Under her spell, p.10
Under Her Spell, page 10
It was beginning. The tension beneath her skin swept down her limbs to her fingers and toes. It coiled around the top of her head like an invisible crown. She kept her eyes shut as the magic loosened its grip on her. In a moment, it would be free to swirl around the room, replenishing itself amidst the sunshine and fresh air before she called it back to become part of her again.
A soft knock came from the hallway door.
No! She did not want to be disturbed.
The knock came more loudly.
“Maddy, are you out there?” shouted Roland from the bathing room.
Madeleine clenched her fingers and toes to hold the magic within her. A dull ache began in her feet and hands before soaring up to settle right between her eyes.
“Maddy?” Roland sounded rather desperate.
“I will get the door,” she called back.
He went back to the solo act he had learned during the time they traveled with an opera company. The Amazing Nightingales had offered up illusions before the first act and during intermissions.
It took two tries before she could heave herself to her feet. Her knees wobbled beneath her, and she had to strain to move across the room. When she opened the door, she leaned on it, not sure she could trust her legs to hold her.
The young maid who had come into the solar yesterday smiled broadly as she gave a quick curtsy. Holding out towels, she said, “I brought them for your bathroom, Miss Nightingale.”
“I will take them. The room is occupied.”
Bright color flashed up the maid’s face. Jenny’s face, Madeleine reminded herself. She had heard the woman’s name the previous afternoon.
“Thank you, Jenny,” she added.
“You are welcome, Miss Nightingale.” She scurried away.
Madeleine reached to shut the door, glancing at the clock on the mantel. Could Roland spend another hour in the bathing room? She sighed. That was unlikely.
The door stopped, and she looked up to see Lord Sheffield’s hand halt it from closing. She was shocked speechless, not only that an earl would be standing outside her door, but that he looked so breathtakingly handsome. He was not wearing a coat, and the fine linen of his shirt hinted at the firm muscles beneath it. Her eyes were caught by his, just as they had been that first night on stage, but this time she did not look away. She gazed into them, seeking in the depths for what she suspected was there behind his roguish patter.
Her magic grew quiescent, even as her heart thudded more rapidly. He did not touch her, yet she was conscious of every inch of his unfettered masculinity so close to her. It was as if every breath she took she shared with him.
When his lips curved in a smile, she wondered if he had said something and her pounding heart had drowned out the noise. She guessed what he must have said and replied, “The rooms are lovely. Thank you.”
“I am pleased you like them.” He glanced toward the bathing room door as Roland launched into an aria better suited to a soprano than a baritone.
“We both are grateful.” What else could she say? She was not going to apologize for a tone-deaf brother. “Is there anything else?”
“I thought, in case you were curious, I would let you know that my hat seems to be salvageable.”
“That is good to hear.”
He grinned as her brother hit a particularly awkward note. “I am surprised you can hear anything over that.”
“Roland enjoys singing.”
“It is a good that he decided to create illusions rather than music. Wagner is a challenge to the best of singers, which he is not.”
“He enjoys singing,” she repeated, annoyed. “I did not realize you were a connoisseur of opera, my lord.”
“One does not have to be knowledgeable to know the difference between singing and caterwauling.” He put his hand out to keep her from closing the door. “Do not stamp off in a huff because I am being honest. If you were as honest, you would tell me that you agree.”
“There is a difference between honesty and being rude.”
“I have never believed that.”
“Why should you? Your high station allows you to say what you wish and to the devil with what anyone else thinks.” She put her fingers to her lips that had betrayed her into speaking bluntly. If she had tended to her magic, she might be able to concentrate now and remember her station.
“Something it appears we have in common, Madeleine.” He laughed, a genuine laugh. When splashing sounds came through the door, he said, “I trust we can continue this conversation at dinner.”
“You want me to join you for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I doubt you want me to be that plain speaking, Madeleine.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. He placed the lightest of kisses on it, but heat seared her skin. “I will send someone to escort you downstairs. If you wish, come down early. I often enjoy some wine before dinner, and I would enjoy the company.”
“Roland and I will be pleased to join you.” Her voice trembled, but she managed to get the words out.
Something flickered through Lord Sheffield’s eyes, but with a nod, he released her hand and walked away.
She closed the door, resting against it. Slowly she lifted the hand he had kissed and stared at it. She was astonished it was not branded with the imprint of his fiery lips.
“Who was it?” asked Roland as he emerged from the bathing room, drying his hair with a towel. His shirt was unbuttoned, and his braces drooped along his hips.
“Lord Sheffield.” She pushed herself away from the door, so she did not make Roland curious about her odd behavior. “An invitation to dinner and wine before it.”
“I would wager they have an excellent cellar here.”
“Do not let me keep you if you want to go down as soon as you are finished dressing.”
“Yes.” He gave her a brotherly smile. “I understand that you want to primp so you look your best for our patron.”
“It is not every day that we have the chance to sup with an earl.”
He threaded one arm, then the other through his braces. “That is true.”
“I shall meet you in the dining room before dinner is served.” She would be late. Only by a few minutes . . . if she could get Roland to leave right away.
As soon as he was out the door, she went into the bedchamber and locked the door behind her. She found a spot where the late evening sun shone on the wide bed. Climbing up on the mattress, she sat cross-legged and again put her hands, palm up, on her knees. Again she closed her eyes, and again she released her hold on her magic.
It swirled down her limbs so quickly that she knew the magic was taking no chances this time on being denied its freedom. Then it was outside her.
She opened her eyes and smiled as sparkles in every possible color twinkled around her before rising toward the ceiling. They danced and floated, and she giggled with delight as she had every time since Saza showed her how to keep her magic healthy. Raising her hands, she did not try to capture the glorious lights. She watched them curve around her fingers, caressing like a cat. All pain vanished from her sore finger, and she knew her magic had forgiven her.
The sparkles dancing near the ceiling formed shapes and then dissolved back into light. The shapes matched the magic she had done in the past two days. Flowers opening and birds appearing and the shape of Roland’s hands as his fingers moved in the illusions he had executed during their audition. There was a low sound, rumbling like barely heard thunder. It was the magic’s way of warning her that it wanted more outlets.
“You must use this gift, child,” Saza had warned her. “If you fail to use it, the gift may fade. There is too little magic in the world. Husband it as you would a young plant or beast, giving it a chance to grow strong.”
“I understand,” she had replied, but not until Saza died and the lessons ended, had Madeleine truly comprehended the obligations she had accepted with blithe enthusiasm.
A single bird appeared among the sparkles and opened its beak to release a song that was so beautiful her heart ached with joy. The nightingale. As she watched it fly and alight on a branch she could not see, she could not help wondering why she had chosen this most personal bird in her efforts to persuade Lord Sheffield to grant them an audition. Was it because she wanted to gain her brother a chance at his dream, or had there been another reason to reveal this part of herself that she had shared with no one else?
She had no answer as she watched the nightingale swirl and savor its freedom. Trying to tell herself that it did not matter which illusion she made real, she reviewed the spells she had been taught. With her magic outside her and no longer influenced by her thoughts, she could let the words form in her mind. The strings of words were impotent now, so she used the time to go through each one, making sure she recalled every word and its order. A single word spoken incorrectly could be disastrous because the words defined how the magic was called forth.
When she finished cataloging the spells, she continued to watch the sparkles dance overhead. The nightingale’s song was growing fainter, a sign that she must soon bring the magic back inside her.
“What if I don’t want to?” she remembered asking Saza after a particularly trying day. “The magic complicates everything.”
Saza had been horrified at the question. “Never forget that you have been given a wondrous gift. To turn your back on it would be a great insult.”
“To whom?”
“To the magic.”
“How can I insult something that is not alive?”
“But it is.” Saza grasped Madeleine’s hands and tilted them palm up. “It is as alive as you are. When you are born, it becomes a part of you with your first breath. Just as you are alive, it is alive. Do not deny it. I once heard the tale of a young girl, not much older than you, who repudiated her magic because her lover was jealous. She released her magic and then kept it from returning to her. It vanished, and she was never the same. Madness eventually claimed her.” She had stared into Madeleine’s eyes. “Do not make the same mistake.”
Madeleine flinched at the memory. Like so many of Saza’s lessons, there were many layers of information. The outward warning not to take such a splendid gift for granted as well as the caution to treat her magic with respect. Yet, for the first time, she could see another tier of advice. She must not allow anyone to come between her and the magic, even a man she found enticing. Why had she failed to see that before?
The answer was simple. She never had met a man like Lord Sheffield before. She was forewarned, so she would take care of the gift that was hers and never let it go wanting.
She closed her eyes again and let her thoughts drift as the sparkles lilted around her. Occasionally they would brush her, and her happiness became so powerful that tears bubbled up in her eyes. The sparkles stroking her brought to mind her mother’s touch, gentle and loving.
With reluctance, she opened her eyes. She looked at the multicolored stars by the ceiling. “It is time.”
Regret replaced the joy. Not in the sparkles, but within her. She adored the moments when she could be alone with her special magic. It still would be a part of her once she incorporated it into her, but it would be hidden. How she wished she could reveal to the whole world the wonders she alone saw!
As if she had said that aloud, she heard a faint knock on the hallway door. She gasped and gathered the magic back into her as swiftly as she could. One sparkle was reluctant, but came when she called to it in a loud whisper she hoped would not reach beyond the bedroom door.
She heard another knock. Still on the hallway door, but more insistent.
Jumping to her feet, she almost collapsed as her knees buckled. The transference in and out of her magic always sapped her. She usually allowed herself time to recover, so she must be extra careful not to betray herself and her magic. She knew what the price of a single mistake could be, and she would not allow herself to forget again.
Chapter Eight
MADELEINE OPENED the hallway door and stared at the girl there. Miss Estelle had her hand raised to knock again.
As before, Madeleine was struck by how lovely Lord Sheffield’s niece was. The golden curls around her face and her lithe curves must already capture men’s attention. She had the appearance of a pre-Raphaelite angel painted by Rossetti, the perfect porcelain skin and the heart-shaped face. But there was nothing angelic about the hints of mischief in her eyes.
“Am I disturbing you?” asked Miss Estelle.
Glancing down, Madeleine realized she had left her shoes in the bedroom. “I was about to get dressed for dinner.”
“You are going to be late.” Her eyes twinkled more brightly. “They will be serving the first course in a few minutes.”
“I should get dressed immediately.”
“You will need someone to button up the back of your gown, won’t you? I would be glad to help.”
“I cannot ask that of you. I will ring—”
Miss Estelle rolled her eyes. “Please do not act all proper with me, Miss Nightingale. You will not harm my fragile sensibilities by being yourself.” She laughed. “Fragile sensibilities is what Grandmother says. I believe she is worried that I will be lured away from Sheffield Priory as my parents were.” She took a step into the room. “Do let me help you, Miss Nightingale. I have been eager to speak with you since yesterday.”
“Thank you.” She did not add that she was also curious about what had happened in the solar. Had it been a true connection, or was there something else? As she had so often, she wished Saza was nearby to advise her.
While she dressed in a simple gray gown that would be appropriate for dinner, she listened to Miss Estelle talk nonstop. Nodding was the best response Madeleine could give, even when the girl asked her to stop calling her “miss.” She sensed Estelle was waiting to ask her something important, and she learned she was right when she finished buttoning her shoes and rose.
“May I ask you one more thing before we go down?” Estelle gave her a hopeful smile.
“We should talk on the way.”
“The dining room is not far, and I would like to speak without the servants eavesdropping.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please, Miss Nightingale.”
“All right, but you must call me Madeleine.”
“As you wish.” She sat on a red upholstered chair and looked expectantly at Madeleine.
Keeping her sigh silent, because they were going to be inexcusably late, she lowered herself to another chair. Taffeta rustled with her movements, but she ignored it as she said, “Ask what you wish.”
“Can you teach me the illusions you and Mr. Nightingale do?”
“Why would you want to learn them?” she asked, not surprised. Estelle could not guess the true reason she was drawn to Madeleine, just as Madeleine had not comprehended at first why every thought and step pulled her toward Saza. “I doubt your grandmother would deem such lessons proper for a young lady of your standing.”
“Pshaw,” Estelle said in a tone she had borrowed from Lady Sheffield. But unlike her grandmother, she seemed unable to sit still, always tapping her toes or shifting in the chair. “It is not as if I intend to perform them in front of an audience like a common . . .” Her face reddened. “Forgive me, Madeleine. I have a bad habit, as anyone can tell you, of speaking without thinking first.”
“You do not have to apologize.” She folded her hands in her lap, recalling her own twitchiness before she had been able to control the magic that swelled up within her, demanding to be freed. “Before I traveled with my brother, we traveled with our parents. They taught us what fallacies are believed about people who work in the theater. But you did not answer my question. Why do you want to learn illusions?”
While Estelle prattled about stage magic, Madeleine tried to gauge if the incident in the solar had been only a fluke. Everything pointed to Estelle possessing rudimentary magic, but Madeleine must be cautious. Another of Saza’s tales warned of the dangers of mistaking magical ability. In the story, which Madeleine suspected was based on truth, an adolescent made the mistake of trying to tutor an even younger child in magic and ended up destroying both of them because the child did not truly have magic.
“I have always been drawn to what seems to be legerdemain.” Estelle ran one hand along her other arm, and Madeleine wondered if the girl felt the odd tingle of awakening magic.
Had the inadvertent touch in the solar yesterday roused the quiescent magic, or had it already been stirring? The latter would explain why Estelle happened to come to the solar right after Madeleine had made the nightingale appear and disappear.
“Not that I have seen a magician perform, you must understand,” Estelle went on. “But I have read about them in books. Whether they are called magicians or wizards or something else, the stories enthrall me. My governess never understood why I was more interested in the wizards and the fairy godmothers in fairy tales than the princesses.” She came to her feet and said with disdain, “Princesses! England has so many of them and princes, too. But wizards and magic. Think how rare those are!”
“Most people would say they are as rare as princesses who cannot find husbands.”
The girl laughed. “I knew I would enjoy talking with you, Madeleine. Until now, no one would listen when I wanted to talk about this.”
“That surprises me, because your grandmother dotes on you.”
“Grandmother says I am just like my father, and she is determined not to make the same mistake.”
“Your father was interested in wizardry?” she asked with what she hoped looked like no more than mild interest. Even though magic was not something Madeleine had inherited from her parents, Saza told her that the abilities were passed from generation to generation in some families. “Did he become interested in magic when he visited your great-uncle’s theaters in London?”
