasn’t some fluke, if incomprehensible fate had at last elected to smile on her—well, her life was about to undergo a profound change for the better.

Her stomach growled, and she smiled grimly. Yes, there would be changes, starting with her diet. Because one of the things that the spell on her did was that it prevented her from going into the pantry late at night to steal food.

In many households, the food was kept under lock and key, but Eleanor’s father had never seen the need for that. He felt that if the servants needed to eat, they should feel free to help themselves.

Alison hadn’t felt that way, but the pantry still had no lock on it, and while Mrs.Bennett had lived here, it hadn’t needed one. The cook had kept a strict accounting of foodstuffs, but that wasn’t why there was no pilferage. Mrs.Bennett had kept everyone so well fed that none of the other servants had seen the need to raid the stores.

With Mrs.Bennett gone, however, Alison had changed the spell that bound Eleanor to keep her from the stores. Howse, of course, never appeared in the kitchen, and wasn’t going short either, since she shared Alison’s meals.