The cauldron effect, p.28
The Cauldron Effect, page 28
What was happening? She felt abused and defiled, as if something dark and foul had tainted her. Was this some sort of witchery?
Villagers spoke of spells and magic. She thought such talk absurd. Even when the midwife once slyly hinted to seven-year-old Mary that a spell could be responsible for her mother’s mental sickness, she had questioned that assumption. How could a spell take away her mother’s memories, her speech, everything that made her who she was?
Science, my dear, not superstition, her father had said when she’d asked him about it, can explain the cause of all illnesses, given time.
Now she questioned his certainty. This pause in time did not feel like an illness. Could this man be a witch? How did he know her name?
“I have a message for your brother.” He shifted to stand directly in front. He was tall. From her motionless position, suspended slightly forward, only his voice box was visible.
Too bad her punch hadn’t broken it. She must get Marcus to train her to improve her strength. If she lived to see him again. Her dry eyes ached with unshed tears.
“Listen carefully.” The witch bent to make eye contact. Brown eyes. Determined. Pitiless. His gaze was eminently human, not red or glowing.
“I shall say this once, Miss Bryght. Your brother is to refuse His Royal Highness’s request. You will convince him to do so. Do you understand?”
Mary stared in stunned silence. This was about the painting? A witch had spelled her because the regent commissioned her brother to do a watercolor mural?
Old village gossip resurfaced. This was not a witch. Men who practiced black arts were called warlocks. Women who practiced such vice were witches. Was this man a warlock then? Shudders raced up her body until her mind went dizzy. If she could move, she was certain she would faint. Was this how her mother had felt near the end? Powerless.
Something tinged with green flashed behind the warlock. It went by so quickly she hadn’t seen it clearly but Mary received an impression of sharp, almost fang-like teeth, and horror cooled her skin like a bath of ice.
Her assailant gave a huff of impatience. “Miss Bryght, pay attention. If your brother accepts this work, he will regret it. I do not wish to harm him but I cannot allow him to make our affairs public. He accepts this commission at his peril.”
“Mary!”
Rose?
Rose! Mary screamed. Not one note slid past her hushed vocal cords and petrified lips. She would have cried if she’d been permitted to shed tears.
“Be warned!” The warlock vanished.
Mary’s right foot smacked onto the ground, unbalancing her. She tipped forward and fell. Bracing herself with her hands, she stopped her face smacking hard into the dirt. Then the tears came, a surfeit of them.
Rose found her like that and held her against her shoulder while cooing soft comforting sounds.
It took a few moments but finally Mary could sit up.
“What happened, my dear?” Rose asked.
“I was attacked.”
“What? Are you all right? Who did this?” Rose looked around as frantically as her questions poured out. “We must report this to the constable.”
“No!” Mary pushed her away, trying to think. “No one can do anything.”
“We can capture this villain and make him pay.”
“No one would believe what just happened to me.”
“I believe you.”
“Rose.” With a hand under her friend’s chin, Mary focused Rose’s scattered concentration back on her so her friend would not mistake her meaning, “I was attacked by a warlock.”
Rose leaned away, as if rejecting Mary’s words.
“I see skepticism on your face,” Mary said. “If you, my dearest friend, doubt my words, do you truly think a constable or a magistrate would do otherwise?”
“Dearest,” Rose began.
“Do not patronize me.” Mary stood, briskly brushing dirt off her gown and then headed toward home. “I have to speak to my brother. I must warn him.”
“Warn Marcus?” Rose stood, too, and hurried to catch up. “What does he have to do with this? What exactly did this stranger do to you?”
Though not slowing her steps, Mary nevertheless took deep breaths, holding her hands over her heart until that agitated organ settled into a steady if fast drumming. “He froze me, Rose, as if I were a fruit cocktail chilled to ice at Gunter’s.”
“Wait.” Rose pulled her to a staggering halt.
Mary was surprised by the strength of her friend’s hold on her wrists.
“In the first instance, Mary, I must insist that you stop referring to this stranger as a warlock, either to me or to anyone else. There is enough such nonsense spread in the village without adding to the chatter.”
Mary didn’t care for Rose’s condescending tone and wrenched free, skin stinging as nails scraped tender flesh. “I know what happened to me. What I saw and felt. He was a warlock. There is no other scientific explanation.”
“You are not a scientist.” Rose’s words cut like a dagger. “Your father was one and he would never jump to conclusions before all the facts became apparent.” Rose reclaimed her tight grip on Mary’s wrists. “Even if he were a warlock,” she whispered the word, “you will immediately stop calling him that. Do you understand?”
Her phrasing, uncannily mimicking the villain’s – Do you understand? – started a quake deep inside Mary that she couldn’t suppress. Suddenly, she was as frightened by Rose as much as by her assailant.
No, she wanted to scream. I do not understand!
“Now, did this man say what he wanted?”
Mary nodded, once. “He spoke about the letter Marcus received this morning.”
She pulled free again, this time without dispute. Her trust in Rose was subjected to intense agitation. This wasn’t the friend she had hoped would one day marry her brother. Who are you, Rose Terrell?
She then continued in a soft, wary voice. “I was coming to tell you about the news when the warl...that man accosted me.”
Rose nodded in approval of the self-correction. “Tell me now.”
“Marcus has received an artistic commission from the Prince Regent.” Saying that aloud brought back the joy of the morning. She lifted her chin defiantly. She might be forced to watch her speech in public, but she refused to lie to herself.
“I see,” Rose said in a cautious tone. “What is the commission for?”
“Marcus is to do a historical sketch, about some extraordinary event that took place in Switzerland in the mid-fourteen hundreds. He is to research the specifics and do a large mural. It’s to be displayed on a wall of the new exotic palace His Highness is designing for Brighton.”
With each word Mary spoke, Rose’s face paled.
“How unfortunate,” Rose murmured and looked away. She scanned the horizon, obviously deep in thought.
Mary’s suspicions about Rose blossomed. She had known Rose most of her life but her friend rarely spoke of family or other friends. Yet, Rose had a group of females she met with regularly, every month in fact. Though Mary had opened her home to Rose, she had never been invited to one of these regular get-togethers. She often thought the omission odd and had been a little hurt that Rose didn’t consider her as close a friend as Mary held her. Now a more sinister reason for the lack of invite peppered her thoughts.
Village gossip said witches congregated in covens.
Mary’s wayward heart set to hammering in alarm. Could the possible presence of warlocks – she glanced obliquely at Rose – and witches in Maidford, be connected? Was she seeing a true picture or weaving an imaginary one?
Seeking truth runs in our family, her father often joked to friends. I, through my scientific studies, Marcus through his detailed paintings, and, my lovely Mary in her obsessive questioning to ensure only the most accurate details of events are recorded in her writings.
A tear budded at the memory of her late father. She missed him dearly and, at this moment, sorely longed for his advice. As if to answer her need, she recalled one of his oft-repeated quips. Questions, Mary, are the pathway to discovery.
“What is the matter, Rose?” she whispered, wondering if she was ready to hear her friend’s reply
“What did this man say about the regent’s commission?”
Mary blinked and wiped away her tears. “That Marcus was to refuse it.”
“Wise counsel.” Rose finally held Mary’s gaze.
Was that pleading in her friend’s eyes? For what? Understanding? Support? Mary would help her in any way she could. All Rose had to do was tell her the truth.
“You should speak with Marcus, my dear.” Rose backed away. “Tell him exactly what this man said. Seems to me, he’s made a simple enough request.”
With those damning words, Rose left Mary standing on the pathway, struck mute and staring after her friend as if she had once again been transformed into a statue.
Turning, Mary picked up her skirts and raced for home. She ran through the front door and into an empty entryway. No footman at his post, no maids sweeping floors or dusting tables. The library, parlor and dining room were likewise bare of life and activity.
She sped upstairs and burst into her brother’s workroom. “Marcus!”
Light flooded through southeastern windows painting the space in an unfamiliar aspect. Nothing blocked those unrelenting rays, not an easel, palette, paintbrush or paint-box tray with its rainbow of bottles. She laid a steadying hand on the worktable’s bare, wooden surface. Not even a sketchbook. Stripped of her brother’s imprint, the studio felt deserted.
Shocking reality registered. I’m too late.
Her pulse pounding in denial, she ran to his bedroom. A maid, Joan, tucked under the sheets of his bed.
“Where’s Marcus?” she asked.
“Gone, my lady.” Joan brought over a piece of paper from the side table. “He left you this.”
With a sinking spirit, Mary guessed what it was likely to say. Her hand shook as she took the missive.
“There was a whirlwind of packing, miss, and then he rushed out with just his valet for company.”
The letter was sealed and stamped. Why such secrecy?
Joan watched her with avid curiosity.
“That’ll be all,” she said.
Once the maid left, Mary broke the wax, opened the pages and was shocked at the line after line of text, on both sides of the page.
Marcus’s normal mode of communication, especially when he was busy and didn’t wish to be disturbed, was to send drawings of whatever he wanted – a sketch of rolled scrolls tacked to his studio door meant he had run short of paper. A scrawl of a plate with chicken legs sent down the dumbwaiter indicated he was hungry.
Her favorite had been the drawing of the sun shining through windows left on the hall table beside drawn curtains. It had taken her and the servants days to discern that he wanted his windows cleaned.
Now he had penned two pages with nary a sketch in sight. She was glad he understood that his sister would have found a sketch of a hand waving goodbye wholly inadequate.
Dearest Mary,
I’m off to Switzerland!
As if he had spoken the words, the thrill in his voice resounded around the abandoned room.
Her heart thumped with alarm. Letter in hand, she chased after the maid. She must stop him.
She caught up to Joan halfway down the stairs. “Send for the carriage. I have to follow Marcus.”
“My lady, the carriage is on its way to Dover with the master and his belongings.”
“Then find me other transport.” She continued downstairs with Joan at her heels.
“You could take the dog cart or we could borrow a neighbor’s conveyance.”
Their closest neighbor was Rose. Mary halted at the bottom of the stairs, and Joan stumbled into her back.
Apologizing profusely, the girl walked around her. “The master and his valet took the fastest horses, my lady. I don’t see how you can catch him.”
The air shimmered and Mary sat hard on the steps, afraid she would fall. She had barely recovered from losing her father; she couldn’t survive losing Marcus, too.
Joan knelt before her and pointed to the letter Mary still carried. “The master said it was important you read this, my lady. That he had a favor to ask.”
The page trembled in Mary’s hold. She tried to focus on his scribbles. He had the most atrocious penmanship. Her eyes blurred making the letters run together. Impatiently, she wiped away the tears.
Dear sister, I sent you to Rose with only half the news so you would not divert me from my chosen path. This royal commission will require both our hands to complete it.
Mary, there are secrets in this world you are unaware of. Witches and warlocks do exist.
Her gaze flew to Joan’s. The girl still knelt before her, wide-eyed and curious.
“Anything I can do to help, my lady?”
Shaking her head, Mary continued reading.
Rose is a witch.
Mary gasped.
“My lady!”
“I am all right.” Mary’s entire body shook like leaves in a chill wind as she sat on the second to last step of the curved staircase looking at her brother’s letter. At the tail end of her astonishment, came relief, flooding her bloodstream like a shot of pure euphoria. I’m not going crazy.
She needed privacy to finish reading. Unfortunately, her legs were in no condition to support another flight upstairs.
She pointed to the door. “Joan, pray stand by there until the footman returns.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Mary laid the letter on her lap and then used both hands to straighten the crinkles from the folds.
With trepidation, she continued to read.
When I first offered for Rose’s hand in marriage, she admitted what she was. My love for her remains unchanged. I beg you to not judge her harshly either. She is still the good friend to us she has ever been.
Since the recent events in Callington, rumors have abounded about witches and magic, even in our small village. With such talk comes unreasonable fear. Most everyone’s behavior is scrutinized and the whisper, witch, is heard on neighbors’ lips. Rose feels she may be suspected and thus draw the threat to me. So, she has refused my offer of marriage.
I must accept her refusal but I refuse to be silenced.
I approached the regent to confess my knowledge of Wyhcans (that is what their race is called) and to ask him to accept them into our society. It seemed a reasonable request, since they are already a firm part of our lives.
To my shock, I learned the monarchy has been aware of their existence for centuries. To my further astonishment (and delight), His Royal Highness admitted that his recent thoughts mirror mine. So, together we hatched the idea of a mural depicting the arrival of Wyhcans to Earth.
It would show our people what truly occurred on that momentous day in history, and that Wyhcans do not need to be feared. They are friendly newcomers whom we should welcome.
However, His Royal Highness insisted that until he receives acceptance from the witch and warlock contingents, as well as from the Church of England and his prime minister, he could not confirm the assignment.
Those approvals are now at hand!
I hope that with my mural, acceptance of these immigrants within our society will begin. Once it does, Rose is bound to withdraw all objections to my suit.
“Oh, Marcus.” Her brother, though two years her senior, could be such an innocent. In her eighteen years, Mary had been inundated with historical tales by her father and had devoured enough books on history to know human nature did not function in a linear fashion.
Just because some people accepted Wyhcans, did not mean all would. Just because some Wyhcans accepted their secret being made public, did not mean all would. Her encounter by the pond proved that. Already opposition grew. If anything, her brother had put himself in more peril than by marrying Rose.
Mary returned to the letter.
I am off to the county of Waadt in Switzerland to the site of the Wyhcans’ first arrival on our world.
World?
Mary’s mind reeled. Had he written “world”? These people were not from an isolated continent or some unknown island? She’d heard about strange races of humans discovered in exotic places like Africa. She re-checked the previous line.
World.
Could her brother have meant the word metaphorically?
Chapter 2
London, House of Lords, Parliament
William, the House of Lords’ ceremonial mace, awoke with a start and looked about the chamber in alarm. For how long had he nodded off?
Beside him, Lord Eldon, the Lord High Chancellor of England, sat upright on the red woolsack seat, displaying not a shred of William’s exhaustion. Despite the red chamber being abuzz with endless, long-winded speeches, his lordship appeared alert, like a freshly plucked daisy.
Despite being made of a sturdy, silver rod, William felt like a day-old, wilted bloom. His ornamental crown felt ready to roll off despite the two tiny harps bracketing his head in place. Perhaps if the topic was more engaging than petitions against the Corn Law, he could muster some interest. Still, bad form to sleep while on duty. William took his duty to heart. His job was to guard this chamber and represent the sovereignty, especially when there was a warlock present.
He checked on said warlock. The young Welsh lord took up all his allotted legroom space and despite slumping in his seat, his head easily topped the men on either side of him. His eyes were in slits, as if this young lord, too, found staying awake a chore.
“Are they likely to break soon?” Wooly, the woolsack seat, asked. “I’m getting an indentation from Lord Eldon’s bottom that may never plump out.”
“Looks to be an all-nighter.” William’s attention drifted back to the Welsh newcomer. “Has Lord Flint spoken, yet? I’d hate to have missed that.”
“Not a word. Probably prefers riding to debating produce prices.”
“He shows a strong resemblance to his late father. Do you suppose he inherited his pater’s even temperament?”
