Dark Mirror 2 - Dark Passage Page 12

  Jack’s face froze with shock. “You poor mage-born aristocrat! Did your father say that?”

  She nodded, the memory of that scene seared into her mind.

  Jack pushed her fingers away and gently traced the thin line that curved from her cheekbone back toward her ear. “He did this?”

  She bit her lip. “When my father discovered I was a mageling, he struck me. The scar is where his signet ring sliced my face.”

  Jack swore under his breath. “I wish I’d been there to teach him a lesson! I don’t care if he is a duke, the man is a disgrace.”

  Cynthia looked up with a glare. “Don’t you dare insult my father!”

  “Any man who beats his young daughter because of what she is deserves more than insults!” Jack retorted. “Here you’re appreciated. The Comte du Bouchard can’t wait to thank you for your part in rescuing him and his children.”

  Attention caught, Cynthia said, “The Frenchman is a count?”

  “He has a castle southeast of Calais. Bouchard is a decent fellow, for an aristocrat.”

  “What on earth was he doing on the English Channel at this season?”

  “Running for his life. He learned that he was about to be arrested for treason against the state, and his children with him,” Jack explained. “Rather than stay there for Madame Guillotine, he decided to take his chances on the sea since he’s a good sailor.”

  Cynthia remembered the canvas bag the man had thrown into Jack’s rowboat. “So he packed the family jewels and as much gold as he could lay his hands on and ran for his life. What about his wife? Was she lost before we could reach them?”

  “No, she died not long after Marie-Annette was born.” Jack looked wistful. “I’d love to see Castle Bouchard. His son, Philippe, says it’s very old with towers and a moat and secret tunnels and hidden rooms to play in.”

  “If you want secret tunnels, Lackland Abbey has them,” Cynthia pointed out.

  “That’s true,” he said, brightening. “Come out and join us for supper so you can meet Bouchard and his children. You must be hungry after using so much magic.”

  He was right, she was ravenous. But the thought of going out where everyone could see her made Cynthia shudder. “No. Have someone bring some food in.”

  “You’ll have to come out sooner or later,” Jack pointed out. “So do it now and get it over with. Food might improve your temper.” He slid a hand under her back and lifted her into a sitting position.

  “No!” Cynthia twisted around with a wild swing of her left hand. Her palm smacked Jack hard on his cheek.

  He rocked back, the imprint of her hand white against his face. They stared at each other.

  Jack stood, his lip curling, and stalked from the room. His wide shoulders were rigid as he slammed the door behind him.

  Cynthia collapsed back into the pillows and sobbed. Could she possibly make things any worse? Even Jack, who was always good-natured and tolerant, despised her.

  The prospect of returning to the abbey and being mocked for her scarred, ugly face made her feel ill. She wanted to run away, but how? She had no money or other resources. Without her magic, she couldn’t sell her services as a weather mage.

  It would be so much easier to walk into the sea. Then everyone would be sorry!

  She didn’t hear the door open, but Lily Rainford’s soft voice cut through her misery. “Sit up, Lady Cynthia. It’s time you ate something.”

  Cynthia wanted to sink through the floor and vanish. Since that wasn’t possible, she rolled over and sat up against the pillows, wiping at her tears with both hands. She must look a fright, with a reddened nose and tear tracks as well as her scars and ugliness.

  Looking as imperturbable as always, Lily carried a tray with short legs. She set it over Cynthia’s lap. “Eat something before you do someone a serious injury.”

  Cynthia studied the tray. “There’s enough food here for three people.”

  “You’ll probably eat all of it.” Lily sat in the chair her son had vacated. “Jack ate twice this much when he arrived home.”

  Cynthia selected a meat pie and took a huge bite. The beef and onion filling was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted in her life. She gobbled the pie down like a hungry puppy, flakes of pastry crumbling onto the tray.

  She washed the meat pie down with a swallow of tea and consumed a chunk of cheese before she was restored enough to speak. “How did Jack manage to return here for help? He must have been on the edge of collapse by the time he reached shore.”

  “He and Rachel often swam and fished in that cove, so when he sent out a mental cry for help, she sensed where to go and what to do.” Lily poured more tea for Cynthia. “She collected several men and a wagon. They reached the cove just after Jack got the boat to shore. You were unconscious, so Rachel took over the job of warming everyone.”

  Cynthia dug into the sliced beef. “Jack said the local healer was summoned.”

  “Yes. We had to pry Marie-Annette out of your arms. You saved her life, Lady Cynthia.”

  “She’s so little! I’m glad she’s all right.” Cynthia kept her gaze on the food. “I didn’t mean to slap Jack,” she said, her voice small. “He was trying to make me get up and join everyone else. I … I lashed out at the world, and hit him by accident.”

  “Jack is not always tactful.” Lily’s voice was smooth but implacable. “He’s right, though. Eventually you’ll have to face the world.”

  Feeling sick, Cynthia said, “I’d rather stay in this room forever.”

  “I know how you feel, Lady Cynthia. Though things look bleak now, they will get better,” Lily said quietly. “I promise you that.”

  Cynthia blinked back tears. “How can you know what I feel? Commoners like magic. You weren’t taught to hate yourself for what you are. I’ve used my rank and magic to protect myself. Now my magic is gone and since my father disowned me, the rank is as false as my beauty. I’m ugly and friendless and alone and”—she gulped, on the verge of complete breakdown—“and afraid!”

  “Let’s take those points one at a time,” the older woman said calmly. “To begin with, properly speaking, I should be known as the Honorable Lily Rainford.” Her smile was compassionate. “So I understand exactly how painful it is to be exiled from everything and everyone I’d ever known.”

  Cynthia’s jaw dropped. Jack’s mother was of noble birth.

  Cynthia was going to have to adjust her thinking.

  CHAPTER 16

  Cynthia studied Lily Rainford with hungry eyes. She’d known that Lily had been an Irregular, but assumed that she was from the village. Instead, Lily really did know the horror of being raised to despise magic and mages only to discover the evil within herself. “How did you get from there to here?” She waved her hand, indicating Swallow Grange and the prosperous, happy life led by its mistress.

  “I started out fighting and swearing that I’d be cured and home in no time. In other words, I was much like every other student in the abbey.” Lily made a face. “Though it was a difficult passage, slowly I realized that being a mageling didn’t make me despicable. And that if I became more flexible, my life would run much more easily.”

  “How did you manage to learn that?”

  “One step at a time, with frequent backsliding. Changing my view of the world wasn’t easy, but not changing would have been much worse.”

  Cynthia suspected that there was a not too subtle lesson in Lily’s words. Flexibility had never been one of Cynthia’s strengths.

  Lily continued. “Secondly, you do have friends despite your prickliness. Among the Irregulars, you are respected for your abilities and the courage you displayed on the other side of the mirror.”

  Cynthia laid down her fork, appetite gone. “I may be respected, but how many of them actually like me?”

  “The ones who see beyond your anger do,” Lily said gently. “Jack likes you.”

  Cynthia winced as she remembered her hand connecting with his cheek. “Probably n
ot anymore.”

  “You could try apologizing. It’s amazing how effective it is to say ‘I’m sorry’ if you mean it.”

  Cynthia began to shred a bread roll with tense fingers. She had been raised to believe that the daughter of a duke never apologized. But maybe a disowned duke’s daughter should learn how. “I’ve always been able to get away with many things because I looked beautiful. Now I’m ugly. It will take time to recover enough magic to look beautiful again, and by then, everyone will know the beauty is only an illusion.”

  “Which brings me to the third point.” Lily rose and lifted a hand mirror from the dressing table. Holding it in front of Cynthia, she said, “Look at yourself.”

  When Cynthia tried to turn away, Lily said sharply, “Don’t! When is the last time you really looked at yourself without using your illusion magic?”

  Reluctantly Cynthia forced herself to stare at her image. Her fingers went to the disfiguring scar she’d been hiding for years. “I’m ugly! My hair is dull, my face is scarred, my complexion is bad. Ugly!”

  “Your view of yourself is inaccurate, Cynthia.” Having revealed her own rank, Lily had dropped Cynthia’s title. “You don’t look very different now from when you had the illusion spell in place. Your features haven’t changed, nor the shape of your face. Your hair isn’t quite as bright a gold, but it’s still a lovely thick blond. Though your complexion is no longer perfect, it’s very good. Your figure hasn’t changed at all, and believe me, men notice figures even more than faces.”

  Cynthia stared at the mirror and tried to see what Lily was describing. “Even if what you say is true, my face is still scarred.”

  “Yes, it is,” Lily said calmly. “All students who are sent to Lackland are scarred in some way. You are not the only one whose scars are visible. But your scar is much less disfiguring than you think. It emphasizes your high cheekbones, rather like the face patches women wore in my grandmother’s time to call attention to good features.”

  Cynthia examined the scar, trying to see it as Lily did. She had done her best not to look ever since the original injury. It—wasn’t as bad as she remembered. The line was thin and not ragged, and it had faded some. Though her face was still scarred, perhaps she wasn’t as ugly as she believed. “What can you do for fear?”

  “You’re the daughter of a duke. Your ancestors were warriors,” Lily replied. “When you’re unsure of your welcome, hold your head high and remember that it doesn’t matter what others think.”

  “But I’m no longer a duke’s daughter,” Cynthia said bitterly.

  “Though he may have legally disowned you, he can’t take the warrior blood from your veins. You still have the heritage if not the title,” Lily said firmly. “And though he has behaved badly, he has enough family pride to pay Lackland Abbey’s fees.”

  “The only family pride he feels is for the children of his second wife.” Cynthia’s mouth twisted. “They are all safely nonmagical. He has obliterated every trace of me and my mother. The fees and all my other expenses are paid out of the money left to me by my mother’s aunt. If I died, the duke wouldn’t spend a shilling for candles.” Cynthia tried to keep her voice even, but she couldn’t conceal the pain.

  “The man’s a fool,” Lily said tartly. “But you aren’t. You’re a strong, brave young woman who is beautiful without being perfect. You have the potential to build a full, satisfying life, or to wallow in anger and bitterness. Neither path is easy, but the first is far more enjoyable. It’s up to you how you use your gifts.”

  The older woman got to her feet, catching Cynthia’s gaze with her own. “You can hide here for a little while longer if you wish. Or you can come and join the rest of us. The choice is yours.”

  Quietly she left the room.

  Cynthia stared blindly at the remnants of the food. Rain still lashed the windows though the worst of the storm had passed. Laughter sounded downstairs, where Lily and her family and guests were enjoying themselves.

  You have the potential to build a full, satisfying life, or to wallow in anger and bitterness. Anger wasn’t doing her much good. But the thought of going downstairs without the protection of her illusion magic made her want to crawl under the bed and never come out.

  If she was going to be miserable, she might as well be miserable where there was food, because, blast it, even after consuming almost everything on the tray, she was still hungry. Setting the tray aside, she slid from the bed, shivering a little. The house benefited from Lily’s hearth-witch abilities, but Cynthia wore only a shift.

  She wondered who had undressed her. She had a brief, shocking image of Jack’s hands touching her, followed by a rush of heat. She wasn’t sure if it was outrage, or … something else.

  She reminded herself that Lily would not have allowed her son to undress an unconscious guest. Besides, Jack would have been too exhausted to care.

  Her poor ruined riding habit had vanished, but in the clothespress, she found a lightweight corset, slippers, and a simple blue wool dress. Probably the garments were Rachel’s, since the two of them were close to the same height.

  Her hair was still somewhat damp and it fell around her shoulders in unruly waves, so she brushed the tangles out. There was a blue ribbon on the dressing table, clearly chosen to go with the gown, so she tied her hair back.

  Then she forced herself to study her image in the narrow mirror set in the clothespress door. She was shocked to see that she looked quite presentable. Not beautiful and certainly not perfect, but the gown was a becoming shade of blue and the simple style suited her.

  In fact, the image in the mirror wasn’t too different from what she was used to. Lily had been right. Her hair was still blond, her complexion was good, and her figure had never required illusion magic. There was still the ugly scar, but it wasn’t as horribly obvious as she’d always believed.

  After drawing a deep breath, she left the safety of the bedroom and headed downstairs. Following the laughter led her to the dining room. The supper was informal with the Rainfords and the French family gathered around the table.

  Absolute silence fell when Cynthia entered the room. For a horrified instant she felt hideous and she almost bolted.

  Then the Comte du Bouchard rose swiftly. He was lean and dark-haired, with tired brown eyes.

  He bowed deeply to her. “My Lady Cynthia,” he said in halting English. “Words cannot express the depths of my gratitude. I am grateful you have taken no harm from your heroic endeavors on behalf of me and my family.” He smiled a little. “You are as beautiful as you are brave.”

  She studied his face. He didn’t have the dazzled look she often saw in men’s eyes, but he did think she was attractive. He wasn’t repulsed by her scarred face! Relieved, she said, “I’m glad I could help.”

  Bouchard’s children slipped from their chairs and approached Cynthia. His son, Philippe, was perhaps ten. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he looked very like his father. He even bowed exactly the same way as he murmured thanks in French.

  The little girl’s fair hair must have come from her late mother. Cynthia wasn’t good at guessing children’s ages. Three, perhaps? Four? Adorably earnest, Marie-Annette curtsied. “Merci, milady,” she said in a sweet voice.

  Cynthia smiled, her mood lifting. For all her flaws, this was one job she’d done well. “Without Jack, I could have done nothing.” She risked a glance at him. He was sitting at the end of the table opposite his mother, his expression wary.

  Turning to him, Cynthia said baldly, “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to … do what I did. It was an accident.”

  His expression eased. “I should have known better than to try to coax a wildcat out before she was ready.” He got to his feet. “I’ll get another chair. I’ll bet you’re still hungry. I’m going to be eating for the next week to make up for all the energy I burned.”

  “I’m glad I’m not the only one!” Cynthia moved around the table to the new place setting that was being laid next to Jack. What she had th
ought impossible was turning out to be easy.

  Lackland Abbey would be harder. Much, much harder. But she’d worry about that later. For tonight, at least, she was among friends.

  Friends who didn’t seem to think she was ugly.

  CHAPTER 17

  Lackland Abbey was still almost deserted when Tory returned after a tiring winter journey. She’d left Layton Place sooner than planned because it was hard to be cheerful when her heart was bleeding. The heaviness of the suppression spell suited her mood.

  It was mid-evening so the matron on duty had given Tory a lantern to light her way. She blinked when she reached her room and found a sign on the door. At the top was a large black “X.” Underneath in Cynthia’s handwriting it said,

  Plague Spot!

  Go away!

  Leave food trays on floor.

  A plundered tray sat beside the door. Tory wondered if Cynthia was unwell, or just wanted to avoid the company of the other girls. She’d been angry when Tory left, and might be angry still.

  Cautiously Tory opened the door and stepped inside. She was unsurprised to see that her roommate’s possessions had expanded onto Tory’s bed and desk.

  Setting her canvas carrying bag on her desk, she glanced around the room. “Cynthia, are you here? Have you been ill?”

  “Go away!” Cynthia was a lump in her bed and a brusque voice.

  Ah, yes, home again. Tory grinned and said in her most irritatingly cheerful voice, “You can’t throw me out. I live here.”

  The lump in the bed shifted. “Tory?”

  “Yes, and I’ve brought provisions back from my brother’s house.” Tory removed her outer garments and hung them in her clothespress. “Would you like some elderberry wine and cakes?”

  Still buried completely, Cynthia asked, “How was the wedding?”

  “Really lovely.” It had been, too. Tory had been simultaneously glad to be present even though she sat quietly to one side, and miserable at the contrast between her own situation and the radiant happiness of Sarah and Lord Roger. “I think my sister and her husband will suit very well. I assume things were quiet here?”